The Sword
     Untitled
The Cabiri Chronicles
     Life of a History
     Under the Hood
     Hunger

     Balancing Act

     I was just acting!
     Lucifer as a Player
     Player Types Defined
     Railroading
     LARP Boredom
     LARP Survival

     Economics in D&D 3.5

     Sept 11, 2002
     Columbia Disaster

     A Letter of Vocation
     Evidence of Evil
     In Defense of a Reflection

     A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
     Hello
 

          Author's Comments: I have no idea where or for what reason I wrote this.  Likely as part of an assignment for a class, but I felt it needed to be here because it really takes a gander, albeit a short one, inside who I am and who I once was.


Untitled

          My face flushed, I'm certain, with the Oedipal fury I could feel erupting within me, like some faraway Pacific island, suddenly bursting with the power of the earth. They were simple words, carrying little meaning in and of themselves, words that had any friend spoken would have received, at most, a lash of the sarcastic whip, or, at least, a laugh and a lash. Had they been uttered by a critic, perhaps a pshaw would have been in order, and a commentary on the critic's eloquence, or lack thereof. However, the remark was owned by neither friend or foe. I recall my mind stuttering for a response, one which evoke a realization of how much damage to my ego was done, but which would not bring about further repercussions. It had to be timed well, emphasized correctly, and be of the proper composition. Time, of course, had been lost in the initial confusion of searching for proper emphasis and composition, and, thus, composition and emphasis soon fell as well, as if by edict of some McCarthy-Era theory. My response isn't important, insomuch as it was irrelevant, futile, and lacking any sort of the imagination I try to pride myself on in my more prideful moments. However, there is one detail which I recall now, one which cannot, should not, be missed. I recall, as my mind was groping for words, that my hands were searching for something.
          It was a book.
          Sometimes, though, a cigar isn't just a cigar.