Apologies

Sorry, no update tonight after all. I promise two tomorrow.

The Seven Wonders of You

It is often hinted that every man's heart is a restless and tireless nomad, always in search of a new expanse of virgin vistas of flesh to conquer and consume, but this is not always the case.  The lucky few find a place of permanent residence where every day brings about a new surprise which renews the desire to remain in a single location.  Those who explore the world in continual search of the next sight do not imbibe the essence of the location they are so eager to view and then leave.  As mankind wandered throughout the world, it realized there were magical and fantastic places that separated themselves from all others--their immense beauty unmatched and unchallenged.  Known as the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, they are a list of renowned sites that pique the interest of every person privy of their existence.  While man developed an affinity and appreciation of those exotic and magnificent locales, they have the unfortunate reality of paling to the seven wonders of you.

Victoria Falls

 

Across the world lies Victoria Falls, a barrage of water which flows from the Zambezi River.  Several tributaries feed that waterway, like individuals coming together, the emotion focused into a single point of focus, unstoppable.  The rush of them becoming one, creating something that others have no option outside of stopping to observe in awe of the immensity of that which surrounds them, draws the attention of all men who know the strength of that bond.  From great heights falls an enormous amount of water with deafening effect, a natural beauty that has immobilized man without equal.  People have paused to absorb the stunning spectacle through the lens of a camera only to be denied, incapable of reproducing the enchanting encounter.  The force of the raging waters create a shroud of mist that obscures all of the hidden treasure it possesses, so that man must engage with her directly, not through another medium.  Film cannot imprison what the heart and mind perceive in the presence of this wonder, refusing to be captured or artificially duplicated.  The wonder makes it known that she is an unmatched entity.  Only the sound of my heart pounding at the sight of you can produce a louder auditory sensation, making the feelings share between the two of us known to the world beyond our own  flesh.  When first laid eyes upon by European eyes, Dr. Livingstone remarked, "Scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight."  Angels were to be considered the lucky ones until the day we stumbled upon one another.  It's difficult to know or understand how such beauty had remained hidden for so long, even as it sang loudly and continually to announce its existence.  And as it crashes back into the Zambezi, the water sweeps toward India, no accident of nature to be sure.




Aurora Borealis



Every year thousands of people make a pilgrimage to the north in hopes of catching a glimpse of the Aurora Borealis in order to make the effort and time of that journey to the furthest reaches of the globe a worthwhile experience.  When I first took notice of the gleam contained within your eyes and smile, I had discovered my own Northern Lights, a magnificent display of sublime perfection that I hope will be a permanent fixture and give purpose to my own odyssey through life.  Pity those who trek those many miles to the north in hopes of a miracle of timing, that their arrival will coincide with the generosity of nature; your smile and eyes are not so stingy as to withhold the marvels which they contain.  John Lubbock said, "Earth and sky, are excellent schoolmasters, and teach some of us more than we can learn from books."  Those dancing lights are little more than inattentive students to the luminescence of your eyes and smile, professors in the knowledge of what life has to offer.  For my own education, the yearnings of the heart to continue to aimlessly wander was quelled, satisfied finally with a vista worthy of a lifetime of  admiration.

Mount Everest

 

Mount Everest stands as a monument to the possibilities of achievement, the heights to which we can reach, always reaching skyward for something more.  As I continue to ascend the mountain of love, a worthwhile but challenging endeavor, I am neither wearied nor worried, but invigorated by each newly discovered piece of revealed land.  I am left breathless by the rarefied air, but pushed onward nonetheless by a renewed sense of wonder of what lies beyond the next seemingly insurmountable hill or ridge, and that is what encourages my progress, wanting to discover what treasured memory will be offered next.  Tom Whittaker described the towering rock as a "physical and symbolic manifestation of overcoming odds to achieve a dream."  The dream of every person is to find a perpetual happiness, or one that seems to attain such a desired state despite the occasional interruption.  For most, such a condition is believed to be as likely as being struck by lightning, but there are the fortunate few who have traversed the terrain and know of its existence, hidden to many, but larger than love to those who find it.  Many of our own odds have been overcome, making each of our steps forward all the more miraculous and precious.  the slings and arrows of a relationship are as treacherous as the slopes of the great mountain known as Mount Everest, but the expedition to the heights of each offers rewards that exceed the travails, something proven by your presence in my life.

Grand Canyon



The depth and width of the Grand Canyon has fascinated man for thousands of years, a revered place of utmost importance to Native American tribes.  Worshiped for its beauty, pilgrimages were made in order to immerse one's self in the majesty of the rocky formation, forced forward by an unnamed need to reflect upon the enormous spectacle.  But the depth of your heart is far more sublime than that tiny ditch by comparison. A contradiction, despite my size, I feel large by my position in it.  To feel as a part of that incomparable place--your heart--is to create something new, valuable, timeless.  It has been said, "You cannot see the Grand Canyon in one view, as if it were a changeless spectacle from which a curtain might be lifted, but to see it you have to toil month to month throughout its labyrinths."  In much the same way, there are many pathways through your expansive heart and I want to explore every inch and mile, no matter how rough the terrain may become.  While many would feel humbled and small in the presence of such a wonder, knowing I tread in such places makes me feel greater, not lesser, than I am.

Paricutin



In Mexico there is a volcano named Paricutin, one that mankind was fortunate enough to see form, almost as if from nothing, refusing to stay in that state of absence.  No one was aware of what lay below until suddenly it flowed forth, growing rapidly from what initially appeared to be nothingness.  Within a week there was a mountain of a volcano, a wonder of the world, where previously there had existed only mundane farmland.  Much like a volcano, your bad day has the power to affect my own, not due to any possibility of you taking it out on me, but because what affects you has an equal impact upon me.  Through this, I've learned why ancient civilizations believed sacrifices were necessary to ease the heart of a volcano.  The French have a proverb that states, "Don't dance on a volcano," but that is a gamble every lover must risk, knowing they might befall a peril, yet knowing as well that the rewards are greater.  The spoils of such a dangerous waltz would make worthwhile any possible cataclysmic end.

Harbor of Rio de Janeiro



The Harbor of Rio de Janeiro has a savior looking over the lay of the land as He offers safe harbor to all of those who would seek shelter after their wearying travels.  With majestic mountains surrounding the whole of the location, they are like arms that embrace a loved one, arms that offer protection and ward off the apparitions that chase us throughout life.  Your own arms offer their own safety against the world that wishes to intrude every step of the way.  Those arms are steadfast in their grip, refusing to surrender to the onslaught of the elements.  To give way to those many intrusions would be to betray who you are, to ask a mountain to be something other than it is--an impossibility.  Seneca once observed that, "If a man knows not what harbor he seeks, any wind is the right wind."   Thankfully the right wind, a divine one I am sure, captured my mast and guided me to the harbor that I needed with open arms awaiting.

Great Barrier Reef



Off the coast of Australia lies the Great Barrier Reef, a grand and beautiful body of coral that offers a home to all of those who would need one.  Much like that, you are always willing to offer help to those in need, with open arms you invite outsiders to the protection of your heart.  Thriving within you is life that rivals and exceeds that of the reef.  Compared to you, it is a barren, deadened husk.  Captain James Cook, who had crashed on that natural structure on one of his voyages, once commented, "I had ambition not only to go further than any man, but as far as it was possible for a man to go.  With you by my side, I feel as though I have gone further, accomplished more than most men without ever moving an inch.

Most men believe that a nomadic existence within the world of dating is where the adventure lies, but they are incorrect.  A woman, one worth the name and the pursuit, is not a single wonder or vista; they are an endless array of surprises and adventures.  Your countless wonders have only begun to be discovered.  Like Earth, it is arbitrary to limit the number to seven when there are many other attributes worthy of admiration as well.  Through the years ahead, I look forward to uncovering all you have to offer with the faintest of hopes that I can provide even half of the same in return.

I hope you have enjoyed reading this piece.  Thank you for your time and I hope to get back onto a regular schedule soon.

Thanks for reading.  Remember to follow me on twitter -- @calvinsrocks

Penny for Your Thoughts, Parts Nine through Thirteen

Decisions had been made so there was no point in pushing the topic, as doing so would only further entrench the woman in her position.  At the doorway to which she was kind enough to usher him, he turned back to face her, offering, "I'll call you later, okay?"

Jason's eyes moved from one object to another in the room, having a recollection about almost every piece, even the mundane.  The man was sentimental, allowing each one to be imbued with an emotion he felt at a particular moment.

"Just wait until I call you, all right?"  Her hand grasped the edge of the door, wanting to close it and push this conversation into her past.

"All right, of course, if that's what you want."  Once more his eyes caught sight of his shoes, a view he had become accustomed to over the course of the morning.

She nodded, trying to lead him in the direction of her thought, to get him to accept her suggestion like a hypnotist.  "I think it's best, don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed, in direct contradiction to what he really felt and thought.

"Okay then."  Sheila started to push the door closed but her boyfriend, who was going to make that transition to ex-boyfriend, once the door rested back in its home, lingered where the door wanted to be, or at least where its captain wished to steer it.  "What?" she asked, annoyed at the man's persistence.

Jason pointed at the jacket that Sheila donned--his jacket.  "Can...can I have my jacket?"

She pulled the article of clothing tight around her as if it were an important item that comforted her.  "What?"  It was a reaction he didn't expect, one that stoked hope in him.  His face was alight with that--she wanted to keep it, something to remember him by.

***************************************

If he had another jacket in the apartment, he would have surrendered it.  He explained, "It's cold outside and that's the only jacket I have here."  The fact that Sheila acted in such a manner gave him a glimmer of hope, so he reached out.  "Unless, you know, it means a lot to you."

All of a sudden her arms were no longer pulling the jacket close to her body.  "No, no.  Not at all."  She stripped the piece of sewn fabric from her back and tossed it at the man with more force and intent than one would a cherished object.  "Take it."

I made her angry by asking for it, Jason thought.  Holding it at arms length toward the woman, he offered, "Seriously, if you want to keep it, it's fine."

She shook her head.  "I'm okay."

Looking at the jacket in stunned wonder, Jason somehow managed to say, "Thank you."  There was apparently a misunderstanding on Jason's part about Sheila's initial reaction when she had pulled it close.

He grabbed a hold of the door knob and slowly pulled it shut as Sheila's heavy hand pushed it closed, even as his hand attempted to cause the door to yield to his desires, to ease the momentum of their demise.  In the end, regardless of the pace of the door, the result was going to be the same--two people heading in their opposite directions but still on the same trapeze line that was created from the threads of Fate.

Bewildered by every act, every word, every emotion that took place on the other side of the door, he pulled the jacket over his shoulders.  Almost as instantly the fragrance of her favorite perfume wafted upwards to his nose, a ghost of the past, the near past.  It overflowed with the fragrance, a tormenter that would hound his every step until several washed would exorcise the woman completely from his life--washes he would avoid giving it for quite some time.  Despite Sheila's assurances, Jason was well-aware that what just happened was in fact a break-up.  This was the third fight like this one, over nothing of consequence.

*************************************

Most people would have cursed Fate for the unfortunate turn of events, but Jason had lived on the excess of Fortune over the course of the preceding two years, he couldn't in good conscience turn on it.  The only path to follow at this point is to toss one's self to its winds and whims again, allowing it to carry one where it may.

Having no plans for the day outside of spending a few hours with Sheila until he had to make his way to work that afternoon, Jason had little problem deviating from his itinerary.  Until three o'clock, when he would have to be at work, it was up to the Moirae to carve the stone of his life into some recognizable feature of a statue to which he could cling.

His feet carried him with no particular destination in mind, no shepherd to father the right and left foot to anywhere.  Wherever his body was pointed, they would go, although their carrier was no more aware of where that would be than he was of the cause of Sheila's assault on their relationship.

As he arrived at the park, an uneasiness washed over him as he was surrounded by the unbridled passions of couples.  Much like the returning birds, couples had a distasteful desire to announce spring with a near endless display of affection.  The man did not hate these people for that which they had but for that which he lacked.  While most were blissfully ignorant of the difference, Jason was altogether familiar with the attributes which separated the two from being synonymous.

There was a certain mockery that life had devised on this particular canvas of nature.  Every step that projected him forward was met anew with another couple, another display, another sword thrust deep at his heart.  Below the surface of each kiss was an undercurrent which threatened to devour him in an uncertainty, one that could easily pull him into an abyss of depression.

********************************

Is there anything worse on God's green earth than seeing another couple enjoying each other's embrace right after you've broken up?  There are those who would take a seat on a park bench and being enumerating a mental list of every flaw that existed between the pair and why it wouldn't work.  With the majority of couples, that's all it a took, a cursory look.  Their friends, their family, even strangers in the supermarket were keenly aware of the pitfalls that would entrap them, but polite company and civilization's manners prevented such an open display.

Jason was not given to such bitter recriminations, even when he was at his lowest point.  Due to this rare characteristic, seldom found in modern man, but deeply rooted within the core of this person, Jason passed them with a smile that still maintained the fires of warmth that the act normally would carry.

Children ran to and from, tossing balls to one another and then chasing after them when they were overthrown and the other proved incapable of catching them.  Isn't that always the case?  We always want the ball but someone, either intentionally or accidentally, keeps us from it by overthrowing or we are incapable of holding onto it.

Sheila had always been more practical than the man who wandered the pathways of Fate.  Passion was always given homage and tribute to by the hands of Jason.  If something struck his fancy, he would do so.  Shaking his head, the man told himself, "We were never going to work out."

********************************************

Somewhere during the course of his silent reverie, Jason had veered off the well-worn path and onto the grass, meeting the edge of the pond, walking around its edges with the intent of making its full circumference, that is until an unmoving sentinel was standing in his way.

This sentinel was made of copper in the shape of Henri Abelard, a local folk hero of Calvin's Rocks, his hand thrust forward, palm up in search of an offering.

"How goes it, brother?"  Jason pulled himself up by the leg of the unmoved statue in order to hoist himself onto the slab which supported it.   With an arm wrapped around the waist of the copper man, Jason suggested, "Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine."

Posting Schedule

I've decided to keep a regular schedule with my postings with Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday being the days new material will be added.  Some weeks might see more but I've decided to commit to that.  Hopefully it keeps me focused.  Thanks to everyone who is reading.

Blog Map

This is what my blog map looks like so far.  Help me make that map a little greener by sharing this link wherever you can.  It will be greatly appreciated.

If you have any questions regarding the stories I've posted so far, please email me at johnwfrazierjr@gmail.com and I'll answer as soon as I can.  I apologize for the infrequent updates, but I have a lot on my plate right now.

Thanks for reading.  Hopefully you've been enjoying what I've posted.

Big Bang Theory POP! figures

While I like the figures posted below--and will probably buy them--I have a problem with Raj and Howard cast as red shirts.  Stuart's a red shirt.  Krimpke is a red shirt.  Leslie Winkle is a red shirt.  Raj and Howard?  No way!  They are the McCoy and Scotty to Leonard and Sheldon.

Penny for Your Thoughts, Parts One through Eight

As Jason moved towards Abelard Park, he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the apartment he had practically lived in for the past several months.  The building wasn't visible from where he stood, but its imposing shadow was still cast over him.  With each step that he took, that apartment and all that it contained were becoming his increasingly more distant past, something he could reminisce over but could never return to.  Little did he know, along with the person he was leaving behind, he was absconding with the fortune of the place.

On any given normal day, the man would not be found walking the asphalted over paths of nature that man had devised; the tell-tale evidence of this fact that any stranger could surmise was the somewhat soft center of his structure, a slightly bulging belly.  For some reason he was drawn to the park after the turn of events.  This wasn't an ordinary day, however, as he had discovered when a gently tossed breeze of words caused a hurricane of repercussions, moving outward and sweeping the unsuspecting man along for the ride.

Somewhere during the course of heated words, it became quite clear that the argument was more than a passing storm and had been brewing for longer than he had suspected.  He would never become aware of the fact that it had been building strength for months and that a poor turn of phrase would feed the system that had settled in over them like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.  In reality, this approaching catastrophe had been nurtured unknowingly during each conversation, every word uttered.

Thinking back, replaying every syllable of every word in his mind, hoping to find some inflection that might have been misinterpreted, the man shook his head at the mystery, unable to disentangle the Gordian knot, and, as any who have studied the decaying pages of myth and legend know, there is but one solution to that eternal puzzle.

**********************************************

Part Two

Springtime in the park has an unforgiving way of reminding those without a lover, or on their way to soon being without one, of their failures, not just as a significant other to some particular person or another, but as a human who is supposed to find their completion within the heart and soul of another.  This thought danced around in his mind, demanding his attention with the sight of each couple that had settled into arms that formed their own knots.  He had felt Sheila and he had been knotted together, too.  Over these last few weeks, the binding had loosened until it had come completely undone and now he had tripped over the loose strings, stumbling into the ever open arms of being single.

Most people in the weakened and frail condition of being a spurned lover would lash out at those who were still contained in the welcoming bonds of a lover's embrace, but the young man could not force himself into such a state of mind.  The slings and arrows of his internal workings were targeted at himself, at her, and whatever it was that had exactly happened a little over ten minutes ago.

The sword was to fall on his own union, not theirs.

Again he shook his head, more vigorously this time, as he wondered, "What exactly DID happen?"  The mystery refused to relinquish its secrets to his prying eyes, hiding away the key evidence from his fingers.

***********************************************

Part Three

When he was first invited to share her bed, he had landed upon its eastern shores.  As she increasingly stayed out of this room, he, at first, resisted the urge to move westward, but his own Manifest Destiny had slowly taken root and could not be denied.  The problem with that doctrine, however, is that the natives have to be obliterated in order for growth to continue.  His eyes were cast upon the door.

Looking at the door that led to the remainder of the apartment, he wondered what he had done wrong and how much longer he would be punished for whatever slight he had perpetuated upon the woman.  There were only two way to approach the situation as he saw it.  One, he could barrel into the room fueled by anger, taking an accusatory tone and launching an attack that the woman probably expected and had prepared for; or two, he could simply walk on eggshells in the vain hope that this flirtation with separation was temporary and that a peaceful coexistence was possible.

Obviously there was only one option, so he glued on a smile and exited the room, peeking around the corner.  That illusory mask he had been fastening over his true emotions, removing them from sight, but the visage remained identical and authentic.  Leaning against the door, he stared at his girlfriend who was adorned in his favorite jacket.

Her hand was pushed deep into the pocket, finding tranquility within its material.  As he rested upon the doorjamb, he allowed himself to believe, to fancy that she had found some comfort with something familiar of his, a sign that she was weakening.  Why she couldn't have found that cuddling next to him in the expanse of the bed eluded the man, but settled on the fact that sometimes the whole thing is a bit too much and we must settle for the tiny piece, a nibble here and a nibble there, slowly wearing down the form.

********************************************

Part Four

If the widening of one's lips into a smile can make enough sound to wake a person, his smile must have succeeded in causing such a commotion for the young lady's eyes flew open with a startle as she bolted upright almost as quickly.  Her hand pulled from the jacket with a jolt, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, her hand still clenched, which she then stared at and then at him.  With a quick yawn and a wipe of her eyes with the balled up fist, the woman asked, "How long have you been watching me?"

He shook his head, almost dismissing the question altogether.  "Not long, maybe a few minutes."

Her hand found the pocket again.  "You shouldn't stare at people when they're sleeping," she scolded.  "It's creepy."

"It's difficult to resist with you," he said cutely with a boyish charm in a vain attempt to ingratiate himself with the woman who had abandoned the bed to him all of those preceding weeks.

Slumping forward, she put her hand on the back of her neck, massaging it in a primitive manner, trying to work the kinks, caused by the hard sofa and wayward springs, from her muscles.  "You'll give someone a heart attack."  There was a resignation in the words, a fatigue.

He moved next to her and pushed her tiny hands to the side, his own hands beginning to knead those knotted regions of her upper back.  "Your neck wouldn't be bothering you if you had come to bed."  The words slipped more accusatory than he had intended.  As is often the case, the dressing is far more important than what lies underneath, the presentation making some things more palatable than they would be otherwise.

**********************************************

"There was this movie I was watching.  I must have fallen asleep."  The answer came quickly after a pause, rattled off in a quick succession like a coached witness in a courtroom.

"Oh."

She looked over her shoulder, her eyes accusatory at the one word response.  "What?  You don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that," he protested, his hands continuing to work the areas that needed tending but neglecting the more crucial ones, internal areas that were well-hidden and incapable of being alleviated.

Pulling away from her lover, the woman stood and turned, wagging a finger in the man's face.  "I hope not.  This is MY place and I won't be questioned like some child."

Before a response could even be uttered, a defense hoisted for his own protection, the woman had spun again and stomped off in the direction of the kitchen.  Calling after her, he said, "I was watching you sleep!"  He pleaded to no avail.  Shaking his head, he said to himself, "That's all."

After a few minutes of allowing the boiling pot to cool off, the man followed her into the kitchen.  She sat at the table staring at the kettle she had placed on the stove.  The woman refused to use a microwave like most modern people would.  To even suggest otherwise would elicit an argument on the virtues of patience and how there was an inherent difference in the taste.  There she sat, staring at the kettle, waiting for it to come to a boil.  Her back was to him and he wasn't sure if she knew he was there or not.

 Clearing his throat, he announced his presence, committed to not making the same mistake he had made when he watched her sleeping.

"Yes?" she answered flatly.  He wondered, was it from the freshness of a new day she wasn't quite ready to greet?

"Penny for your thoughts?" he offered.

*******************************************************

Part Six (added 10/5/13)

Her head snapped around in a way that would have made Linda Blair proud.  With eyes as wide as the plate that rested upon the table, she turned to the man, demanding, "What did you say?"

The act was so out of the ordinary, so unexpected that the man raised his hands in defense with a laugh of uneasiness.  "What?"  In his mind, he assumed that these uncharacteristic motions were the result of a bad night's sleep on a couch that was barely suitable for sitting, let alone slumber.

"What did you say?" she repeated?  A finger wagged in his face again.  "Was I talking in my sleep?  Is that why you were staring at me?"

"What?"  He was dumbfounded by the sudden inquisition over a few words that were supposed to lighten the heavy mood which had settled into the cozy domicile, displacing them.  Instead it seemed as though he were the one being displaced.

"What made you say that?  To use those words?"  There was no request.  It was as binding as a royal edict.

"It's....it's just a saying."

"Just a saying," she echoed back at him.  Her eyes searched his face before they fell to the floor in a silent penance for what had transpired.  The hysteria had been tempered for a temporary moment.

"It's said all the time," he continued, sensing a shift in the words of the discussion.

"In the two years I've known you, you've never--not once!--said that!  NEVER!"  The volume of her words exploded forth again.  The eye of the hurricane had passed quickly, providing a respite that was nowhere near the length he would have liked.  "Why did you say it?"  There was a plea within those words, seeking some sort of understanding in the randomness of life.

He pointed at the kettle which was throwing steam into the air, having a soft, melodic whistle.  "You were just staring at the kettle, lost in thought.  I was hoping it might spark a conversation, that's all.  But I guess I should have been happy with the silence."

The whistle to the kettle was like that of a train making a call for its last passengers to come aboard for their departure.  Little was he aware that his ticket had already been purchased without the man's knowledge.

*************************************************

If the man had allowed the woman to simmer down, none of the proceeding would have followed, but he didn't, casting his penny phrase into the sea of life, allowing the ripples to be thrown outward.  There are no accidents in life, though, with each event pushing us in the direction we are supposed to take even when we didn't know or consciously make the decision.

She shook her head and plopped down into the chair.  "I've had enough, Jason."

"Enough of what?"  Ignorance is the refuge of cowards who lack the fortitude to stand up to the frailties of the gifts we were offered and now are taken away.  When they have expired, as far too many do, we do not want to accept their demise.  They were supposed to last forever.  We promised.  She promised.

Her eyes locked with his.  "Come on now, Jason.  Us.  I've had enough of us."  Her hand motioned at the distance between the two of them.  Not so long ago, there wouldn't have been any and now there appeared to be an ocean, a growing gulf.

"What did I do?"  He took several steps toward, trying to shrink the breadth of distance, chasing after the woman who retreated from his every verbal and physical approach.  There had to be a reason.  Nothing happened without a reason.

"You didn't DO anything," she allowed, resigned from the conversation.

"How does that make any sense?"

"This who floating through life thing, it was funny at first, maybe even endearing, but now--"

"Look, I've told--"

"Yeah, I know, I've heard it enough times--Fate, the great unknowable, always provided for you.  It was cute the first one hundred times."

He stood there in disbelief, staring at his girlfriend of the last few years and gave an almost imperceivable shake of the head.  Normally it would go unnoticed, however, when a person is angry, they have a heightened sense of every nuanced motion another makes.  "What, Jason?  What?  What are you shaking your head at?"

There was no sense in being covert now, so the man shook his head far more noticeably now, taunting his girlfriend.  "You never understood when I told you those things.  You always thought YOU were the most important part of that equation, but you had it all backwards.  Fate, that was the key component, not you.  It got me through these last few years."

The words touched a nerve as the woman flew out of the chair, knocking it to the ground as she did so.  Pointing at herself, she yelled, surely loud enough to announce the presence of the argument to all of the neighbors who surrounded them, "That wasn't FATE that got you through the last couple of years.  That was ME!  I'VE gotten you through the last couple of years!"

The woman was attempting to stake out the territory that Jason had already laid claim to in the name of Providence.  It was an attempt to prove that she, not Fate, was the dominant factor in his life.  "I don't mean that you aren't important, Sheila, I'm not.  It's just--"  The man hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts.  "It's just that I think Fate delivered you to me."

Jason looked at her like a loyal pet, but his loyalty was divided among the woman and the force that he believed brought them together.  To him it was a beautiful dance which he appreciated and believe she would do the same.  But not everyone has an undying allegiance to the apportioners of our great unknown but well-charted future.  He was sure that this would assuage the woman's anger and doubts.

With a sigh, Sheila rubbed her temples with her index and middle finger in tight concentric circles.  As she leaned over, she righted the chair which she had thrown aside earlier and then found her place in it again.  "I'm exhausted," she announced.

***********************************

Part Eight

Looking at his shoes, Jason asked, "Can't we discuss this, Sheila?"

She crossed her arms on top of the table before here and rested her forehead upon them.  The words were mumbled as she said, "I don't think there's anything more for us to talk about."

That was her problem, he contemplated.  She THOUGHT about love, but you can't do that.  Love is about believing, feeling, faith.

Unable to hear her words or perhaps wanting to disbelieve the words that were launched in his direction, Jason responded, "I'm sorry?"  Maybe the words were an apology for something he had done to her or something she perceived he had done to her.  Only the man knows the intent of those few words.

All we know is that Sheila repeated the words, making sure to raise her head and face so that the target of her words could not mistake any of the syllables she uttered.  "I said that I don't think there's anything more for us to talk about."

"Please, just--" he started to protest, ready to raise a defense not only of himself but of them and their time together.

The glare that emanated from her eyes had the effect that the lights of a police car have--a sudden arresting stop as he sidled to the side, allowing her to have her say.  "I think you should go, Jason."

Fairy Tale

This is the rough draft of a fairy tale I'm currently working on.  I'll post a couple of paragraphs at a time, along with a Spanish translation of the same ones.  The translation was done by Mara Vite Martinez, who volunteered to do so for me.  Hopefully you enjoy the story and provide some feedback for its improvement.  Thank you for reading.

     Beneath the blood red moon, Catherine kissed Richard. Her eyes remained wide-open which allowed them to reflect the figure with whom she was physically engaged as the celestial body above them did the same thing with the sun. Each orb, despite the passionate fire that illuminated them, was cold and desolate, incapable of supporting the strain of love or life.
      Those orbs, her eyes, averted instead of embracing the darkness, refuge that closing them might have afforded her. When taken with the lust of the moment, the act is an involuntary motion, a submission to desires. But there was a purpose to the mad dash of her eyes beyond an admission of boredom or ennui. The kiss was a sword wielded at an individual, the target of which was searched for in the immediate area. An audience was sought though not any average or run-of-the-mill passerby would do. Only one particular spectator would be acceptable, one who was invited to join the pair.
      As usual Catherine had a sword on her, though she had special plans for it tonight. The woman was as well-versed in the ways of the blade as she was in the words of a witch, each providing a safety of their own. The one physically demonstrated for all to see a prowess that deterred the average ne'er-do-well from expecting more than a passing pleasantry when met, and sometimes not even that. It was the weak who were taken advantage of, not the well-armed.
      But if the blade proved inadequate in discouraging the inner passions of men and women that exceeded that of civilized society, she was more than capable of hurling and wielding words considered of a disreputable nature. Of course, safety being the ideal, Catherine kept the latter a secret except in the most dire of situations. That was the reason the sword was always close by her side, among its more hidden talents.

      When Catherine had suggested to Richard the addition of his friend Isabella to the outing, he protested, only in the softest manner in order to spare the acquaintance's feelings. Of ccourse, as his girlfriend pressed, Richard relented and agreed to permit Isabella to join them under the guise of attending a new play performed by a roving group in the town square. Neither Richard nor Isabella were aware of the duplicitous nature of the invitation, that information was privileged to the manipulator of the evening.
      It was a special production with a start time at midnight, that magical moment when today becomes yesterday and tomorrow becomes today. With a single swipe of the second hand on the clock, a day ends and another begins, a new promise. The true spectacle would occur on the street, not in the town square as Richard and Isabella expected, once the female friend had arrived. For quite some time, Catherine had suspected more than a friendship was blossoming in the lingering looks of Isabella, along with how she tended to Richard's words as though they were a delicate garden, each one collected as though they were nourishment more important than the vegetables harvest and devoured. An added health and vigor did seem to take Isabella—the girl stood taller, her skin shone with an enviable luminescence, and she was more lively than she was at first blush. Indeed, she had become almost attractive.
      They thought those furtive looks had gone unnoticed, she thought as she admired her plan to dispatch her rival. But tonight, I will show her to whom he belongs.
      The corners of her lips upturned in a noticeable fashion despite the embrace of their mouths once Isabella was spotted. Claim jumpers leaped to mind. That's what Isabella was, wasn't it? Trying to lay claim to something that belonged to someone else. Something valuable, even if Catherine didn't place the same value upon it.

Sure enough, shock had halted the interloper's steps as the friend gawked at the open display, an opening volley, simultaneously appalled and jealous, the two more often than not being siblings. 

A new dress.  Of course she'd have one.  The better to impress the one she adored, Richard.  The new garment was fitted to accentuate every curve she had to offer, the bodice's neckline sinking lower than the woman it adorned.  Despite the sight which met her eyes, Isabella did not bow, the strength remained in her body.  The breath may have been knocked from her as though punched, but she refused to be broken or battered by such a display. 

Spurred on by that thought, though truthfully there wasn't a single circumstance under which she could envision a change of mind, Catherine silently slid the sword from its sheath with the stealth of an assassin.  Neither the man nor the friend invited to accompany the pair were privy to the movement, enthralled by the distraction of a seemingly never-ending kiss. 

Some, when driven to such measures by those desired, would weep at the boundaries to which they were pushed, knowing what they had to do, but feeling the remorse of those irreversible actions before the twitch of a muscle set the consequences in motion.  No tears spilt forth from Catherine's eyes, as dry as the moon. 

Catherine's eyes were affixed to the woman who she considered an interloper as she drove the dagger deep into the man's chest, so deep and forcefully that it cracked and broke Richard's breastbone, piercing his heart.  The sound of bone being splintered could be heard, the crunch and shattering.  Very little resistance could be felt by the new home for the sword.  Surprise, ever so fleeting, was carved upon the man's face as only the chisel of betrayal by love can—fleeting due to the fact the hand of death came almost immediately.   

Almost. 

His lips parted from Catherine, an end to the kiss, the desire had come to an end in an instant.  As with most acts of betrayal, but especially those committed under the auspices of Cupid, there was a moment wherein his lips functioned long enough to pose the oft-asked question—why? 

Why? 

Catherine smirked at Isabella.  Richard girlfriend, his murderer, had relinquished her grip on the sword, allowed it to go to the cobblestone with his body.  Richard had slumped into her arms, but the weight of his body, much like the weight of his love, was not a burden she wished to bear.  Perhaps, still blinded by love, the man had mistakenly believed there had been an accident, that he would find comfort during his dying breaths in her arms. 

Why? 

The word resounded throughout the alley, echoed in Catherine's ear incessantly.  If there was an answer forthcoming, the man was not a benefactor of the information—his opportunities to claim it as part of his accumulated knowledge were gone for he had already succumbed and fallen into the abyss of death, slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap.  Looking down upon the body, the cobblestone surrounding the body gave an illusion of an impenetrable and unsolvable puzzle, one a sphinx would envy for its simplicity and complexity. 

Why? 

A one word puzzle that continued to reverberate, but louder now, not receding into the darkness in search of its answer elsewhere as an echo normally would.  

It was no echo.   

Richard's question was carried on by his admirer, the woman who would voice it over and over again in a string of repetition.  Even after death Isabella was a caretaker to his words, a priestess who would persist in pursuit of the purpose of Catherine's act.  “Why?  Why?  Why?”  There was a divinity in the trinity, a deeper resonance.

      The woman defiantly held up a hand to signal her rival to stop. Such was the imperious air of Catherine that the simple act was heeded as though it were a royal decree with the strictest of repercussions for disobeying. Something deeper than an imperious nature inhabited the motion, however, a motion that was as effortless as the destructive one that had embedded the blade in its new fleshly prison. There was a magical force borne of an incantation within those fingertips that now controlled the feet of Isabella as easily as a puppeteer would.
      Despite the fear that resulted from the loss of bodily influence, it was not the concern of the spectator. Isabella's eyes were taken by the man, as she gulped when tears began to stream down her face. “Admit it, you wanted him,” Catherine hissed even while the gaze already gave more information than any simple words ever could. It is in those looks, the ones most overlook or take for granted,
where answers to such questions can be found. More often than not, words are used to form a subterfuge of protection.
      That gaze was what drove the sword deeper than Catherine's petite frame could have thrust it even if she had performed a spell to double or triple her strength. The only enhancement she needed to her natural abilities was that gaze. That gaze, not the man, was what she sought to kill. A look, even when Richard and Catherine were first introduced, she had never known or felt—something she wished to attain through proximity to the man. That gaze was what she wanted to posses and knew she could not.
      “Even now, as he lays dead at my feet, you want him!” the woman demanded.
      “Please,” the rival begged as she dared to advance another step, the repercussions be damned. Isabella had found the strength to resist the powerful force of the woman, although it was limited to a single step. Like the seconds of time accumulate to form minutes which in turn become hours, so it is with distance, inches transform into feet which transmute into miles. Isabella savored the distance she had progressed, becoming closer to the man in body, if not in spirit and heart.
      “You ask why. You want to know the reason?” A professorial arrogance possessed Catherine as deeply as love had done so to Isabella. There was a lesson to be taught here, one carefully orchestrated. “He's mine. That's the answer. He is mine.”
      Pointing at the dead body, Isabella protested, “Now he is neither mine nor yours. You've killed him!”
As Cathering hunched over the body, the woman ran her fingers across the wound. “You think his blood is on my hands?” A layer of viscuous liquid clung to her flesh. “No, not mine.” Moving to Isabella, she took her by the wrist and smeared that essence of life across her palm. “Your hands, not mine.”
      Isabella looked down at her hand in orror as she made a passionate defense. “You stabbed him!”
      “Because you tried to steal what is mine. There are punishments for theft.” There was a coldness to the woman's words, as chilled as a winter's breath, a cold-hearted calculation as though she had performed the act countless other times and was indifferent to the pain and suffering it inflicted.
      But of course the woman's calculation was blind to the single most important fact regarding matters of the heart—there is no such crime as theft. If a heart is truly another's, it cannot be moved by anyone else, firmly ensconced in the ground. One would have more luck in altering the course of the planets.
      “How could you do it?” Isabella could not move her eyes from Richard, the scene bringing to the forefront the same question with a different selection of words.
      “Admit you love him!” Catherine demanded.
      Emboldened by the fact her declaration of love would fall on dead ears, having been afraid of the immensity of the emotion and the possibility of rejection when Richard was capable of doing so, Isabella proclaimed the truth proudly. It was loud, not the whispers into the dark she had permitted herself when no one else was around, a secret now loosed upon the world, like those monsters from Pandora's box. Surely, if ever such a box existed, the destructive force of love was unleashed from that prison as well. “Yes, I loved him.”

      Retreating to the body in a fit of rage, as though the words unexpectedly offended her, Catherine kicked the body. The body rose and fell with the violence, providing no resistance or defense to the assault which extinquished any misconceived glimmer of hope Isabella might have held. “So you admit you want what is mine?”
      Afraid the assault on the corpse would continue, Isabella stood silent, did not so much as breathe. With her foot, the lover who betrayed the man rolled him onto his back, the sword protruding at an angle. Each time Catherine had committed the atrocity of interring the blade into her lover, the act became easier, not that it was ever difficult or caused a crisis of conscience. Not once did a doubt ever stay her hand, not for the merest second.
      Catherine reached out for the hilt of the sword, her fingers dancing on the end of the blade. While the pain Richard had encountered was short-lived, that of Isabella was a torment on the scale of Hell for the most reviled of sinners. Fire and brimstone would have been a welcomed respite from what Isabella had endured. Internal flames licked away at her heart and stomach, yet she perservered, strengthened by the practice of being in the presence of the lvoers in spite of her growing affections.
      Should I withdraw the sword, the woman contemplated. A quick glance at Catherine gave the answer. That gaze, that one she despised so thoroughly, was still alight in those eyes, an appalling occurrence to the sensibilities of the woman. It would be extinguished soon.
      But now?

      No, not yet.
      As she stood there, looming over the husk of the man she had professed to love even as she slid the knife into him, Catherine smiled at her position between Isabella and Richard, a position of power. She relished her duality—angel of life, angel of death, one and the same.
      Pointing at Richard, a friend from whom she desired so much more, Isabella asked, “Why punish him?”
Her hand withdrew from the blade, circling the deceased. Her heels clicked against the cobblestone, establishing the mocking cadence of a heartbeat, one at rest, lacking the excitement of living to the fullest. Ever sicne Isabella and Richard had made first contact, a most taking of the hand into his own, her heart would never know that quiet, barely alive rhythm of the heart again.
      “You think he's the punished party?” There was an unbearable lightness to the words, a mockery of a eulogy to the man at her feet, a man who deserved so much more.
      Catherine's eyes finally found those of her unspoken rival. “Me? You did this to punish me?”
      “To teach you a lesson, yes.”
      “By killing him! Are you mad?” Isabella's anger boiled over as her voice grew louder. Usually when pressed to such extremes, the girl's voice would collapse on itself and she would assume the demeanor of meek pliability, accepting of what came her way. Those days were behind her.
      “Mad? No, not at all. Only by piercing his heart could I do the same to yours. Yet that gaze, that gaze still persists.”
      Isabella clutched at her chest, afraid of the curses and magical swords she had heard to exist in the world. “My heart?” she gulped. Was there a chance this sword was enchanted with the ability to drain her life while embedded in the heart of another?
      “You sense the sword is cursed?” the woman asked. That sinister smile never evaporated from her lips.
“I sense you are evil enough to know a curse or two and have no issue wiedling them indiscriminately at those who surround you.”
      “I know more than a few.” Catherine laughed as her hand found the sword once more. “But yes, you are correct. There is more to the sword than meets the eye. You see, it can only be removed by his true love—me. Once it is, he will be restored to life, at which point you will realize he is utterly and completely mine.” Prepared to withdraw the sword from its resting place, Catherine better positioned herself to observe the expected reaction of her rival. “Only love can drive the sword so deeply, only love can remove the pain.”
With those words, the woman yanked on the sword, but to no avail as the body was hoisted with it. The blade and body, despite the woman's promise, remained an immutable one, inseparable. Her smile, seemingly a permanent fixture, was driven from her face.
      Once.
      Twice.
      Thrice more she tried to pull the sword from his chest and all three met with the same result—abject failure. The blade didn't so much as slip a centimeter from its resting spot.

“It worked before!” Catherine screeched. She placed a foot upon the man's chest in an effort to gain leverage but with no added advantage in result having been gained.
Turning to her rival, Catherine screamed, “You! This is your fault!” Whatever spell had been cast appeared to have failed, Isabella took a step forward only to be admonished by the woman. “He is not yours!”
“I can save him,” the admirer begged.
“You save him? I'd prefer him to stay dead for the worms and maggots to feast upon.” The bitterness was not borne of lost love, but of a lost possession someone else had laid claim to, the two not being the same. “He's mine!”
A constable, attracted by the commotion, approached the pair of women. “What's going on here?”
Seeing an opportunity, Catherine ran to the arbiter and imposer of the law. “Thank goodness you're here. She attacked my boyfriend and me. She killed him!” Indicating Isabella, she suggested, “Look at her hands, the evidence is there.”
His eyes fell upon the hands of Richard's friend as directed, eclipsing the sight of the same evidence smeared across Catherine's palms as well. An ease of reaction overcame the constable as he withdrew his weapon. “Is this true?”
Backing away several steps, Isabella said, “No, not in the least.” Her hands were up, exposed to the man in their full glory, though they were intended to indicate for the constable to stop. Unlike Catherine's gesture, however, it did not have the same outcome, as the lawman continued to approach. Blood dripped down her hands, having formed rivulets.
“That's a lot of blood on yoru hands.”
“She has blood on her hands, too.”
“Kill her,” Catherine insisted. “She's a thief.”
“I can prove it,” the friend said as she rushed toward Richard.
“Halt!” Catherine exclaimed again, this time the word had no effect. “HALT!” Again the word was impotent. Impatient, she implored the constable, “Stop her!”
But the distance was already covered by the sprint of Isabella, spurred on by the love of Richard. No longer would fear still her tongue or actions. Not feaer of rejection. Not fear of of the law. Not fear of a curse.
Her hand laid claim to the hilt of the sword as she said a silent prayer. With a deep breath, she gingerly tugged at the metal protruding from the man, wishing to do no additional harm. As Arthur was able to lay claim to his kingdom by withdrawing the sword of Excalibur from a stone, Isabella through the removal of the sword from Richard was able to proclaim dominion over his heart, an everlasting covenant formed in the breach of the last one.
“Hold there,” the constable directed as he approached. “You can't disturb the body.”
“Who would know the guilty party more than the deceased?” Isabella asked. The sword was freed from the flesh, blood dripped from the tip to the cobblestone. Freed from the flesh, the soul was freed from the prison of death, normally an eternal sentence of condemnation.
True to the words of Catherine, though not as she had planned, true love had parted the two from one another. The wound had already sewn itself together and shut, soon followed by convulsions of the body, twisting and turning violently. Succumbing to death is an agonizing occurrence, but it is easily outdone by the reawakening of life. Twitches of the various muscles, a reaction to the blood flowing once more, alerted all to a rebirth.

     “What have you done?” the constable demanded even as he backpedaled from the resurrection.

      “It's working!” Isabella joyously proclaimed. “It's working!”

      “I told you to kill her!” the woman hissed at the lawman, but the vision of such sorcery, regardless of being in the name of life, good and love, stilled his advancement.

      “I'm not going near her. She's bewitched.”

      Grabbing the sword from the constable, Catherine muttered to herself, “Then I shall do it myself.”

      Catherine moved toward the emotional trespasser, assured in her advantage in skills at wielding a blade. The challenge was met calmly, allowing the excitement for Richard's return to health to be submerged. Isabella stared at the blade in her hand, the one that only a moment ago was impaled in the man she loved.

“After I kill you, I will finish his miserable existence as well. There will not be a third chance at life for him,” Catherine warned.

      “That shouldn't be your concern,” Isabella chided.

      With that taunt, Catherine was blinded into a fury, a fury which pushed her feet forward. Both women swung their weapons blindly, but only one found its mark. The villagers to this day say the balance of the sword, far different from her personal blade, prevented Catherine from acting with the precision she would have otherwise. Others say Isabella's weapon was guided by a greater power.

      Either way, the cursed sword was now sheathed in Catherine's flesh. Her body still rests in the town square, awaiting one who would be so bold as to lay claim to her heart.

      As for Isabella and Richard, he, after several moments of rattling back to life on the ground, sat up in a confused daze. Isabella sat on the ground by his side, lying his head in her lap. “What happened?” he asked.

      “Shh. Lay down and I'll tell you all about it.”

      She gently pressed her lips to his as the early morning fingers of the dawn's first rays claimed the world and she lay claim to his heart.

Cuento de Hadas

Traducida por Mara Vite Martinez

Bajo la luna roja como la sangre, Catalina beso a Ricardo. Los ojos de ella 

quedaron muy abiertos, lo cual le permitio ver el reflejo de la figura con 

quien ella estaba comprometida, como el cuerpo celestial encima de ellos que 

hizo lo mismo con el sol. Cada orbe, a pesar del fuego apasionado que los 

iluminaba, fuera frio y desolado e incapaz de soportar la tension entre la vida 

y el amor. 

Sus ojos evitaron en concentrarse en la obscuridad, que fuera un refugio que ella 

tendria al cerrar sus ojos. Con la lujuria del momento, el acto solo fue un 

movimiento involuntario, una sumision a los deseos. Pero habia un proposito en la 

ansiedad de sus ojos mas alla del aburrimiento.
 
El beso fue como una espada manejada a nivel individual, donde el objetivo fue a 

dar directamente a su blanco. Se realizo una audiencia para escoger a una persona 

en particular e invitarla a que se les uniera. Como de costumbre, Catalina traia 

consigo una espada muy bien oculata entre sus ropas y esa noche ella tenia planes 

muy especiales para traerla consigo.
 
Ella tenia experiencia en el uso de la espada, como las palabras de una bruja, 

cada uno proporcionando una seguridad propia. Ella era muy habil en el uso de la 

espada y fisicamente ella habia demonstrado a los debiles su poder con el arma y 

en la que ella sabia tomar ventaja de ellos y no se enfrentaba a los fuertes y 

habiles como ella.

Pero si la cuchilla fuera insuficientemente inadecuada como para disuadir la 

pasion mas intima entre un hombre y una mujer excedida para la sociedad civilizada

que ella era mas que capaz de lanzar maldiciones de manera irrespetuosa como para 

daniar la reputacion de las personas. Por supuesto, la seguridad es lo ideal, 

Catalina guardo sus mas intimos secretos excepto en las situaciones extremas. Esta 

fue la razon, de que la espada estaba siempre muy cerca y a su lado, ademas de sus 

talentos ocultos. 

Cuando Catalina le sugirio a Ricardo que se les uniera su amiga Isabel a la salida,

 Ricardo protesto pero de una manera muy cordial para no herir los sentimientos de

 su conocida.
 
Por supuesto, cuando su novia le insistio a Ricardo el estuvo de acuerdo en 

permitir que Isabel se les uniera con el pretexto de asistir a una obra actuado 

por un grupo del pueblo. Ni Ricardo ni Isabel sabian que la invitacion tuviera una

doble intencion y de lo enganoso de esa informacion solo fue conocida por la 

manipuladora de la noche.
 
Fue una produccion especial con una hora de inicio a la media noche, con un 

comienzo magico en el que el hoy se convierte en el ayer y el manana comienza en 

el ahora, con un solo golpe de la segunda mano del reloj en donde un dia se 

termina y otro comienza, con una nueva promesa. Donde el verdadero espectaculo se 

producira en la calle y no en la plaza del pueblo con Ricardo e Isabel como 

espectadores. Una de las amigas habia llegado hace ya bastante tiempo. Por algun 

tiempo, Catalina sospechaba que habia mas que una amistad floreciendo y la actitud 

de Isabel era diferente, ademas de como ella escuchaba platicar a Ricardo, como si 

fuera un jardin delicado, cada palabra recolectada como si fuera la comida mas 

importante que las verdaduras cosechadas y devoradas. Isabel parecia mas saludable 

y llena de vigor -- ella era muy alta, su piel mas brillante y mas vibrante que al 

principio. Se veia casi atractiva.
 
Ellos pensaron que sus miradas furtivas habian pasado casi desapercibidas. Ella 

repasaba su plan mientras veia a su rival. Pero esa noche, ella le iba a demostrar 

a quien le pertenecia.
 
La comisura de sus labios hacia arriba de manera notoria a pesar del abrazo de su 

boca, una vez que Isabel fue descubierta. Fuertes reclamaciones saltaron a su mente.

Eso es lo que Isabel era, no? Tratando de reclamar algo que le pertenece a otra. 

Como algo valioso. Incluso si Catalina no le dio el mismo valor a ello. Efectivamente

el choque habia detenido los pasos del intruso con la mirada clavada, cuando el amigo 

clavo su mirada en la pantalla abierta, como un libro abierto, simultaneamente 

horrorizado y celoso, muchas veces como si fueran hermanos.  

Un vestido nuevo. Por supuesto ella tenia uno. El mejor para impresionar a la que 

Ricardo adoraba. La nueva prenda asentuaba sus curvas que ella tenia para ofrecer, 

el escote tan pronunciado del talle del vestido que la adornaba que humillaba a la 

mujer. A pesar de la vision que la miraba a los ojos; a Isabel no le impresiono, la 

fortaleza permanecio en su cuerpo. La respiracion pudo haber sido eliminada de ella

como un punetazo como ella penso golpearla, pero ella se nego a ser abatida ante 

tal despliegue.
 
Silenciosamente, Catalina desenfundo su espada de la vaina con el sigilio de un 

asesino. Ni el hombre o la amiga invitada a acompanar a la pareja estaban al tanto 

de los movimientos, cautivados por la distraccion de un beso interminable. En 

algunos cuando es manejado a ciertos limites deseados, podria llorar hasta el 

limite o lo que fueron llevados, sabiendo que ellos tenian algo que hacer, pero 

sin sentir remordimiento de sus acciones irreversibles ante el movimiento involuntario 

de sus musculos desencajo las consecuencias en sus movimientos. Sin lagrimas derramadas 

 delante de los ojos de Catalina, estaban tan secos como la luna.
 
Los ojos de Catalina estuvieron fijos en la mujer a quien ella consideraba una 

entrometida cuando ella llevo la daga tan profundamente dentro del pecho del 

hombre, tan profunda y eficazmente que crujio y fracturo el hueso del pecho de 

Ricardo, que penetro en su corazon. El sonido del hueso que empezo a astillarse 

que se podria escuchar el crujido de sus huesos quebrandose.
 
Muy poca resistencia podria sentirse para la nueva casa de la espada. La sorpresa 

siempre tan transitoria, fue esculpido sobre el rostro del hombre como solamente 

el cincel del traidor por amor puede.
 
Transitoriamente debido a la accion de la muerte que vino casi inmediatamente.
 
Casi sus labios se separaron de Catalina fue el final del beso, el deseo llego a 

un fin en un instante. Como un acto de traicion, pero especialmente esa mision 

bajo la suspicacia del Cupido. Hubo un momento cuando sus labios se fusionaron 

demasiado tiempo para preguntarse - PORQUE?
 
PORQUE?
 
Catalina le sonrio burlonamente a Isabel. La novia de Ricardo, su novio asesinado, 

se lo recargo en sus brazos, pero el peso de su amor era mas que el de su cuerpo, 

no fue una carga, para ella que deseaba llevar. A lo mejor todavia estaba ciego de 

amor, el hombre equivocadamente creyo haber tenido un accidente, que podria 

sentirse comodo en sus brazos durante su respiracion entre cortada.
 
PORQUE?
 
Las palabras resonaron en el callejon, el eco en los oidos de Catalina se 

escucharon incesantemente. Si esto fue una respuesta proxima, el hombre no fue un 

benefactor de la informacion - las oportunidades a sus reclamaciones que eran parte 

de su conocimiento acomulados que fueron para el, estaban ya perdidas en el abismo 

de la muerte, recargado en el piso. Mirando por encima del cuerpo en el empedrado 

de la calle que rodeaban al cuerpo daba una ilusion de rompecabezas, una esfinge 

envidiada por lo simple y lo complejo.
 
PORQUE?
 
Una palabra del rompecabezas siguio haciendo eco, pero mas fuerte ahora, no 

regresaron en la obscuridad en busca de sus respuestas, en otro sitio como 

normalmente el eco haria.
 
Esto no fue el eco.
 
La pregunta de Ricardo fue cargarda por sus admiradores, la mujer quien podria 

vocear una y otra vez en un hilo de repeticion. Incluso despues de la muerte de 

Isabel, fue una vigilante de sus palabras, una sacerdotisa quien podria persistir 

la busqueda del proposito de Catalina PORQUE? PORQUE? PORQUE? Hubo una divinidad en 

la trinidad, una resonancia muy profunda.  

La mujer desafiante, alzo una mano para ser senalar a su rival para pararla. Tal 

fue el aire imperioso de Catalina que el simple acto fue escuchado como si se 

tratara de un decreto real con la mas estricta de las repercusiones por 

desobedecer. Algo mas profundo que la naturaleza imperiosa.
 
A pesar del miedo que resultaba por la perdida de control de sus impulsos, no era 

de la incumbencia del espectador. Los ojos de Isabel fueron tomados por el hombre, 

mientras tragaba saliva cuando las lagrimas empezaron a correr por su rostro. 

"Admitelo, lo querias," Catalina siceo incluso cuando su mirada ya daba mas 

informacion que cualquier simple palabra podria. Y son en esas miradas las mas 

dominantes o tomadas en garantia, donde las respuestas a tales preguntas pueden 

ser encontradas. Mas frecuentemente que nada, las palabras son usadas para formar 

un refugio de proteccion.
 
Esa mirada fue lo que condujo la espada mas profundamente que el pequeno cuadro de 

Catalina que pudo haber elevado incluso si ejecutaba un
hechizo por doblar o triplicar su fuerza.
 
El unico encantamiento que necesitaba para sus habilidades naturales era esa mirada.

 Esa mirada, no el hombre, fue lo que anhelo matar. Una mirada, incluso cuando 

Ricardo y Catalina fueron por primera vez presentados, ella nunca supo o sintio 

algo que ella queria lograr a traves de la aproximacion con el hombre. Esa mirada 

era lo que ella queria poseer y sabia que no podia.
 
"Incluso ahora, cuando el yacia muerto a sus pies, tu lo quieres!" la mujer demando.

"Por favor," la rival suplicaba atreviendose a avanzar otro paso, las repercusiones 

son condenadas. Isabel encontro la fortaleza para resistir la poderosa fuerza de la 

mujer, aunque era limitado a un simple paso. Como los segundos del tiempo se acomulan 

para formar minutos, que se transforman en horas, asi pasa con la distancia, 

pulgadas se convienen en pies los cuales transmutan a millas. Isabel saboreba la 

distancia que habia ganado, acercandose cada vez mas al hombre en cuerpo, si es 

que no en espiritu y corazon.
 
"Tu preguntas por que? Quieres saber la razon?" Con proclamada arrogancia que 

poseyo a Catalina tan profundamente como el amor lo hizo con Isabel. Habia una 

leccion que debia de ser ensenada aqui, una cuidadosamente orquestada. "El es mio. 

Esa es la respuesta. El es mio."
 
Apuntando hacia el cadaver, Isabel protesto, "Ahora el ya no es mio o tuyo. Tu lo 

mataste!"
 
Mientras Catalina se agachaba encima del cuerpo, la mujer recorrio con sus dedos a 

traves de la herida. "Tu piensas que su sangre esta en mis manos?" Una capa del 

liquido viscoso se pego a su carne. "No, en los mios no." Moviendose hacia Isabel, 

la agarro por la muneca y unto esa esencia de vida atraves de su palma. "En tus 

manos. No en las mias."
 
Isabel miro su mano con horror e hizo una defensa apasionada. "Tu lo apunalaste!"
 
"Porque trataste de robar lo que es mio. Hay castigos por robo." Habia cierta 

frialdad en las palabras de la mujer, tan escalofriantes como una respiracion de 

invierno, una calculada frivolidad como si hubiera ejecutado el acto otras tantas 

veces y fuera indiferente al dolor y al sufrimiento implicados.
 
Pero por supuesto la calculada mujer fue ciega al simple y mas importante hecho 

dependiendo de las cuestiones del corazon -- no habia tal crimen como robar. Si el 

corazon le pertenece verdaderamente a otro, no podia ser movido por nadie mas, 

firmemente establecido en el piso. Uno tendria mas suerte alterando el curso de 

los planetas.
 
"Como pudiste hacerlo?" Isabel no podia alejar sus ojos de Ricardo, la escena 

trayendo a la vanguardia la misma pregunta pero con una diferente seleccion de las 

palabras.
 
"Admite que lo amas!" demando Catalina.
 
Envalentonada por el hecho de que su declaracion de amor caeria en oidos muertos, 

habiendo estado asustada por la inmensidad de emociones y la posibilidad de rechazo 

cuando Ricardo era capaz de hacer eso, Isabel proclamo la verdad orgullosamente. 

Era fuerte, no como los susurros en la oscuridad que ella habia permitido cuando 

nadie mas estaba a su alrededor, un secreto ahora suelto en el mundo, como los 

mounstros de la caja de pandora. Seguro, si dicha caja siquiera existiera, la 

fuerza destructiva del amor fue liberda de la prision tambien. "Si, la amaba."

Retirandose hacia el cuerpo en una descarga de furia, como si las palabras 

inesperadamente la hubieran ofendido, Catalina pateo el cuerpo. El cuerpo se elevo 

y callo con violencia, provando sin resistencia o defensa al ataque el cual 

extinguio toda esperanza que Isabel pudo haber guardado. "Asi que, admites que 

quieres lo que es mio?"
 
Temerosa de que los ataques hacia el cadaver pudieran continuar, Isabel se quedo 

callada, no hizo nada mas que respirar. Con su pie, la amante que traiciono al 

hombre lo rodo hacia su espalda, la espada sobresalio en un angulo. Cada vez que 

Catalina habia cometido la atrosidad de enterrar la cuchilla dentro de su amante, 

el acto se hizo mas facil, no significa que se haya sido dificil o que causara una 

crisis de conciencia. Nunca llego a haber una duda en su mano, ni siquiera por un 

segundo.
 
Catalina agarro el mango de la espada, sus dedos danzando al final de la cuchilla. 

Mientras el dolor de Ricardo fue corto, eso para Isabel era un tormento en la 

escala del infierno para los pecadores. Fuego y azufre habrian sido una bienvenida 

y un respiro a lo que Isabel habia soportado. Llamas internas lamieron su corazon 

y estomago, sin embargo ella persevero, fortalecida por la practica de haber estado 

en la presencia de los amantes a pesar de su creciente sentimientos.
 
Deberia retirar la espada, la mujer contemplo. Una mirada rapida hacia Catalina le 

dio la respuesta. Esa mirada, la que ella odiaba muy a fondo, estaba todavia puesta 

en sus ojos, una espantosa ocurriencia a las sensibilidades de la mujer. Seria 

extinguida pronto.
 
Por ahora?
 
No, aun no.
 
Cuando ella estaba de pie, ahi mismo, asomandose por encima del hombre, ella habia 

declarado su amor a pesar de que ella lo mato con el cuchillo. Catalina sonrio 

delante de ella y de Ricardo en una posicion de poder. A ella le gusto ser a la vez 

el -- angel de la vida y de la muerte. Uno al mismo tiempo.
 
Apuntando a Ricardo, un amigo a quien ella desairo demasiadas veces. Isabel pregunto 

"Por que me castigaste?"
 
Quito su mano de la espada, cerca de la muerte. Sus tacones sonaban por la calle 

empedrada. Se oian como latidos del corazon sin presion. Desde cuando Isabela y 

Ricardo se conocieron, su corazon nunca sintio esa tranquilidad y casi sin ritmo 

del corazon.
 
"Tu piensas que el es la persona castigada?" Sus palabras eran muy debiles, como una 

farsa de sus plegarias para el hombre que estaba acostada a sus pies, un hombre que 

merecia mucho mas. 
 
Por fin los ojos de Catalina encontraron a los ojos de su rival y ella dijo "Yo? Tu 

hiciste esto para castigarme?"
 
"Para darte una leccion, si!"
 
"Por matarlo! Estas loca?" El enojo de Isabella hirvio cuando su voz aumentaba. 
 
Normalmente cuando alguien en una posicion extrema, la voz de la mujer se desplomo 

y ella tendria su caracter sumiso, aceptando lo que vendria para ella. Esos dias 

fueron el pasado de ella. 
 
"Loca? No, ni un poco. Solamente podria perforar su corazon y te podria hacer lo 

mismo a ti. Pero su mirada se persistia."
 
Isabella agarro su pecho, tenia miedo de las maldiciones y las espadas magicas que 

ella habia oido que existian en el mundo. "Mi corazon?" ella dijo. Fue posible que 

esa espada tuvo la capacidad de quitar su vida cuando estaba en la de otra persona?
 
"Tu sientes la espada maldita?" la mujer pregunto. Esa sonrisa siniestra nunca se 

le borro de sus labios. "Siento que eres demasiado diabolica para conocer un 

maldito o dos malditos y no tienes problema en maldecir a cualquier persona que 

esta alrededor de ti."
 
"Yo se mas que algunos." Catalina se rio cuando su mano encontro de nuevo la espada. 

"Pero si, tienes razon." Esa espada es mas poderosa de lo que parece, solo puede ser 

retirado por su verdadero amor -- yo.
 
Cuando eso pase el volvera a vivir. Y en ese momento tu te daras cuenta que el es 

realmente mio. Pero preparada para retirar la espada de su sitio, Catalina puso en 

posicion su cuerpo para observar la reaccion de su competidora.
 
Solamente el amor puede poner la espada muy profunda y solamente el amor puede 

quitar el dolor.
 
Con esas palabras la mujer retiro bruscamente la espada pero no la pudo quitar 

porque el cuerpo lo impedio. Aunque la mujer prometio, la hoja del cuchillo y el 

cuerpo quedaron como uno solo.
 
Su sonrisa que permanicia se esfumo de sus labios.
 
Una vez.
 
Dos veces.
 
Y la tercera vez, ella trato de retirar la espada de su pecho y todas las veces 

con 

el mismo resultado -- sin exito.  

El filo no se movio ni un milimetro de su posicion. "Funciono antes!" Catarina 

grito. Ella puso su pie encima del pecho del hombre para tratar de retirar la espada 

pero no tuvo ventaja en quitarla.
 
Catalina miro a su competidor y grito "Tu. Eso es tu culpa!" Cualquier hechizo que fue 

puesto fracaso, Isabela camino adelante y la mujer dijo fuertamente, "El no es tuyo!"
 
"Yo puedo salvarlo!" ella rogo.
 
"Tu podrias salvarlo? Prefiero que el muera para que los gusanos y las larvas de las 

moscas se den un festin con el."
 
La amargura no nacio de un amor perdido pero de la posecion perdida que otra persona 

reclamo, los dos no eran iguales. "El es mio!"
 
El oficial, atraido por la conmocion, se aproximo al par de mujeres. "Que esta pasando 

aqui?"
 
Viendo una oportunidad, Catalina corrio hacia el juez que impone la ley.
 
"Gracias a Dios que estas aqui. Ella ataco a mi novio y a mi. Asesina!" senalando a 

isabel sugirio. "Mire sus manos, la evidencia esta ahi."
 
Sus ojos fueron directamente a las manos de la amiga de Ricardo.
 
Una reaccion de triunfo del oficial hizo sacar su arma. "Es esto verdad?"
 
Retrocediedo algunos pasos, Isabel dijo, "No, no en lo mas minimo."
 
Levanto sus manos como expuestas hacia el hombre en toda su gloria, como si su 

intencion fuera a decirle al oficial que se detuviera no como el gesto de Catalina, 

sin embargo no obtuvo el mismo resultado, ya que el oficial continuo acercandose. 

La sangre goteo de sus manos habiendo formado riachuelos.
 
"Esa es mucha sangre en sus manos."
 
"Ella tiene sangre en sus manos tambien."
 
"Matela," insistio Catalina. "Ella es una ladrona."
 
"Lo puedo probar," dijo la amiga mientras corria hacia Ricardo.
 
"Detengase!" exclamo Catalina de nuevo, esta vez la palabra no tuvo efecto.
 
"Detengase!" De nuevo, la palabra fue imponente. Impaciente, ella imploro al 

oficial, "detengala!"
 
Pero la distancia ya habia sido cubierta a la carrera por Isabel, estimulada por 

el amor a Ricardo. Nunca mas temeria a su lengua o sus acciones. Ni el temor al 

rechazo. Ni miedo a la ley. Ni miedo a una maldicion.
 
Sus manos ya hacian aferradas a la empunadura de la espada mientras decia una 

oracion en silencio. Con una respiracion profunda, ella cuidadosamente tiro del 

metal que sobresalia del hombre deseando no hacer mas dano. Asi como Arturo fue 

capaz de reclamar para si el reino al retirar la espada de excalibur de una roca , 

Isabel al remover la espada de Ricardo fue capaz de proclamar el dominio de su 

corazon, un pacto para siempre formado en el quebrantamiento del ultimo recuerdo.
 
"Mantengase ahi," el oficial le indico mientras se aproximaba. "No puede mover el 

cuerpo."
 
"Quien puede conocer mejor al culpable que el muerto?" pregunto Isabel. La espada 

fue liberada de la carne, la sangre goteo de la punta hacia el enpedrado.
 
Liberada de la carne, el alma fue liberada de la prision de la muerte, normalmente 

una sentencia de eterne condenacion.
 
Tal y como Catalina lo dijo,aunque no como ella lo habia planeado, el verdadero 

amor habia separado a los dos, el uno del otro. La herida se habia cerrado a si 

misma, seguida inmediatamente con convulsiones del cuerpo,torciendo y girando 

violentamente. Sucumbir a la muerte es un suceso agonizante, pero es facilmente 

revertido por el despertar de la vida. Espasmos de varios musculos, una reacion a 

la sangre fluyendo una vez mas, alerta a un renacimiento.
  

"Que a hecho?" pregunto el oficial incluso mientras se alejaba de la resurreccion. 

"Esta funcionando!" proclamo Isabel alegremente. "Esta funcionando."
 
"Te dije que la mataras!" la mujer murmuro al oficial, pero la vision de tal 

hechizo, a pesar de ser en nombre de la vida, Dios y el amor detuvo su marcha.
 
"Yo no me acerco a ella. Ella esta hechizada."
 
Tomando la espada del oficial, Catalina murmuro para si misma, "Entonces debo 

hacerlo yo misma."
 
Catalina se movio hacia el invasor emotivo, segura en su ventaja en la destreza al 

manejar una espada. El desafio fue afrontado tranquilamente permitiendo que la 

excitacion  por el regreso de Ricardo a la vida quedara sumergido. Isabel miro la 

espada en su mano, la misma que solo un momento atras estaba ensartada en el hombre 

que amaba.
 
"Despues de que te mate, terminare tambien con tu miserable existencia. No habra 

una tercera oportunidad de vivir para el," advirtio Catalina.
 
"Eso no deberia ser tu preocupacion," exclamo Isabel.
 
Con esa burla, Catalina se sego por la furia, una furia que empujaba sus pies hacia 

adelante. Ambas mujeres blandieron sus armas ciegamente, pero solo una encontro su 

marca. Los habitantes del pueblo hasta este dia dicen que el equilibrio de la 

espada fue muy diferente de su espada personal, previno que Catalina actuara con 

la presicion que de otra manera ella hubiera tenido. Otros dicen que el arma de 

Isabel fue guiada por el poder superior.
 
De cualquier manera, la espada maldita estaba ahora enterrada en la carne de 

Catalina. Su cuerpo aun reposa en el centro del pueblo, esperando aquel que sea 

tan atrevido para reclamar su corazon.
 
Mientras que Isabel y Ricardo, el, despues de unos momentos de convulsionarse de 

vuelta a la vida en el suelo, se sento en un mareo confuso. Isabel se sento en el 

suelo a su lado, poniendo su cabeza en su regazo. "Que sucedio?" pregunto el.
 
"Shh. Permanece acostado y te dire todo acerca de ello."
 
Ella presiono sus labios gentilmente a los de el mientras sus dedos mananeros de 

los primeros rayos del alba reclamaban el mundo y ella reclamaba su corazon.