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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.