Us Today

What have we learned?
There are no Gods, messiahs or saints
But from us you’ll hear no complaints
We’ve lost hope in miracles and prayer
But none of us really seem to care
We live in a life of hustle, bustle, and hurry
But we live our lives without a worry
The face of America has become more mottled
We all share childhoods being overly-coddled
The country is leaderless, led by buffoons
Spewing enough hot air to fill a billion balloons
No more Washingtons, Lincolns or Roosevelts
Nothing left but fatcats with bulging belts
Pockets full of lobbyist money
Bastards they are, deceptive and cunning
Laws more invasive, ads more persuasive
Authority more abrasive, answers more evasive

What has our generation become?
We’re more logical and rational
Aware of issues local and national
Going abroad, growing international
Less evangelical, closer to skeptical
More scientific and medical
Experts in things electronic and mechanical
We are Suburbia-bred
We are fast food fed
We are always wondering
As our lives are sundering
What it would be like to be dead
A suicide culture has emerged
Teenage drug use has surged
Popular notions become absurd
Fact and fiction are now blurred
Witnesses of terror and two wars
Saluting soldiers who’ve done three tours
We’re a society of smartasses and cynics
Who dismiss and belittle our critics
And while our case may not be clinical
It’s a concern that has turned critical

Are you happy with this state of our being?
Or are you offended by what you’re seeing?

Brothers, sisters, do you see what we are?
We are not all special little stars
Some of us will fail or become ordinary
Even if we’ve been raised to believe the contrary
It’s on you.
Mark out your own path and goals
Fire yourself up about your life
Throw on some more coals
Laugh at the world, laugh at death
Laugh every second ‘til your last breath
Your philosophy should be against the grain
Anything less and it’ll drive you insane
We’re better than our ancestors
Improvements of our predecessors
You need to break the mold, raise your voice
Don’t be afraid to make an unpopular choice
You don’t want to be the average
Become the savage

What will you do with your life?
Will you embrace love in the face of strife?
You do, and you’ll become the topic of the conversation
The idol of admiration
The fawned-over fascination
The incendiary sensation
The formation of a new foundation
Go ahead
And redefine our generation

Do nothing less.

I Have Seen Paradise

It all came before me, as my boat sailed on
A warm, heavy sun fell upon me swiftly,
I had not a clue where I had gone.
The river had suddenly opened up to sea,
And there I was, just paradise and me.

To my left was the grandest of all sights,
A high cliff decorated with waterfalls and vines,
With lush jungle sitting just above the heights.
Clearly a landscape crafted from impeccable designs.
Yes, mine was the greatest of all man’s finds.

The water all about seemed enchanted in some way,
Sparkling with such avidness and glee.
I was in a sea that left me with nothing to say,
My tongue speechless, mind in jubilee.
There was never a moment where I felt so free.

I was happy in this land beyond imagination;
A feeling of peace never before tasted by my lips.
But I knew I’d never again know this sensation,
Though I would have the memory of this, finest of all trips.
And it was then that I saw, in the distance, ships!

Classic frigates floated near the cliff,
Hundreds of feet up, their masts shot into the sky.
Even with just light winds, all their sails were stiff.
Yet the vessels’ appearance were no fright to the eye,
No more than that of a common fruit fly

At the center of them all was a behemoth to be true.
To the clouds and beyond did this one extend,
And just as I saw it, I not only felt, I knew.
My boat was leaving the sea and entering a bend,
I was leaving paradise, my visit at an end.

But, I would remember this place without a doubt.
I’d think about it in class later on and pray,
Praying to be able to remember that route.
That route that led to the deep blue bay.
That bay that I pray above all to return to one day.

"A Dive into Wet Cement" and "The Pitch (First Edit)"

These two stories cannot be posted onto my blog, so if you would like a copy of either to enjoy, please send me an email @ ghostdj42@gmail.com

A Dive into Wet Cement had to be taken off as a precondition when submitting it to literary journals. It's the story of a teenager teetering on a bridge as part of a rite of passage, while also teetering on the bridge between adolescence and adulthood. Personally considered to be my best story.

The Pitch (First Edit) is a multi-layered story about a writer trying to pitch a story, and so much more. In it, the writer toys around with the conventions of writing a story on his way to pitch it. He's both a character, in two ways, and also the writer. It's complicated, postmodern, and has laughs. If you like Adaptation, Eternal Sunshine of the the Spotless Mind, or Donnie Darko, you'll like this. Hopefully. Because of its varied fonts, strike-throughs, and variety of colors, I couldn't post it in its perfect form on the blog, so I chose not to post it at all.

-blogfully, Derek

I'll Meet You in Dreams

I'm in a place I've seen before. I've never been there, per se, but I have seen it. I think I'm in a level of a video game that I've played before, something like a World War II game. I'm walking along, carefully watching my feet, planting on foot in front of the other as if I'm doing a sobriety test.

You're there above me, to my right, walking along a ledge like a gymnast on the balance beam. Your hair is down, aside from a few hair clips, and the winds that come along blow it around and give you the aura of a goddess. As in most dreams, I don't know how I know things, I just know them. I'm taking you to the train station to see you off. This I know, though neither of us have made mention to it. The carnal thoughts in my mind begin to multiply, and I can barely hold back my feelings for you.

You begin asking me conditional questions, "Would you love me if..."

To each one I say, "Yes." To each "Yes" your smile grows brighter than all the sun's rays. I've never seen you smile that big in reality, and the sight causes me to freeze in my steps. You're so incredibly beautiful when you smile like that.

We turn the corner and find ourselves at platform where we must go our separate ways. You turn to me. The tension between us grows. Your face flushes. I look at your lips; a lighter shade of rose. I have so many things to say, but there's no need. We both know it's inevitable now. We know it's now or never. We move closer than ever.

Our lips, about to come together at last. My heart races, knowing it's you I'm about to feel. The first encounter is ever so brief, with my bottom lip brushing your top. We separate and look at each other in surprise. We've finally kissed. Now let's never stop. Let our next one last forever. My left hand find the bottom of your back, the right one finds your thigh.

This is the greatest feeling in my life. We're not thinking, we're just doing. That's how we know what is between is real. I make my way to your neck but then it strikes me: I can go no further. I must come to halt. You have to go and so do I. Our chins hover just above each other's shoulders. We must depart.

More than anything, I want to commit the greatest sin, to just to stay with you and touch my lips to your skin.

Instead, I smile at you in a reassuring way. At the very least, we've taken that next step, and for that I should be happier than any man alive. One last look into your eyes and I take my leave. As good as this dream is, I must go, I must go wake up. I leave you standing there, watching me walk away. We can't see each other now, but we both know we're smiling.

And then I wake up.
_______________________

I walk out of my room and into the kitchen, looking for a midday snack. Before I reach the fridge, I look out the back door and see you there. You've returned to me. I can't believe it, to be honest, and I just stare with a slack-jaw in your direction. You're shooting me that smile from that night at the train station. That smile breaks me from my spell. I rush to the door and jump outside to see you. You take a step forward and we meet. We embrace in a full body bind. I just keep thinking in my head, "I love you, I love you, I love you." I pull back so I can get a look at your face.

Though it's only been one day in between my dreams of seeing you, it's felt like ages. You're wearing those glasses that I adore, the ones that make you look devastingly brilliant, which you are.

You begin asking a thousand questions. I cock my head to the right as I listen to you, barely hearing the questions, but losing my breath at the soothing and comforting sound of hearing your voice again. I nod my head and recall saying, "Really?" to something you say. The only question I remember fully is when you ask if I saw you in the paper.

"I did. It was lovely."

This sudden surprise appearance has caught me off-guard, however, and I realize it's but a dream again. You're slipping away from me quickly. Your visage fades to white. I'm losing you again, with only a fleeting memory to take with me.

I love you dearly. Goodbye.

I've awoken.

Why Pittsburgh Always Loses - A Lesson

A boy and his father have just finished watching Game 2 between the Detroit Red Wings and the Pittsburgh Penguins. The boy, inquisitive, turns to his father.

"Dad, why are the Penguins losing all the time?"

The father smokes his fancy pipe for a moment before answering his young son's question.

"Well, son," the father begins, "For starters, the Penguins are captained by a preteen boy, not much older than yourself. That's Sidney Crosby, the little fella out there with the scruffy facial hair getting double-teamed all the time. See, our captain, Nick Lidstrom, is an experienced veteran who earned his captainship by playing for years as an intelligent defensemen and one of the best in the game, not because the NHL executives, especially Commissioner Bettman, hyped him beyond belief as being the poster child and future of the league when really Mr. Ovechkin of the Capitals is. Oh, also, Lidstrom's a future Hall of Famer."

"But their captain got a lot of points during the season. Why isn't he doing anything?"

"Good question. Easy answer. It's because he doesn't play Detroit 82 times a year, otherwise you wouldn't see those kinds of numbers. Also, Crosby isn't good enough to handle Detroit defense, which is widely-regarded as being the most efficient for nearly a decade now. Zetterberg and Lidstrom in particular make neutralizing Crosby look like a breeze."

"Neutralizing?"

"It means to make Crosby look like he's never played hockey against a professional team before."

"Oh...so that's why they're losing?"

"Oh no no no, buddy. There's a lot more."

"Like what?"

"The Penguins' leading scorer, Evgeni Malkin, is also the Hunchback of Notre Dame."

"Like in that Disney movie! He's Quasimoto!"

"Exactly. His face is grotesque, but because the Wings have been playing ugly mugs like him for so long, his face has no effect on them. During the regular season, defensemen would move out of his away to avoid looking at him, giving Quasimoto...er...Malkin, an open lane to score all the time. But our guys, like Zetterberg, aren't afraid of him, and will even fight him, like you saw at the end of the game."

"But Zetterberg was defending Ozzie after that bad guy knocked him down after the whistle. Why didn't Malkin like that?

"Because Malkin isn't a classy player, and he's upset that his team is doing so badly. You know how you get mad because you can't beat your video games and you slam your controller on the floor?"

"Yeah."

"That's why he got mad, because Detroit is like your video game, set on 'All-Star,' and Malkin and the Penguins aren't good enough to beat them, so they get mad and push and fight."

"So...the Penguins are losing because Crosby isn't experienced enough to lead his team, isn't good enough to beat Detroit's defense, and because Detroit isn't afraid of Malkin."

"That's right, and because Malkin doesn't have the discipline to control himself when his team is doing bad."

"Ok. What about their goalie? Why does he let in so many goals that Ozzie would stop?"

"That's another good question, pal. Marc-Andre Fleury is a good goalie, but he isn't a great goalie, and has a tendency to let in easy goals that even your mother could save with her Ove-Glove. He doesn't have the kind of mindset to get over those goals, so once he messes up, he keeps messing up. Oh, also Detroit's offense is relentless and has immense depth, meaning anybody on our team is a scoring threat. That means that Fleury never gets to rest and must always be afraid, which he is already."

"He's afraid?"

"Very. Remember last year when he fell coming out onto the ice?"

"Hahaha yeah! That was funny!"

"That's a tip-off to how anxious and nervous he was to play the Red Wings. A year later he's still afraid of us."

"Wow. Is that all?"

"They also have a player on their team named Satan. Which is spelled S-A-T-A-N, just like Satan. And what did we learn in church?"

"Satan never wins!"

"That's right! And neither does the team he plays on."

"Dad, what about Marian Hossa?"

"What about him, buddy?"

"Why did he leave to come play with us?"

"Well, a lot of folks say it was because he wanted to play with a team that had the best chance to win a Stanley Cup, which is partly true, but also because he realized all the stuff I just taught you right now. That with a little boy leading the team, a half-man half-Picasso painting leading in points, a sissy-pants-wetting goalie in net, and Satan on the ice, that Pittsburgh would never help him win a Cup. So he came to Detroit."

"Wow, Hossa's smart!"

"He sure is, son. That's why he's wearing the Red and White."

"Pittsburgh doesn't seem like they have a good chance to win this series, Dad."

"No chance to be honest. Wings in 5."

The father goes back to smoking his pipe and watching the post-game show, but the son has one more question.

"Dad, is Mickey Redmond crazy?"

The father puts his pipe back down.

"This is going to take a while, son. You might want to go get some ice cream."

"YAY!"

Warwolf

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warwolf

Towering in height, to the Brits t’was a sight
And they christened it the loup-de-guerre.
It would frighten their foe, and leave them in woe
But as in love, all in war is fair.

Quite a distance it could throw, and to Scotland it would go
By order of Edward the King.
Stones three hundred pounds or more, would be sent in the air to soar
With just the lightest fling.

Approaching the castle Stirling, it was ready to do its hurling
Only to be told to halt.
The Scots caught its eye, and rather than die
Asked that there’d be no assault.

The battle had not even begun, but the Brits had it won
And the conflict had been defused.
But as the swords fell, Edward let out a yell,
“Fire!”
Saying, “I’d still like to see it used.”

Lifting the Veil

I sprint through a paradise in disguise.
The vegetation is truly lush, perfect
For quiet admiration, but here I rush.

Threatening are the above skies.
Clouds swirl and forebode, intimidate
My senses as they swell; ready to explode.

My breathless running brings a burn to my thighs.
The soft ground flattened by my pounding strides, blinding
Pain cuts into me and attacks my insides.

The sting takes away the vision from my eyes.
But still on I go with all remaining might, undeterred
By these limitations that have cost me my sight.

Slowing down would be my certain demise.
The storm roars to life with thunderous barks, danger
On the rise, circling me like hungry sharks.

Rain hammers down, the downpour grows in size.
I pray for shelter before the lightning arrives, striking
Me by surprise like a million white-hot knives.

This is the Seventh Circle with the Garden as its guise.
I feel its wrath as I continue to run, begging
For its end and to again feel the warm embracing sun

The winds come to life as I whisper my goodbyes.
I fall down to my hands and knees, seeing
Now that eating from the Trees was not so wise.

End my Agony

Frustrating woman, you really confuse me
Your words and actions constantly lose me
I’m like Sherlock Holmes
And you’re my unsolvable mystery.

You have left me positively perplexed
Unable to sleep and thoroughly vexed
Wanting to punch walls and wondering,
“Why the fuck does this have to be so complex?”

You’re oh so flirty but I still don’t know your intent
Even after all our discussions and messages we’ve sent
You have to tell me who you see me as
Am I a Superman or just another Clark Kent?

Not knowing the answer, I’m left uncertain in the dark
Waiting for the flame to ignite, because there’s already a spark

Yet, for the time being at least, you’ve gone and chosen him
I doubt he means anything to you, but I’ll go out on a limb
And guess that you’ve chosen this guy for some specific reason
Whatever the hell it is, it leaves me feeling downright grim.

But damn it all, you’re still the most incredible woman I know
You’re prettier than Portman with a mind more beautiful than Crowe
And as much as I should cut my losses
I know
You’re the one for me and I just can’t let you go.

Napoleon in Winter

(Translated from Ausguste D'Obriot's classic memoirs of serving Emperor Bonaparte in the Napoleonic Wars, "Fuck Russia, Let Us Go Home: The Harrowing Memoirs of a Soldier, Adviser, and Man.")

Chapter 34 - General Ronaldo Rojita

It was a thought that came to my mind incessantly these days. A feeling of jubilation and near ecstasy. An invincibility that could be touched by none. I was a part in the single greatest empire in the Age of Man. My Lord was named Napoleon, and I was his humble servant. For I existed as one of his trusted military advisers and at any given moment I could be found sitting in on meetings, figuring out logistics, drawing up battle strategies to defeat entire nations, and having arguments about the morality of shooting women in the streets of Berlin.

However, most of the time I was in the corner fixing up a pot of coffee and cutting a pan of brownies into perfect circles at My Lord's request.

Today I was doing just these things while no more than ten feet from me, another conversation was being had between My Lord and various field commanders. The only one I knew was a Michel Ney, an ambitious dolt with a penchant for gambling and extravagant fornication. He was widely hailed for his bravery in the field, but this was only due to his stupidity in not seeing the dangers of which he faced in battle, but the only one who knew this was I. Being the loyal man that I was to My Lord, I dared not second guess him for having an empty-minded fellow in his inner circle. So there Ney continued to sit in his comfortable wooden chair, smoking away at his mahogany pipe, listening to My Lord. On this particular occasion, My Lord had gathered his trusted group to divulge a brazen new plot to expand the Empire.

"I am absolutely steadfast in this plan, gentlemen," My Lord spoke, "I envision a French Empire extending across the Channel and establishing a firm tricolor flag into English soil. I have amassed a formidable army of nearly 700,000 ready to set sail from the city of Calais and I am personally prepared to die in my effort to take that island. I have been planning this launch for close to 4 years now and my will to see it through shall not and cannot be broken. We march in ten days."

I took a moment away from brownie cutting to turn around and partake in the field commanders' reactions to this proposition. They all reared back in their seats from hearing the scope of this wild and crazy plan. A bearded gentleman was so astonished by this strategy that he vomited on the floor, which I dutifully began to clean up. I was startled into a brief hesitation as I caught sight of Monsieur Ney, who, rather than arching back in astonishment, leaned in and halted his pipe smoking. It was clear this fellow of mouse-like intelligence was intrigued by this daring, and if I may be so bold to say, sexy idea of My Lord. Ney began to speak in what started as a whisper, but steadily grew into a normal tone.

"This approach you have formulated is positively brilliant, if not unheard of and perchance suicidal. It would be thick-witted of me to contemplate that an extraordinary individual such as you would take us this far toward a beacon of victory and suddenly steer us off course into complete oblivion." He looked to the fellow commanders around him, "Meanwhile, you skittish knaves appear ill at heart at the mere thought of an assault on the English. And you, General Blousseau, vomit in front of our Emperor at the proposal of his idea? You make me want to throw up."

He then spit at the General, who was quietly crying in shame.

"I am for, and always will be for, my Emperor and the masterful thoughts his mind brings to us."

Confident in the persuasion of his rant, the simpleton Ney leaned back into a normal posture and began to once more smoke his pipe, despite having run out of tobacco. I went back to my brownies, trying to act just as confident as Ney, hoping My Lord would notice me and maybe even compliment my new shoes I had made to impress him. He did not; instead he kept his eyes firmly on that fool Ney and began to commend him for backing his plan with such conviction.

"Ah, Commander Ney, I expected nothing less than your eloquent words to so fully support my proposition. I thank you."

Eloquent? From that moronic meatbag? He could barely string a sentence together. Not that I was jealous.

"However," My Lord continued, "To better explain how we plan to achieve this objective, I have used my many resources to bring an outside field tactician of high reputation with us today. Men, I give you General Ronaldo Rojita."

This, I must tell you now, was something never before done. My Lord depended mainly on himself or his inner circle of commanders when formulating plots. I had never heard of this General Rojita and could not understand why My Lord, the greatest mind in military affairs, would need to bring in someone, let alone an "outsider," to help explain his vision. Perhaps he was having inner doubts that he was keeping from his field commanders or possibly that he was suffering a mental strain from his constant paranoia. Perhaps My Lord had finally reached the point where his ambitions and reality could no longer coexist, as his hopes and dreams had outstretched what could be reasonably accomplished, just as I expected would happen and had been anticipating for a year now.

Or perhaps he was just in need of love. A love that was right in front of him making brownies.

Anyway, the door to the room flung open to reveal a giant rather than the man we had all expected. He stood at least two meters tall and looked as if he could pummel anybody in the room to within a centimeter of their lives. He flourished a well-groomed moustache and had piercing steel eyes that made me yelp silently to myself from across the room. He walked stiffly to My Lord's side, which I'm sure My Lord did not appreciate, as General Rojita dwarfed him in comparison. And yet, while the field commanders, except for that feeble-brained Ney, cowered in their seats, My Lord seemed practically giddy at this goliath's arrival. I turned to watch the action unfold.

"Isn't he a mighty brute?" My Lord exclaimed with glee.

The giant ape gave a deep, hearty laugh, "I wouldn't hurt a fly, I promise. Unless the Emperor here ordered me to!"

Having traveled all across Europe by My Lord's side, I immediately recognized his accent as being German.

"Now, I am but a modest man from Mexico, but believe me, I will devote my heart and soul to helping lead this Empire to new and grander heights. That is why I have been asked by our dear Emperor Napoleon to speak to you of his plan for invading England."

"Ahem," the idiot Ney interrupted, "I think we all understand the plan quite clearly, and we certainly do not need a grotesque beast such as yourself telling us what the situation is. Commander Vomit Stains over here probably understood it better than all of us."

Still more quiet blubbering from the bearded regurgitator.

Rojita looked infuriated by the comments and was ready to attack, but My Lord put his hand on Rojita’s chest to stop him, then seemed to press the palm of his hand firmly into him, and began slowly and subtly rubbing his pectorals. Not that I noticed.

"Rojita, please," he said calmly before turning his attention to Ney, "Commander Ney, you know I value your opinion, but when I met Rojita at...a treaty signing last month, I saw in this modern day Hercules a man that we needed with us."

That nitwit Ney retorted, "But surely not for him educate us on something we already understand. If that, then why not have him tell to us how a rifle works, or how to eat a potato? I do not see his purpose."

"Actually," Rojita began, regaining his composure, "I wanted to speak to you, Emperor, in private about this matter, but I believe that with this dissention coming at me so unexpectedly, I feel I must present it to you now."

My Lord nodded for him to do so. Rojita turned to the commanders and proceeded to unapologetically tear apart My Lord's brilliantly conceived scheme.

"I think the plan to attack England is honestly a crock; a gross mistake that would leave the French army beleaguered and weakened to the point where neighboring countries could swoop in and recapture their lands. The Empire, I fear, will be faced with mortal danger if this English invasion is put into action. In all due respect, Emperor, your country does not have the naval capacity for the amount of men you wish to send across the Channel, let alone the logistical elements."

My Lord was stunned, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, like turtles poking their heads out from their shells to investigate the surroundings. I wish I could have hug-, er, brought him some of his favorite peppermint tea right then.

"And the people of England, whom I have consulted for and advised in the past, have an army of massive proportions and possess a determination that cannot be broken by any means. They could simultaneously engage with both the United States and still be able to contend with anything we throw their way. They are fighters to the point where I think they all must have some Latin blood in them," he smiled thinly, before returning to a serious demeanor, "So this is why I bring you to my proposal. I suggest we launch those men stationed in Calais eastward bound into the land of Emperor Alexander. I speak of Russia, gentlemen, the unconquered land of Peter the Great."

This venture put forth by Rojita was as grand and spectacular as his colossal frame, and had the similar effect of unnerving My Lord's men at the table. I saw for the first time a slight hint of terror from that fool Ney. He coughed upon hearing the large beast's proposal and his face drooped as the words soaked in and fermented within his mind. My Lord looked incredibly displeased, and understandably so. His idea for an invasion of England had just been disrespectfully tossed aside by the very man whom he had spoken so highly of moments ago. My Lord stood before his entire group of field commanders undoubtedly humiliated and unquestionably aggravated. And yet, he did not slap Rojita with his horse-riding gloves, as was his modus operandi upon being personally insulted. No, instead, he slowly turned his head to Rojita, and while doing so, made a queer transition in facial expression. All of a sudden he looked content. My Lord proceeded to reach up and place a hand on the monolithic man's shoulder in a reassuring manner, patting it and smiling. The way he used to act towards me in our better days when we frolicked through battlefields and played leapfrog until the sun fell beneath the horizon. Not that I miss them.

"Do you see, gentlemen?" My Lord spoke in a polite tone that felt a tad bit forced, "I brought General Rojita here because he is a man of ideas. He heard my plan and saw the pitfalls that could have meant utter defeat for us. All of you, even Ney, blindly followed my proposition without even considering the dangers and flaws that it clearly had. This was a test in which you all failed. Rojita, my friend, I shall put you second-in-command in the push for Russia."

Ney, the current second-in-command and first-in-jackassery, shot up from his seat, "My Lord, I must protest this grievously unfair decision! For this entire campaign I have stood by you steadfast, not in blindness but through reason! I have considered thoughtfully every maneuver and deployment you have made, every choice and decision that you have promulgated. I have exerted myself and spent untold hours reviewing your plans because I wanted to make sure I was not going into the heart of a battle with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back! You charge me with blind faith in regards to your orders? To that, I say, 'Non!' This heap of trash has unmistakably brainwashed you through devious means, and I wish you to see through that. Stick with your plan, sir, to England! It is our only way!"

The suddenly impassioned Ney stood there, fists digging into the table as he leaned toward My Lord. Never before had such an outburst come from the normally even-tempered Ney, and the rarity of this occurrence was not lost on the field commanders or My Lord himself. I wanted to say something during that heated moment of contention. The feeling built up in me like a long held love for an unattainable person of power. I could not believe it at the time, but, I actually wanted to stand up for Ney. While being the most offensively ignorant man I had ever had the displeasure of knowing, he was nonetheless as fierce an advocate of My Lord as I was. Meanwhile, this Rojita had obviously taken advantage of My Lord's weakened mental state caused by his increased paranoia and self-doubt, and was now acting like vile snake speaking poison into My Lord's ear. My opinion being as valued as it was to My Lord, I knew I was faced with the daunting task of giving my endorsement to one of these men. This entrusted position meant I was essentially sealing the fate of the Empire with my choice.

At that historical place in time, I put down my brownie tray, stepped forward and spoke in defense of Commander Michel Ney.

"My Lord, I think-"

"SHUT UP! Real men are talking!" My Lord screamed back at me.

I followed the order and walked back to my brownie tray with quiet dignity. Despite this little scene, I forgave him instantly, and continued working. My tears silently dripped one by one into my perfectly cut brownies. Wiping away these tiny beads of emotion, I centered my attention back upon the confrontation behind me. I could tell that Rojita and Ney were having a stare down even without turning my head toward them. The animosity between the two was at a fever pitch and the tension caused my heart to pound in a positively mad fashion.

"Well, My Lord," Ney blabbered, "Where are we to send the Grande Armée? North toward victory or east toward annihilation?"

"Remember, My Lord," Rojita said in a seductive sounding purr, "When we met...at that treaty signing? Every day will feel that glorious if you allow us to go east. Let us go to Russia."

I peaked over my shoulder back toward the action, and saw Rojita hunched over, with half of his face practically in My Lord's ear. I knew at that moment that Rojita had won the battle, for My Lord could never resist the feel of a moustache on the side of his face. The nincompoop Ney had never lost a field battle, but in this tent on this late autumn day, he had finally tasted the bitterness of defeat. My Lord sided with the enormous hunk of meat that was Rojita. Our fate was sealed. To Russia we would go.

"I'm sorry, Michel. Will you stand by as third-in-command?" My Lord asked.

Ney, embarrassed and dishonored, replied, "As long as you require my services, My Lord, I shall stand by you."

Meanwhile, at the table, the whiskered vomiteer held up is hand, "M-M-My Lord, I was third..." then proceeded to gag on his words and throw up into his lap. His tears that followed would fall into a disgusting puddle that I would later mop up.

Rojita all the while appeared thoroughly pleased. Within just a few moments he had discredited an Emperor's military strategy, proposed his own wildly dangerous scheme, and won that Emperor over with that plan, all the while making an utter fool of the previous second-in-command. A good day by any man’s standards. My Lord stood up to leave and as custom, the rest of us stood at attention until he exited through the slit in the tent. The field commanders shuffled out of the tent next into the growingly chilly air. Ney stayed behind and asked General Rojita if he could have a moment of his time in private. He generously obliged and Ney spoke in a low and inquisitive voice, putting aside his distaste and hatred for the General for the time being in order to understand the man’s motives. While this rendezvous took place, I poured cups of coffee for no one in particular.

"General, I have been by the Emperor's side for nearly four years now and know the ins and outs of military strategy and the likes. England seems like such a prime opportunity and obvious next step for the Empire while Russia is but a flight-of-fancy at this stage. Not to offend, but why are you pushing so hard for a risky Russia-bound strategy?"

"Between you and me, my friend," he said, leaning in to tell a secret, "For the snow."

I halted what I was doing, in disbelief of what I might have just heard. I was unsure of what he meant, and to be honest, quite puzzled if he had meant what I thought he meant.

Ney inquired, "Snow?"

"My friend, I have lived 30 of my years in the city of Tijuana. Never have we experienced a true snowfall before, and my journeys to England and Germany and such have all come during the peak summer months. But Russia, this is an opportunity to actually see real snow in substantial amounts, especially with winter arriving in a matter of weeks. We'll make snowballs and snow angels. I have heard of such people to have made men of snow. Can you believe that? I can't pass it up."

"So this whole strategy was conceived solely for you to see snow?"

"Truthfully, I do not even have a strategy. I am not even a General. Now this is just between you and me, amigo. Understood?"

I turned to them, slack-jawed and bug-eyed, and saw Rojita making Ney very aware of his ability to potentially obliterate him into ash. The former second-in-command nodded his head and I prayed in my mind that Rojita would not snap his bones then and there. Seeing that he had made his point, The Mexican exited with haste out of the tent and left Ney and I, shivering in fear and in a dilemma. Our Emperor had been duped by a swindler and fallen under his spell, leaving us at the mercy of whatever this Rojita fellow wanted to do with the Empire. And he had just made his intentions quite clear.

We were going to Russia for the snow.
____________________________________________

ADDITIONAL HISTORICAL FACTS

-After Napoleon’s final defeat at The Battle of Waterloo, Auguste D’Obriot wrote a short poem about the loss, which also incorporated his complex feelings for the Emperor. The poem would later be found and turned into the 1974 worldwide hit song “Waterloo” by the Swedish pop quartet ABBA. [Source: The New American High School Textbook: AP World History, 15th Edition]

-General Blousseau’s rare condition of Acute Regurgitation Syndrome was not properly diagnosed until after his death. During his life, many around him thought he was just a huge coward, even by French standards. [Source: You Ruined My Carpet! A Biography of General Marc-Alain Blousseau]

-Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte did not meet General Ronaldo Rojita at a treaty signing, but rather in a bathroom in Lyons, France. [Source: The Autobiography of Ronaldo Rojita, Volume Seven]

-The Grand Armée would later be decimated by the unforgiving Russian winter, and Napoleon would retreat in defeat and humiliation. Napoleon fired Rojita shortly thereafter and reinstated Commander Michel Ney as second-in-command. Napoleon then gave permission to Ney to punch Rojita in the testicles as an apology for not listening to him. [Source: Fuck Russia, Let Us Go Home: The Harrowing Memoirs of a Soldier, Adviser, and Man, Chapter 46]

-Many military historians and professionally educated guessers have come to a consensus that if Napoleon’s army had been sent to England, they would have overtaken the country after a lengthy war and ultimately renamed it “Muppet Treasure Island.” [Source: The 1996 Barcelona Historical-Guesser Conference]

'Me Blog Pretty One Day' Presents: Charles Feutz's "The Moment"

Even after the end of my competitive swimming career, I can still clearly remember the first time I broke the two minute mark in my 200 yard freestyle event. The two minute mark is something akin to running a 4 minute mile. The 200 freestyle is a very tough event requiring a swimmer to have both a large amount of endurance as well as speed. I trained incredibly hard to reach this milestone and it will be an event not soon forgotten.

The crowd was already at a fever pitch. The first event, the 200 medley relay had just ended in a close race. My team won, but barely. I could still see my teammate Jeremy's arm as it stretched out the last two inches to touch out the other team for first place. The crowd went wild screaming and chanting “Eagles! Eagles!” It would be a hard performance to follow. Pushing the roaring fans and foes out of my head, I went through my usual pre-race regimen. I rolled my neck around like a top, wincing slightly as the sharp staccato of my vertebrae loosened. I took a deep breath, inhaling the sharp smell and bitter taste of the highly chlorinated pool air. The noise from the crowd disappeared as I relaxed further into my swimming mode. Next, I slapped my thighs to warm up my tightening muscles. The noise of this reverberated in my mind, like a thunderous drumbeat in an otherwise peaceful place. The echo from the sound died away and was replaced by a pulsing beat from the music I had stored away for these moments. This time, Chris Cornell and Audioslave pounded my ears with 'Like a Stone.' My body synced with the rhythm of the song and I heard the referee speak the only words that broke my pre-swim trance.

“Swimmers step up.”

I casually took the small leap up onto the top of our starting blocks, looking down into the waters of the fourth lane; my lane. I pushed my goggles over my eyes as tight as they would go and took my stance.

“Take your mark.”

These next words almost scared me into the pool. My heart was beating intensely, desperately, trying to escape my chest. My mind no longer streamed music into my conscience; in its place came thoughts of how fast I would have to swim, how tired I would be at the end, how fast my competition was, what would it be like to lose this race, and scariest of all, what would the crowd think if I lost? All of this and more assaulted my resolve in the final seconds before the start. Then, the electronic beeper went off. I leapt for my life off of the blocks. One thought finally settled in my head in the instant before I hit the water, ‘I'm in this to win.’

For what seemed like an eternity, I soared through the air, inching my way towards the calm surface of the pool. Out of personal habit, I closed my eyes just before impacting with the surface. Everything switched back to real time after I entered the water, and my thoughts once again turned hectic. The first thought was of relief as my goggles sealed correctly and were repelling the torrent of water rushing past my face. This relentless passing of water mirrored the passing of my thoughts. Flicking in and out of focus were thoughts such as, “where was the competition, where was my teammate, how fast should I start out, when should I push for the win, when should I hang back, and when will my opponent push?” While my mind raced, my body had already set its own pace, cruising on auto-pilot, and sustaining itself through pure instinct. This only lasted until I actually think about the fact that I'm swimming. The instant that happened, all the information from my body rushed into thought. My arms pulled the crisp, cool water with easy, clean and long strokes. My legs pounded with the previous rhythm of 'Like a Stone,' but with their own adaptation to fall in line with my arms. My lungs expanded and contracted explosively as they struggled to keep my body supplied with the oxygen to function.

I reached the half-way point of my race when everything shifted into overdrive. I always strategized to push out the second half of the race harder than the first half, so as to account for my level of fatigue. I allowed myself to check the position of the rest of the swimmers in the pool as I made my flip turn. I turned head over heels, scanning the rapidly spinning pool to find myself almost two body lengths ahead of the entire field. I never allowed myself to use the extra space to slack off on my pace, so I pushed my body further. I willed my arms to pull faster, to pull stronger, to make a cleaner stroke, all while increasing the tempo of my already speeding legs. I forced my lungs to expand larger and larger to take in as much oxygen as they could. My body protested. My arms; instead of staying strong, began to turn to rubber. My legs, instead of speeding up, stiffened and seemed to drag through more water than what they should be kicking. My lungs seemed to catch fire in my chest and didn't seem to be taking in any of the lifeblood my body needed. All this only made me want to stress my body further than what seemed healthy. I wanted to push my limits so far they would have to call professional help to get me out of the pool after I finished. I wanted to push myself and beat my body down to nothing so in the end, I could emerge on top. So I did. My arms pulled harder, faster, cleaner. My legs kicked faster. My lungs ballooned to the point where it felt like everything else was getting shoved aside to make room. My mind shut down from the stress, and did what I needed it to; motivate me. My song came back ten times louder, drowning out all other noise as I made my last turn to finish the race. One small thought briefly passed through the beats of the music. I thought that I had never felt so good, that I had never felt so happy, so content, so…relaxed, as I did swimming that race. Before I knew it, I was stretching out the last inches, pushing that one last time to the wall. My hand slammed into it with a force I don't think I could ever match again. Exhausted, I turned to look at the timing system placed high on the wall on the opposite side of the pool. I'll never forget what I saw.

Lane 4, first place. Time: 1:59.3.

I think that if I had had the energy I would have yelled in victory, maybe fisted the air with a triumphant arm, but the only thing I could think of was holding onto the wall so I wouldn't sink to the bottom of the pool. Luckily, my teammates rushed over to my lane, and did the yelling for me, though I didn't hear it for the first few seconds over the pounding of my heartbeat. The beating soon subsided and the noise of the pool area crashed into my ears. I heard my comrades congratulating me, the crowd cheering and chanting, and just barely above the din, the noise of the other swimmers finally finishing. I noticed then that I had finished almost half of a pool length ahead of everyone else. That brought out my first reaction. I pushed off the wall and threw both of my fists into the air, yelling triumphantly. The referee signaled for the swimmers to warm-down to the other side of the pool. I sighed and laid my head back into the water, once again silencing the world around me, entering back into my own state of nirvana. My mind had only one thing in it; one minute fifty-nine point three seconds. It was the first time I could remember any swimmer I knew of breaking the two minute mark. I almost couldn't believe what I had done. But at the same time, I knew I had done it because there was no way I could ever feel this tired and broken from swimming in a dream. I was brought back to my senses when my head gently bumped into the wall at the far end of the pool. My team was waiting there, and they refused to let me get out of the pool under my own power. I was dragged, almost brutally, from the water and discarded on the deck, all to my pleasure. Everyone congratulated me once more and turned their attention to next race at hand. After all, I wasn't the only Thurston swimmer that got in the pool. I stood on wobbly legs and drudged my beaten body to the stands to earn more praise from my friends and fans, but most importantly from my parents. I told my dad that I had finally done it. He looked at me, smiled, gave me a hug and told me he was proud of me, and that everyone was proud of me.

I hope this memory never fades from my mind, even as age takes its toll on me later in life. The emotional rollercoaster that I experienced swimming that race, the reactions of everyone around me, and my own pride is something I cannot imagine not sharing with my children, and hopefully grandchildren. I understand now that one must break one's own boundaries mentally and physically to truly feel most alive.