The Man Song

Turn on your speakers folks!

The Man Song

A Mouse of a Conspiracy

A Mouse of a Conspiracy
By Meagan Blanchard
Copyright 3.27.05

I hear the back door opening. The hinges having not been oiled in years, creaking their protest loudly. I turn from my computer desk in the dining room, heart beating frantically. I’ve always loved the nights, the solitude, the quiet, but this is what I hate about being alone at night; the unidentifiable creaks, noises, bumps, and now of course, this. I get up slowly, simultaneously grabbing a metal letter opener from the green pottery cup that holds an assortment of rulers, pens, pencils, and one tire air pressure gauge. Heart pumping overly loud and with my letter opener at the ready, I slowly cross the dining room floor, my fuzzy white house slippers not even making a whisper of noise on the old tan carpet. I reach the doorway to the kitchen, my body concealed behind the wall, and lean my head and eyes over the right side of the entryway.

Spying nothing out of the ordinary, I step full into view, and boldly check the door handle for obvious tampering of the lock. There are no scratch marks or signs of forcing; the lock is secure and the door closed. Looking a might perplexed, I head back toward the dining room absently thinking of horror movies and the women leads that always forget to look behind them. Upon the culmination of that thought, I thoroughly check every room in the house. Nothing is amiss. Completely confused and almost convinced that I am - without a doubt - crazy, I head back to my computer desk to complete unanswered emails.

After an hour of diligent work, I hear the door open again. Creeeeeeeeeeeeak. Fear pummels through me hard and fast, sending chills up my back and forming goose bumps on my legs and arms. Quickly reaching for my trusty letter opener, and upon not finding it, grabbing a sharpened wooden number two pencil instead, I boldly mask my fear by marching straight for the kitchen and the door. Only to find once again, that it is unopened. “What the fuck?” I whisper aloud, finding my voice shaky with quickening fear. I do another complete check of the house. Again finding nothing disturbed. A feeling of wrongness enters me, as I step back into the dining room. I cross the dining room and sit in my computer chair. As I reach across the desk to put my pencil-weapon back in the cup where it belongs, I notice in my peripheral vision, my letter opener on the floor to my right. Then I notice what is holding it.

A mouse.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but check myself before the hysterical sound escapes me. Despite my fears and a possible onset of hysterics, I hold fast to my almost released pencil-weapon. I deplore the fact that it is my only protection against this uncanny foe. For surely there is intelligence behind those beady red eyes. And of course, I couldn’t be wearing proper shoes or jeans, but my robe, nightdress and slippers. A sigh blows past my lips, and the mouse looks at me, its’ red eyes fixed on my arm that is to him, hidden by the desk. I quickly and soundlessly slip the pencil up the sleeve of my robe, thankful that I didn’t choose the three quarter sleeve robe instead. I pull up Microsoft Word on my computer and type two sentences in the word processing page. Mouse holding letter opener. I am afraid. I hit enter three times and then begin to type gibberish, as if I was oblivious to everything around me. I never move my eyes from the mouse. I decided that for a mouse, this Thing is huge. At least seven inches long, not including its’ tail.

Maybe it’s a rat, I think trying to rationalize a mouse holding my letter opener as weapon. Fear makes my spine straight as an arrow, and I try to relax, just incase the Thing can sense my fear.

The Thing takes action. Rising on its hind legs and running toward my right foot, it uses my letter opener as a rapier, jabbing my ankle with it. The Thing is so fast, that I am taken aback at the speed with which it moves, and are therefore unprepared for the sharp and biting pain of the letter opener sinking into my flesh. I scream, hands griping my desk hard. I notice the Thing struggling to remove his makeshift sword from my ankle, the pain of the movement is almost unbearable. I fail to notice my own whimpers and little screams. I struggle to move, to do something.

Remembering my pencil, and with much grunting and fumbling, manage it out of my sleeve, I transfer the grip, holding it in my fist. I lean over the arm of my chair and stab the Thing through the meat of its side; I hear a satisfying crack-thump as the tip of the pencil breaks when it reaches the floor. The Thing squirms flipping over and curls itself about my hand, biting me with its teeth, and scratching me with its not-so-tiny claws. This time I do hear my own screams. Loud and full of terror.

Get it off! Get it off! GET IT OFF!!

Hysterics finally claim my mind, being to much for me to handle, I let them. Still sitting in the chair, with the Thing wrapped about my hand and half of my upper forearm, I shake my arm fast trying to dislodge my unwanted clinging rodent.

Finally, I realize through my hysterics that if it becomes dislodged it could run anywhere and I wouldn’t have a chance at finding it; I stand on my feet, almost collapsing at the pain that shoots up my calf from my wound. The letter opener still sticking halfway out of my ankle, blood oozing out the sides of the metal. I tighten my fist about the furry evil Thing, and with deliberate steps, head toward the closest wall. The Things squeals loudly, the meat of my hand between first finger and thumb muffling this noise. The Thing bites harder, and I quicken my painful step. My arm throbbing with sharp pains as the Thing tries to bite his way free. He obviously knows what I’m going to do.

I reach the wall, and trying to protect my fingers in the process, slam the Thing into the wall repeatedly with as much force as I can. Grunting noises issue from my mouth, squealing noises emit from the Thing. Sweating profusely, I reach my arm back for one more mighty swing against the wall. Crrrrrrrruckkkkkkthummmmmp! I hear the crack of my own hand breaking, but no longer does the Thing move. It is dead. Just to be sure, I head for the kitchen, intent on finding a big enough pan to boil the fucker in, when I run into a man.

A man standing in my kitchen.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand roughly and not a little bit breathlessly.

“Get her!” he orders loudly. A sharp pain slams into the back of my head, then there is nothing but darkness.

****

“Dr. Henry, call in your colleagues, see to this woman’s health. Stenson, gather your men, and get this mess cleaned up. I trust that you will be thorough.“ Jack Furlough issues these orders in a calm but clear voice, which does not display the hidden turmoil that is seething inside him. Who would ever have thought that tracking this rat would have given them such problems? Jack muses. He had been watching the girl, ever since her second trip through the house, and had admired her perceptiveness, seeing the rat, and taking immediate action. Though he had been worried, worried that her hysterics would rob her of common sense. He had seen such before. They had been tracking the rat for only one day. Just one day, and two people killed, with one wounded. It took fifteen of our best men to track it, but only one woman to kill it, he thinks with irony.

Stenson gathers his crew and starts to clear up any traces that this Visitor may have left. Jack looks at the immobile Dr. Trevor Henry, and frowns.

“Dr. Henry!” Trevor jumps and looks at Jack with confusion playing on his features. “Do I need to repeat myself, Doctor?” Jack inquires impatiently.

“No, Jack. I.. I..” Trevor stammers.

“Indeed Doctor, indeed.” Jack replies, lifting his left eyebrow.

Trevor turns and summons the other two doctors and instructs them to decontaminate the house. Meanwhile, he commandeers three men to get the woman on a stretcher, and into the rear of the SUV. In less than twenty minutes, there are no traces that a titanic fight between a woman and an extraordinary rat had ever occurred.

“Round up, let’s head out.” Jack orders quietly as he grabs the locked plastic box that contains one dead ‘rat’.

Ten minutes later, after all the gravel dust settles, one house, surrounded by evergreen trees and open untilled fields, finds itself eerily quiet.

Newest Blurry Photo Of Me 

4.22.05 Achieving Euphoria

Good Evening Folks,

It was a beautiful day in Kansas today. Storm weather. Dark blue-gray clouds crowded the sun from the sky; rain was once again scented upon the wind. Tornado weather most likely, as it was very windy this afternoon. The weather suited my mood perfectly.

I did normal things today, almost like a normal person. Was up at four a.m., surfed the net for a bit, then my husband and I cooked supper around eight this morning. (We both work graveyard shifts, so breakfast is really dinner for us.)

We recently bought a new grill, so we tried it out with some chicken breasts. (Yum.) They turned out well with mashed potatoes and green beans. Then we went to town; stopping by the bank, salon (for my shampoo and conditioner), doctors office, and then last but, most expensive, we stopped by Wal-mart for some groceries. Which reminds me, I need to find some strawberry Carnation Instant Breakfast. It's John's favorite. They didn't have any, in their usual style as John would say; 'Never having what I really want. Just things I never need.'

He's a bit of a pessimist, (Grin) which usually irritates me, but it didn't peeve me today. Not really sure why. I am not sure if it's just me, or if this is a normal thing in all relationships; but sometimes the things I find most endearing about him, really piss me off. (ah-em) Anyway,

On the way to the salon, I saw my best friend Beth. She was just recently re-married and now more recently, very pregnant, maybe 3-4 months along? She's just started showing. My God. I never believed it before, but women are very beautiful when pregnant. She looked so good with her usually very flat belly slightly rounded and distended with the weight and growth of her babe. She seemed so content. Settled. Happy. Sated. And, no offense to my friend, but she is a very 'flighty' type of person. Not to say that she flits from subject to subject, or person to person, just that she is very... hard to please, as she is a bit of a perfectionist. She, of course, would never tell you she was unpleased, unless you really pissed her off, but she would frown and crease her brow, then change the subject. Hence my use of the word, flighty.

There was no frowning this morning at all. She seemed so damn happy, I was almost jealous. Ok, forget the almost, I was very jealous. The sense of peace and well-being surrounded her like a.... a death shroud. Like a death shroud, yeah... that says it all for me. Envy was hitting my gut so hard I couldn't help but want to get away. And I don't even want children!!! I don't plan on having children!! I am way too selfish to be a mother. But, dearest Jesus, I wanted that happiness. That peace. That contentment.

And then, (now this really takes the cake!) at the doctors office, there were these two little children, one boy about 5 and a girl about 4, trying to push open the exit door while their mother signed papers at the check-out. Ohmygod, they were soooo cute! I smiled at them and the little boy just made this -- eeeewww face by scrunching up his nose (one of the cutest things I've ever seen), the little girl obviously knew on some level that she was just as cute as punch, because she smiled right back at me and then made her pig-tails bounce joyously about her head. I think my heart melted. So, even though I so-know-better, I blame everything I say from here on out on those two little kids. All their fault.

So, now that the cake has been taken, with only the frosting left, what do you think should happen now? Not one, but two very, very pregnant women come in for appointments. Both looked about ready to pop. Happy, but ready to pop. I know one of them. From high school. She of course looked radiant. Her name is Haley. I wanted to scratch her eyes out in a full jealous rage. But, instead asked her how she was doing and we spoke all about her due date (in two weeks) and the baby.

Now, I just want to bawl my eyes out..

Don't get me wrong. I am not in the market for a baby. I don't want one, am not ready for one, nor am I taking applications for the job of making one. (that position's fulfilled thankyouverymuch). But I am very interested in knowing how to achieve that euphoric feeling that poured off of all those women this morning. (sigh)

If you have any advise, be sure and let me know. I am obviously in dire straights as I just blamed my very childish reactions on two very innocent and adorable children. (Hey, I never claimed I was a saint.)

And so, I shall make a very dramatic exit and leave you all in a huff, without another word. Except of course, for a poem.

......



Fatal Monotony
by Meagan Blanchard


There is this and that; these and those,
Places between
The yet to be,
Though life is much like this tree,
Changes abound, though ... rarely seen.

And through seasonal changes,
Like society
What is in fashion,
Soon becomes taboo, not the passion
Like the ebb and flow of the tide, we think with piety.

As if we are more than what we seem
As I
Have many, a different personality
All wrapped up in my perceived speciality,
Like the layers of bow in a Windsor tie.

4.21.05 Indecision

The title says it all today, folks.
I am feeling very indecisive.
Should I cry, or stay dry eyed
And, in doing so, save my pride.

Wary of the choices; instinctively knowing
That a chasm lies in the darkness,
Awaiting the incautious actions
Of a person facing many distractions.

I stare at the black surface of my desk
Wondering if oblivion seeks my hand at last
Shall my mind become compliant,
Or explode like an errant gas giant.

Emotional contemplation changes form
Becoming financial worries, seeking to scorn
'It's just a redistrubtion of wealth,
Not a contract designed for your health.'

Chewing upon a lower lip, I seek a reason
For my mis-fits; A possible fated
Misdirection, that has me overcompensating
Until I am in agony; abrogating

My claim to humanity.

4.20.05 Naivete

The humidity screams spring to me, as my lungs inhale, bringing in moistened air past my fried lungs from too many menthol cigarettes. I can't help but flare my nostrils and delve into that olfactory bliss. Worms, possible rain, diesel fuel (from the truck stop where I work), oil, over-cooked meat. Some-kinda heaven, I think. Odors that remind me of nature and technology intermingling together to create their own unique fragrance. Perfection.

I look toward the sky and spot the overcast morning. Gray-blue, and damn it's so beautiful. It's days like today that make my mind scream poetry at me until I wish to puke out the words to anyone who will listen to me speak. It's an almost violent urge that I cannot seem to control. On the way home from work, I turn off the radio and just organize a few lines of gibberish in my conscious mind, hoping to remember them for when I get home and can type them up. This happens to me often; so often that curse myself for not stopping along side the road to write down what I have composed. So many great lines lost to the short-term memory blues. I have to laugh at my own antics, as I question myself and my silly urges to be heard. Pathetic, I sometimes think, I am so pathetic.

But, I can't stop. I just can't. I've tried. It's my drug. My addiction. My salvation. My long-term affair, and my long-lost love. What a weird, almost dysfunctional relationship I have with my writing. I love it, I hate it; I am proud of it, yet I think I am not good enough at it to deserve any praise. I try to make myself stop, but here I am, yet again, writing. Odd, is it not?

So, here's a little ditty that I came up with, unpolished, unedited. Most likely crap; but, the feeling of naivete was too close to ignore.

Naivete
By Meagan Blanchard
4.20.05

I am gutless
And a first class sissy.
But, It's okay, Mom,
The Real World doesn't stand a
Chance against my aplomb.

They'll be too stunned by
My wit, spry nature
And cleverness;
To take advantage of
This young governess!

I'll show them all
What it means to
Have personality,
Completely shocking
Them into my personal reality.

Playing with puppy dogs
While having a nice picnic;
Taking walks around the lake,
I'll even bake them all
Their favorite Birthday cake.

Now, Mom, don't you worry
I'll be okay
Life can't be nearly as bad as you say

Vanished Sorbet

Vanished Sorbet
By Meagan Blanchard
Copyrighted 2003, 2005

Musing over lime sorbet,
The weird pillow of thoughts
Pushes at the forefront of my mind.
A stray thought floats up
And out my mouth:
"Would've rather had rainbow sorbet."

I shake my head
Nailing down my mind,
Wrenching it back to the previous concept.
The speaker of motivations is
Gone, but now haunting my thoughts;
And Shakespeare said in Hamlet,
"To thy own self be true."

The conference astounded my mind,
Clearing the mud
From the gears in my brain,
Oiling its' weakened pistons.
Finally, the thought I'd been working close to
All night shimmers into being;
Now solid enough to grasp with both hands.

I can be, whom-so-ever I wish to be!
All I have to do is try ---
The loss of my ignorance,
Made me sit back, and cry.
My sorbet
Is melted.

4.17.05 Impersonal

My fist web-log posting. How exciting!

But, what does one say to the masses or possibly to absolutely no one at all. For there is no guarantee that anyone will actually read what I post upon these electronic pages. No surety that anyone will understand who I am in this swarm of Internet activity. There are millions upon millions of people screaming their aches, pains, horrors, personal wants, gains, vacations, obsessions, (e.t.c.) into the infinite space of the Internet. I am but one voice whispered among the screaming throng.

Sometimes, the sterilization of the Internet completely frightens me. Will we one day no longer have personal contact with other humans? Will we one day no longer be comfortable with such close contact; will we order our groceries delivered from a kiosk in the corner of our homes? (Standard with every apartment, house, or condo. For only $1,999.99! *warranty includes all electronic connections and components, housing and securing brackets, but is not honored if subjected to abuse. Including, but not limited too: spilled coffee, milk, juice, or any sugared beverages. Excessive force used upon said kiosk will void warranty.) Everything you think that you could ever need or want, available upon request with, of course, the completion of a quick credit check? Is it much different than it is today? Hell, I order more clothing on-line than I actually buy in a department store! Are we, am I, such social infants? Do we crave such separateness? Is society so dysfunctional that we must hide our imperfections behind electronic screens of depersonalized socializations as we try to connect with our fellow human beings?

Or is it possible, probable, that we can find happiness from the Internet. Connect with humanity as we never could before. I suppose it is arguable. At least it is STD Free, eh? Stop the spread of genital herpes! Communicate with the woman/man of your dreams on-line now!! Ugh, sometimes it's so impersonal I wish to forcefully vomit.

But, it does have its pluses, that I cannot deny. The freedom to acquire knowledge, pursue hobbies and/or entertainment, the multitude of avenues available for exploration are endless. Possibilities limitless.

And so here I am; putting my thoughts upon electronic paper, hoping to touch just one person with my words.

Y'eveton's Prayer

Y’etevons' Prayer
by Meagan Blanchard
Copyright 2003
Edited 3.22.05


Our world had begun to change in the second year after The Great Harvest. Now called The Great Harvest, for we had never seen such bounty again in my life time. That winter it began to snow, endless white upon white. Horrific cold winds, that never stopped blowing harshly as the landscape turned so frozen that even when it didn't snow and the sun appeared, the deep ice didn't melt. Not even the seasons changed. Frost bite became a constant hazard, with many loosing limbs due to exposure. The Great Ice built up and up, never completely going away. Grass grazers died frozen and starving. We died frozen and starving.

I was not even a gleam in my mothers' eye then. She had been just a babe at the beginning. She is dead now, and at the tender age of only fifteen years.

She was only fourteen when she conceived me; I could say accidentally, but I am the filthy Product of Rape; and the reason for her death. I am told her labor was hard, long and painful and I am forever shunned for my leaping into the world feet first, instead of using my brain as normal babes, and entering the world thought before action. Ever have I been known to be fleet of foot and slow of thought; though before this day I had never believed it to be so.

The Trvual's had enslaved us. It happened in the fifth year after The Great Harvest. They were from the far Northern Caps, or so we believe. Great, big, giant men and women, tall as a young tree in its tenth year of growth, with long flowing beards. They came for us dressed in frozen coats from the skins of animals pieced together with frozen cords of leather thongs. They are fleshy, but even stronger than the once great trees that we had so revered. They came upon us, freezing in our cities, not willing to cut the precious trees that were our homes for warmth. But, they, they had ice homes such as we have never before seen. Great big castles of ice! Huge to us, but, small and cramped to the Trvual's. Rounded us up like we would have the grazers killing half our number for their cook pots as others were kept as slaves and used to cut down our homes for their warmth. The rest as they say, is History.

Before this day, my life consisted of chopping, the endless chopping of the Great Trees. I no longer hear them scream which is oddly a relief, but so terrifying at the same time. A relief because, now, I no longer have frozen tears on my cheeks and bleeding ears from their wailing; terrifying because now they will never again have the chance for the dormant healing of winter; they are truly dead. But, this day was different.

This day I was arisen by the normal bellows from my Master Tien, an old Trvual that holds me upon his shoulders so I may cut the smaller branches from the last of the great Trees. Only, this was a bellow of annoyance and irritation, instead of a bellow of resignation. Then I heard the fight ongoing outside. Elves screaming, Trvuals’ bellowing, and the scuffle of light feet running masked by the lumbering steps of a much larger tread. Much of fighting I had never learned, but this day I learned it was gruesome in the extreme. Sure, I had seen the slaughter Ice House, where the old, and the infirm were taken to die, then quartered for the pots. But, The Trvual's were almost nice with their darts of The Long Sleep; their almost pristine care of dissection. Waste naught, want naught; a truism especially hard to swallow for my kind.

I heard the cry of my fellow Elves: "Resistance!!!! Country Men! For the Trees!!"

Tears streamed down upon my cheeks as my ears and brain signified the importance of these few words. The trees! I wanted to wail: but, we have decimated them! They shall never survive this long hard winter that never ends! But, I held my tongue, so silent, and crept from my frozen sleeping pallet and ran for the nearest Great Tree. Why I ran for them I shall never know. Maybe because they were something familiar in the chaos of this day, or maybe because I needed to protect them and heal the harm I had done to them. Either way, I ended myself up in the thick of the battle. The Trvual's were obviously winning, with their great big staffs and Darts of the Long Sleep. Our battle was lost much before it had begun.

Oh, how I wanted to help! But, I did not know what to do! So helpless was I, that I could barely use my feet and brain at the same time! So, I just quit thinking at all. No thoughts of the bloody images upon the battlefield. No thoughts of my father, the Rapist, being tossed around like an ice pebble. No thinking upon why I hadn't been told, or trained, for this moment of moments that would change the rest of what would be the end of my Elvin life. I just Raced toward what was left of the Great Trees, not feeling the Long Sleep darts enter my side and back, not hearing the sound of them sinking into my soft tender flesh.

Upon reaching the Great Trees, and using my agility to climb an almost limbless dying Great Oaken brute of a Tree, I felt the first knife slice to my rib cage. I screamed, almost loosing my hold on the Tree, but I continued to grasp fast and sure. Letting go with one hand I reached to feel the blood, wet and sticky, upon my numb fingers. Surprise decorated my face. Questions raced in my thoughts. I was to die now, I knew and that hit me hard and sure. It blackened the world about me like nothing else could do.

Death.

The Great Black Ocean.

I feared it as I did nothing else! As all my kind did. Great Tree help me, I thought, I'm truly frightened. So scared I couldn't move voluntarily, just shake uncontrollably. Then the irony hit me! Another great implosion inside my mind; I was pleading for the Great Tree to stop my dying, and I had been slowly killing them all my life! Oh, great irony of ironies! How dense I was! Then the thought shimmered in my mind, of my feet first entrance into the world, of leaping before thought. I laughed! So hard my side and back screamed in agony at me.

Up I went then, to the tip of the Dead Great Tree and I sat there all ironic laughter gone. I did something none have thought to do in my life time, as it was blasphemous to our kind for what we had done. I prayed. Elbows to knees, squatting; my back against the trunk, I prayed. Prayed for the Great Tree to end this winter madness and take my life in the bargain for my fifteen years of the taking of theirs.

Thus I prayed aloud:

"Great Holy Trees,
Hear my longing Pleas.
Take me from this world, so cold.
Take my soul as payment, not gold.
Forgive me my transgressions;
Please hear my confessions.
Crimes to Yours, my people have committed
This we have surely now, have admitted.
For the Great Black Ocean, I am currently headed.
This you know all my people have dreaded.
Herded as grazers, timidly we have let
The Trvual's take your lives by effort of our sweat.
Your screams of agony, did we hear
But, still we ignored, because of fear.
Take what is now freely given
By your actions we shall know if we are forgiven."

I closed my eyes and repeated my prayer until I started to get sleepy. Then, I looked around to see the rest of my people once again being herded as beasts by the Trvual's. As anger shot through me hard and fast, I surveyed the battle scene with scrutiny. The smaller Trvual's had gathering duty; the picking up of the dead to be carried to the Ice House of Slaughter. The redness of blood was already being covered up by a new snow. I wept for my people and for their brave but, hopeless actions on this day. I now knew why they had done so. To go along meekly just to escape death was a far worse punishment than death itself.

Vehemently, I prayed aloud once again. Screaming it defiantly into the biting winter wind!

“I am yours!" I screamed as I finished my prayer. "Take me!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Over and over until my throat was hoarse and my cheeks were frozen I screamed this prayer and plea aloud. Until no longer could I fight off exhaustion, then I remember nothing but, blackness.

****

"Do you think he followed the Prophecy?" a wounded Elf asked his sister who was tending him. Worriedly she fussed about him, wrapping his dressings of old and supple grazer hide tighter about his leg.

"He is our only hope dear brother, I surely hope he did, I surely hope he did."

****

Four days after the battle:

"The sun shines this rare day." grunted Master Tien to Grand Master Kepv.

Grand Master Kepv roared at Tien "Shut up you fool!! I....!" Kepv stopped, mid-sentence, as he noticed something on one of the Great Trees that was being readied to be uprooted.

"It's the boy." he whispered as much as any thing the same size as a full grown tree can whisper; which sounded much like a barrel of rocks being shaken.

"IT"S THE BOY!!!!!" he shouted, so loud that the Elves with their sensitive ears fell to their knees in agony, blood seeping out of many an already burst ear drum. Those that were farthest away started to cheer.

"Shut them up, quickly!" Kepv yelled to Tien. Tien marched toward the Elves with determination upon his craggy face, staff raised.

"HE’S DEAD!" Roared Kepv triumphantly. A shout that echoed ominously across the barren frozen winter-land.

The Elves began sobbing, quietly. Kepv picked up the boy's icy body and grunted once again his pleasure. As Kepv raised the boy high into the air, the sun began to blaze. Hot! The icy tundra floor immediately began to get misty, covering the ground with a pure white fog. The fog wrapped itself around the dead trees like a cloak. It rose so much it covered even the Tallest Trvual! The boy’s body in Kepv's paws screamed as if still alive, "Take me!!!!!!!!" and burst into a cleansing flame, burning Kepv with fire a that seemed would never go out. Bluish-white and hotter than any flame produced by known Elf or Trvual. Fueled by an oily substance that had leaked unnoticed from the boy’s body it engulfed Kepv and burned him alive. Kepv screamed silently. The fog receded as The Trvual's and Elves could only stare at the huge pile of ash that had once been Kepvs' great form. From the ashes an egg was uncovered by a warm southern wind and in One Great Mighty Crack, it split itself a’ twain. Up flew a Phoenix. Golden as the purest sunlight. It flew round the now cowering Trvuals and from its beak out flew the Phoenix's' Flame engulfing the Great Trees in its holy Fire. The Trees burst apart spitting its' flaming torches of splinters into each and every Trvual. A deadly strike each one as the flaming splinters spread their Holy fire into the bodies of each Trvual and they too, followed in Kepv's light dying with flaming, silent bellows.

From each Great Pile of Ashes inside was found a Great Seed; that even now the Elves were digging into the rapidly melting ice-covered earth to plant.

The Prophecy had been fulfilled. The fifteen year old boy, Product of Rape, Fleet of Foot and Slow of Thought, had done his sacred duty. And so, in his honor, in the middle of the now once again Great Oaken Forest, lies a Golden Oak Tree at the base of which, is a block of ice that shall feed the Tree its' nourishment and within is encased "Y'etevons' Prayer."

Me