well days like these, dont go anywhere.

when your caught up in your head, stumbling like the dead

well you know your wrong, but ya just dont care

well its months like these they last so long

sit wishin they would end wonderin what did i do wrong

i had my troubles then and now i have this song

oh ya cant quit now ya cant give up

stop drinkin your tears and sober up

cause your drunk on lies that youve told yourself

put the cork in the top

put the bottle on the shelf

and its wounds like these, still achin and soar

that a wicked knife did rend, my life it sought to end

weve all been left to bleed out on the floor

and it feels so good, to be so lonely

but its killin him inside, from this no man can hide

i was lonely once and now i have this song

Between the moon and the sun

Was,

And is our time.

A shaking of too many bodies-

An aggressive bobbing of heads-

And the brawl was on.

My already pounding heart wiggled in its cave 

As a close friend took four fists to the dome.

The hospitality of Rumblin' Dyl was shat upon,

and there was swinging to do.

First we attempted rationality-

Impossible,

And a dumb choice to begin with.

The first scuffle recedes into a new shouting match.

I do what I can to separate the equally enraged parties.

Being as im not a fan of shouting I clenched my fists and readied my self for round two.

Across the sea of T-shirts and faces wrinkled in anger I could the Rumblin' Dyl.

Disbelief.

Maybe it was more than that-

Restraint.

But the Rumbler wasn't in any way well known for his hesitation.

A hot head in any circle.

Round two begins and now there are bottle flying.

Hudson Sando Had an arm around his neck in seconds.

Me and two mexicans began working on the strangler,

A shaved head like his laughed at our swings,

But released Hudson-

Now we were the target.

I hadn't yet drawn the attention of an individual at this point,

and now I feared the wrath of this hard head.

Bruises heal but I was far too broke to buy new glasses.

Foolish worry.

The Mexican to right takes one to the gut and isn't fazed.

A shake of the head and a swinging of my sight shows me Monk-

A close ally.

He scans the fray as I was and we link eyes.

Without a nod we both grapple a member of the opposing force,

Tearing at his limbs- pulling toward the door.

Within the chorus of shouters I found it surprisingly easy to discern the voices of friendlies .

'Just get em outside!' A tall drunkard whos name escapes me the second I grasp for it-

A regular and a member of the tribe,

But his name remains strange.

We all begin to push.

Round two and three blended seamlessly but things had escalated.

It was difficult to make it through the crowded opening in the sliding glass door,

but we managed.

Part of me-

Stay out.

Most of me-

Allies are in need of reinforcements.

The cloud of fists and domes was swelling,

Innocent soft fists were being pommeled.

I spotted a group of terrified,

Crying,

Over dressed girls and squeezed them out the door behind me.

'Get in the alley' I suggested. 

They were more than happy to leave.

Back to it.

The door way had cleared and the cloud had moved to the next room-

Still round three and everyone was full of energy.

It was too hectic to now which side was coming out on top,

But knowing our tribe,

There were plenty of willing boxers just waiting to get a hit in.

The bookcase wobbled and threatened to fall

(A book case I had already almost destroyed that night with a well placed drunken stumble)

Things were breaking.

The cloud bursts out the front door-

Only furthering the chaos.

A home made trailer chasse was leaning on the wall opposite the door-

One of our braves was hurled to meet it-

Dome connection.

I began to feel actual fear when the ringing of the steel reached my ears.

Metal and domes don't mix.

Rumblin' Dyl had somehow ended up to the left of me and I was out of the fight.

He was concerned and my fight had done all it could do at this point.

'This shit ain't-' He starts ' No no get the fuck out!' . I hesitate to say he shouted but project- 

He did.

Command.

' Call the cops someone's going to get killed!' One of the twins begged. 

She was scarred but wasn't the type to give up ground-

She was up front with the boys.

I had at this point begun to worry for both sides.

Our town had a way of fighting past the point of necessity.

Regardless of my rage and distain for the bastards who started all of this,

soiling a fairly 'swingin' engagement-

I couldn't wish any permanent damage on them.

' Ya man call em, shits fucked' I agreed.

I saw Monk in the storm and jumped in to assist-

unspoken pact,

woulda done the same.

'Lets just get the fuckers into the street'

We begin shoving and grappling-

launching bodies the second we get hold.

Down the porch stairs-

A body hits a car-

A naked back hits the picket fence.

Round four had begun without me noticing-

and reached a calm.

Calm in average standards-

No.

Comparatively however-

there was a lull.

Space between the feuding parties had grown enough for those who charged,

To cross the void,

Were easily restrained.

Monk and I were now in damage control mode,

stopping friends from crossing to the enemy's side for more swings,

and stopping the opposition from getting back to the house.

The Po had been called and were en route-

The thugs from some other tribe,

these antagonists,

had wandered never turning a shoulder or batting an eye,

into the street.

'We gonna fuuuck you up BITCH!' A tall and furious black directed at me.

He was the roughest of them all.

Hard face- red shirt- yellow eyes- no sense.

They all offered another brawl.

Our side shouted back further challenges and taunts.

Burns if you will.

Creative curses I wish I could remember.

A couple willing acquaintances had joined Monk and I,

On the sidewalk in between our tribe and the enemy.

I wasn't worried about them re-igniting things,

didn't have the desire and you could tell.

Tone says everything.

Monk got the nerve to walk out into the street,

To negotiate. 

It was as he ad approached a wasps nest,

The way the bent and readied themselves,

for more violence.

A quick vision of Monk on the ground,

being bombarded by basketball shoes-

That'd be good to avoid.

So I joined him.

Things were more than tense-

The tension grew every step I took.

I wasn't too worried-

It wasn't fear anymore,

But if I wasn't so concerned with emerging unscathed

my hand could have shook.

It was still and we began trying to reason with them again.

'Look this can all end if you just take off, no stress from us we don't give a shit'

I offered as unthreateningly as possible.

They spat replies that could have been grunts-

Angry and unsatisfied.

No luck.

'Dude no one in there want's to fuck around and were just-' Monk began.

'FUCK you fool' The hard faced black barked stepping closer.

'Here we go' 

I thought it but may have said it aloud.

' Man just take off no ones comin' after ya' Monk said with a compromising tone.

Tone.

Always the key.

Still they spat curse and hate.

They were the type who were used to speaking with their fists.

'Tell em the cops are comin'!' A voice (no clue who) suggested.

' Ey man the cops are comin' theyre close- just take off before they get here.'

I said. They actually paused and their stances changed. 

The idea of leaving was sounding good now.

They run.

The cruisers whip around the corner-

Four.

A fire truck-

Always a surprising guest in altercations like these.

Didn't seem to be a reason.

Maybe they were bored.

An ambulance-

I hadn't seen, or rather inspected the wounds of those around me,

But there was blood on most of the door frames inside.

The enemy had made it to the corner when they were apprehended.

Tried to warn em.

Searches-

Badges walking through halls of shaken wallflowers

Once rowdy and full of shouts-

I sit on a metal chair,

Glad the boxing is over,

and ready for the PO-Show.

They look around,

scanning meaningless contraband.

Pot was un-impressive in burbank-

Anything harder-

surely nestled snug between nuts and thigh-

Cheek and Cheek-

Swallowed by the ambitious.

I did what I could to explain the situation,

In my best Po voice.

Welcoming,

Subservient,

The essential bitch.

Sometimes you just gotta bend over.

Everything cleared and party goers dispersed.

Monk, Me, One of the twins, The Queen

 (Who had been dubbed so this night by searching and finding) 

and Rumblin' Dyl sat upstairs,

Dyl's room.

We indulged and reflected-

apologized as a third party-

and left the battleground.

Blood-

Fines-

Badges-

Searches-

Between the moon and the sun

Was,

And is our time.

I tap these keys as the sun is rising,

the tribe has held its ground.

Between the moon and the sun

Was,

And is our time.

Against You

you said it, you knew it, you saw it comin why'd you do it now

you've lost it now

pretension - you've lost direction we were singin' your songs now were turnin em off

and were sorry because we miss you and the way you sang before.

if i was in your place right now i just might do the same

but id have the decency to change the fuckin name

solo

if i was in your place right now i just might do the same

but id have the decency to change the fuckin name

Last Round

After swinging several punches at the love I've tried to K.O, (for years)

I'm starting to get winded. 

Not that old,

Can still see my stamina draining.

Kid love 

Is where its at.

My child heart was strong as a bull.

Maybe it was a lack of knowing how bad it could get.

Not knowing what it felt like

To be exhausted 

By anothers

Bullshit.

Scoundrels With Smiles.

sniff and ask.

Beg for love.

Laugh at our own pain-

blood cash we pay for the real,

green kind we can waste.

Cretins.

Lovers.

Louder laughs than most.

Louder than the wealthy.

Not poor enough to cry-

 broke enough to swindle.

Scoundrels with smiles.

We feel bad for the well off.

Mud will always be mud

...Peter stayed with the couple for two days. It took this long to get rid of his shiver and stop sniffling. The days had been uneventful- Victor, the Father of poor Brother Isaac, spent his days with a whip in his hand. He brought lumber to the town and demand was high on account of the storm. It was the worst flood most  in the town had ever witnessed. Victor had a large cart drawn by 2 mules. Gladius and Jude. They were steady and never rested. Victor never rested. He worked every day of the week. 

Peter hadn't known this was something good people were capable of. Working on sundays and no hellfire? Peter wondered what it took to be wise. What was the proper angle at which to look inward? He had been looking at some supposed force- and began feeling stupid.

Victor was no sinner. His wife might have been a saint if there ever were such things.

Brother Isaac- A fool, but Peter could sympathize for he too had worn the same blindfold.

Peter laid in bed staring over at his coat again- through its thread to the letter inside. He had avoided mentioning it at all cost and in some cases so deftly diverted the conversation he could laugh. He didn't however once he began feeling sick again. For their future sadness.

He felt well enough to head back to his room in the monastery and started to his feet. They still ached but compared to the initial pain of thawing this was nothing. Peter grabbed his jacket from its resting place near the wood oven and threw it over his shoulders. He couldn't enjoy its warmth once his fingers brushed the letter in his pocket. He had to tell them. He didn't want to see their faces. He didn't want to go back to the monastery.

The sun was peeking through the clouds, through the window into the cottage where Peter stood weary. He drew the letter and dropped it on the edge of the table. He looked at it a second and turned around. Sick. His caregivers had gone to Victor's family  home and Peter's escape was unnoticed. 

Peters thinking was so different- Godless. In his recovery it had all begun to seem so foolish and now standing in the mud it was illustrated. Sung to him. He had dropped his bible on the bank of the rushing stream and could see it from meters away. Blossoming and soaked. Dead. It was never alive. It isn't real. Its pages have turned to oatmeal and grit- but the mud is still mud.

Peter followed the river south and never prayed again. He never punished himself for this foolishness-  he was enlightened. 

Depart and open your eyes.

It is just that simple.

Mud will always be mud

and Bibles become weapons.

the mud was still mud but the bible had become oatmeal

You Can Have Her

At once we would up and hoist our sails

call vast crews and raise fortunes to travel across the sea

to the ones we loved.

As with our hunting and gathering

our odyssey takes a new form.

I'll sit with my torn up socks, my last black pair

feet on a stack of white ones-

looking out the window wishing I could make it across town

not very far

to have a drink 

or all of it

with some Penelope.

But my boats got no gas-

its dead on the shore, washed up.

All of me wishes I could get more 

but I spent my last four dollars on that pack of Wildhorse

which Mike

who quit smoking 

bummed a bounty.

So the crew of my galley will sleep another night

and I wont.

The sails will rest folded,

Th e cauffers have run dry 

and shes run off with some suitor anyway.

More sitting and starring.

400, 600 years ago there would be caravans curving and bending across the plain

hundreds of ships cresting the endless horizon

No destination was too far.

But tonight ill sleep on oak creek because the  pharmacy is within walking distance,

and my floor is covered with change.

Maybe it isn't even neccisary  to get the girl at the end of the quest.

I was always more interested in the mistresses and demons on the way.

and what good would sitting alone on the edge of a bed be 

with the last of your wine 

if you didn't have something monumental to complain about?

I to the suitors-

YOU CAN HAVE HER!

Suitors to one another draw daggers.

the second one kills the first one to flag her

3 and four both bleed on the floor as the lonely one

I

drunkenly swaggers.

Where would I get a fortune anyway?

Crazy Rachelle

There was a girl in Highschool- Crazy Rachelle.

She was some sort of glowing terror. Blond wavy hair, curly at times. Some times it would hang down past her shoulders, in front and in back of them. Sometimes it was all pulled straight back to a knot- revealing the contour of her skull.

Crazy Rachelle only had one smile. It was wide and pulled high, revealing  her gums. White teeth jutting out- straight down, and perfect. This smile almost never left her face. At times it seemed as if she was straining herself, fighting to keep it on. It was a beautiful smile on its own, but guessing its meaning, or having an idea of its function made this a very unsettling contortion of the face.

Resting in barrels above her red-circle doll-face cheeks were two plastic eyes. They were fixed. The girl did most of her looking around by moving her head, like a predator, never dropping its guard. They rarely ever strayed from their factory pre-set FORWARD position,when they did she would look human for a second. But this wasn't some saving grace- she was still Crazy Rachelle most of the time. 

What made me think of crazy Rachelle was a sudden memory that hadn't been remembered even once since it was stored. It was of course subject to wear and tear over the years but one fact (the point of the memory I think) permeated the haze bourn of time- Crazy Rachelle had done something completely crazy. Something terrible. For the life of me I cannot remember what it was she did. I have asked everyone I know if they remember Crazy Rachelle and they all do. But not one of them remembers what she did. Most have a vague feeling, just like me, but wouldn't have thought of it unless I had brought it up.

Im still constantly plagued by this question. Images of what it was that this girl did to give me such a foreboding feeling. They played on and on in my head. Flashes when I wake up, or sneeze.

Crazy Rachelle standing on a lunch table- Crouched over the mangled body of a student. Jeff. Blood all over her smile and entrails in her hands. Those eyes were only glued onto her head to make her look  human. Demon.

Crazy Rachelle on her hands and knees scrubbing blood out of her fathers carpet as he watches.

Crazy Rachelle laughing hysterically with the head of her baby brother submerged in bubble bath. The kicking-furious but creating no shake in her un yeilding wrist.

The kicking stops.

I don't think I'll ever know what Crazy Rachelle did, but I'll probably have thought of it twice by the time I die.

The Art of Borrowing Instruments- 1/?

I went to go pick up my car at the club Berrigan and I had so hastily vacated. The day was shit and I had no hope of it getting better.

After a 2 mile walk in the rain I was relieved to see my car. It wasn't pretty, fairly dinged up but I knew it was warm inside. I hopped in and couldn't help but laugh at my bad mood. I was so angry it was unbelievable. But I was warm and didn't care. I looked on the seat next to me- A stack of flyers for that nights show sat soaking. The soft top had a leak. I didn't have a trumpet.

I had spent the day calling every horn player I knew. Most were out of town or playing that night themselves.

' Hey you got a spare horn I could use man? I'll owe ya one, real big I'll owe ya one! ' Id plead

' Look man im puttin it to good use! I keep my eyes on the things I care about. Close. Get your shit together man! '

Bastards.

I sat in my shorts and undershirt the whole day- Dialing. Mary was at work, and after leaving on such a sour note I wondered if she was coming back. I had started to wonder this more and more often.

At about 3 PM I began to panic. No leads what so ever. This was my portion of our household's income at stake here, and I didn't have the tools for the job. I had called everyone I knew-Nothing, and decided to hit the streets. I leapt to my feet and threw on the first rags I could find; A pair of Cheap wool slacks that fit too loose, A wine stained sweater (white making the wine look as some gapping wound) and a cap- Never lose your cap. I suppose, never lose your trumpet aswell. But first and foremost- Never lose your cap.

Grab the keys-

Swing open the door-

A glance left-

A glance right-

Then the realization.

My car is still at the fucking club.

'Fuck me...' I went and grabbed a bigger coat.

Now I sat in the car looking at the soaking loaf of wasted flyers (20 cents- drain-o) and wondering what the hell I was going to do about the show. It was in 3 hours and at this point I was going to have to start choreographing a dance or learning to sing a song- We needed the check. As If things between Mary and I weren't desperate enough, coming home empty handed was surely going to send it all to hell. I laughed again, nervous. The rain started in again with more force than ever. I had landed just in time. I heard a screech of tires and a big white van barreled wildly into the lot- right in front of my car. I was blocked in.

'Oh great those fuckin' gangsters are gonna have their way with me!' I thought. I might have said it out loud. ' Yes.'

The back doors swung open and I was shocked to see 4 large blacks jumping out. Relieved again. I laugh. 

They were scrambling to unload their gear. A band. 'Well Goddamn, I bet they got a trumpet.' I stepped out into a rain that seemed to disappear, deflected by my newfound hope.

'Hey boys need a hand with all that?' I offered with a wave. They were surprised to hear me shouting only feet away from them. The rain was coming down hard enough that seeing inside the car was an impossibility.

'Yeah man! thanks!' The fattest one said. Their green suits were turning black with wetness.

I was handed two drum cases and I mainlined for the back door. The same door I was shoved out of, with a gun in my hand. It was a different door now- It was a safety from the storm. It might have meant a trumpet, but I wasn't sure yet. I had tried to get a look into the van- to see if i could make one out. No dice.

I made it into the ballroom and set the cases down by the side of the stage. I took a second to shake off my dripping limbs.

'Ey you! you left somethin' here last night!' An old phlegmy voice called from across the hall. I looked up and saw a tough old bastard in an apron waddling toward me with a few trays under his arm. He was short- Maybe 5 foot 2, but he was clearly made of stone.

' Whats that?' I inquired- it hit me later than it should have but before he could reply I gasped.    ' No fuckin' way you've got my trumpet don't you!?' 

'Yeah, found it in the back room, Surprised those hooligans haven't sold the thing by now. They steal glasses, they steal silverware, they steal the damn tablecloths.' The man motioned toward the other side of the stage with his head. ' It's over there.'

I started off for it, sweating bullets. That was too close. The Little man made an awful guttural sound and stomped his foot. I turned and he was looking up at me without expression. I reached into my pocket and handed him the 3 dollars I had on me. He laughed at it and walked away. Fuck em'. I went after the trumpet. I picket it up and its weight was just what my hand- my arm- craved to feel.

The Black men had finished bringing in their gear and were all crowded by the door passing around a cigarette. They waved me over.

'Here pal, thanks for the help.' the shortest one said. He was the leader I could tell. Brimming with charisma. He handed me the cigarette.

The drive home was perfect. I smiled the whole way.

I was excited to see Mary. I could cheer her up. I knew it.

I had the trumpet.

ive pushed off, now im sailing far away

where ill land i dont know it dosnt matter anyway

you know i had to leave

 i had to go

when i held on the storms would never cease

i would end up lost for days, i would end up lost for weeks

 one day i just let go

and now i swim as if it was a part of me

but every boat has a sturdy anchor chained by iron to the hull

   sometimes you hold me sometimes you let me go

ill carry the weight

that can hold

you were the one thing no i couldnt let go

but im widdlin' the wood away, im chislin at the stone

at the stone

tryin to find a way to set you free

but ive got to work my fingers to the bone

its gettn hard its gettin rough its got me down

it seems were all shit outa work just sittn around

well theres one thing that weve got and we do it an awefull lot

oh we can sing we can shout sing it loud

we can sing we can sing oh mama 

we can sing, about our troubles and our strife

we can sing spend our last two cents on whiskey

we can sing right through the night

i been sittn on my front porch half the day

thinkin of a way to waste my time away

so i pickup my guitar set up right behind the bar

and we all sing we all sing our cares away

The Power of Faith

1- How to Speak When Spoken To.

'Should we double check it?' The fat wino belched from deep within his robes.

'It is the word of our God there will be no double checking' The stone faced Cardinal replied. Dipping his finger into the jar of ink on the desk before him- to the first bend. He looked into the eyes of the Wino.' Have you got any clue how disrespectful it is to revise these words? these are the words we live by. Without these words you are nothing, we are nothing. Do you suggest we shit on the prospect of our redemption? This is all there is.'

'But you've changed several-' The Wino began.

'I have changed nothing you waste!' The cardinal rose from his desk and bent over the portly- Monk, his finger dripping black.' I receive the very word of GOD YOU WASTE! I am a vessel- you are an ant. I have clarifiedyou see. That is what you so dully mistake for change. Go to your quarters and wait. This will not be going unnoticed.'

The Wino turned without a word and exited. He hid his cowardly face until the door to his room was closed and promptly let fly the tears of his faith. A gesture to his God, he was sorry and dumb.

The Cardinal sat back in his chair and ran his finger across the parchment before him. The beginnings of a letter to the monks family. The draft was never finished- Just ended by his black trail. It was folded and sealed. The Cardinal used black wax and affixed a small black bow- beneath the wax as he pressed it on.

The Cardinal stood once more and gazed down the hall leading to his door. The black finger hung at his side.

2- The Gospel

'What makes your heart shake Monk?' The Cardinal said from outside the monk's quarters, with a firm and resonant voice. It reeked of suppressed anger. Its' tone begged to be sincere but was borne of hatred. A hatred the Cardinal knew as direction. His purpose was his god.

The monk was shaken and his tears ceased to flow. Now it was fear.' Whats that?' He offerers. The door still closed.

'From what ocean do you draw the water for your tears Monk?' The Cardinal spoke louder than before as he began tapping his black knuckle on the wooden door.

'G-god's ocean!' The Wino replied jumping to his feet and scrambling to open the door. 

The door now being open, the Wino was frozen by the sight of the Cardinal. The only light they shared other than a small candle at the Wino's bedside was a torch burning in the hallway directly behind this red and grinning holy ghoul. The black finger still hung between the two of them.

'And why would a god as pure as our own be so generous as to waste his valued seas on the tears of a drunk? Of a fool? Of a coward? Sit.' 

The finger rose to Direct the Monk.

Without any effort the Monk stepped back and lowered himself onto the edge of his bed.Not once pulling his eyes away from this perfectly black finger, now looking down at him.

'I've come to offer you a chance to hide yourself from god, and leave the monastery.' The Cardinal explained lowering his arm. He took a step into the small room.

'Oh no I truly and honestly wish to serve the lord! Really Im sorry for my-' The Monk pleaded, with hope in his eyes. He did not want to be cast aside, away from his god's comforting light.

' This is the only way you can serve your god my son.' The Cardinal said, his Face erupting into a sweet and gentle thing. He took two more steps and knelt before the Monk. They were now at eye level with one another. 'You see son, we are men of the faith, we want the same things.'

The Monk was at first disturbed by this sudden change in the Cardinal's demeanor but quickly began to feel some hope. Some chance. He smiled.

' Now we both know you aren't the most productive Prayer, and it seems you take to the bottle far more often then you do to the scripture.' The Cardinal spoke with a hint of forgiveness.' You just aren't the sort of soul our god wishes to have carrying out his will. Do you see?'

'I see' the foolish and hopeful Monk replied, taking these words as gospel. This was coming from his god's messenger.

The Cardinal reached beneath his cape and produced a long narrow cylindrical dagger with a point on the end and no edge. Tears welled in the Monks eyes but he fought them.' Hold your tears Monk, you musnt be greedy. Take this in your Hand and pull it inward. You will be forgiven and no longer upset your god. Our god.'

The monk reached out and grabbed the dagger. He shook all over. Handling the spike a moment he managed it into both his hands, with the tip leaning on his gut. ' This is what our god wishes?' He asked with a weak voice.

The Cardinal nods.

With the blessing of his god, the Monk plunged the dagger deep within making no sound. The Cardinal cupped the back of the Monk's head as he slowly fell backward. He bled all he could and was gone.

 When the breathing stopped the Cardinal's face returned to its sculpted and naturally cold form. After sliding his hand out from beneath the Wino's head he stood and looked upward. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath.

The Cardinal's mind buzzed with the energy of a god that can only be pleased by perfection.

He lets the breath out.

Balance.

The rest of the evening was spent by the fire. Stirring his jar of ink.

3- The Pines of Rome

'Take this letter to the home of poor Brother Isaac's Mother and Father' The Cardinal said with sincerity- clutching the letter. He lowered it from his heart to the hands of the Monastery's messenger, Peter. Peter was not a Prayer, but had landed at the Monastery after his parents were murdered in their family home. The killers escaped unscathed and Peter was left at 12 years old- in a house drenched by the blood of his Kin. The Leaders of his community saw it fit to give the boy over to the church. Though his family had achieved significant status and accumulated vast wealth, they were never god fearing and taught Peter nothing of the Christ or any other deity. But somehow, Peter felt an attraction to serve this place. This entity he was introduced to. Since Peter had no information about the actual beliefs or customs of the church, he would have to catch up before serving his god on an intellectual level. After the boy was absorbed by the church and began living at the monastery, his inherited assets were awarded to the newly appointed Cardinal Adalfieri. 

Adalfieri had been appointed as a 'Lay Cardinal'  and was assigned to give special attention to this same monastery. It was a surprise to the resident monks when he arrived for they had received no notice or warning.

He introduced himself as having ' Vested interests in this monastery, in service of our lord, and in restoring purity to a wayward house of worship and knowledge.' The Monks worried.

'Peter I know you will be hasty, you have always made the distance to the town and back in 2 days. Can I trust you will be swift?' The Cardinal inquired releasing the letter to the boy, only half his height.

'Ofcourse!' Peter barked at attention.' The rain has let up, but I fear it will only be a few more hours before it starts again' He said looking behind him at the grey cracked sky. Not a single shard of blue was able to penetrate its mask. It had been raining for 2 days and as Peter was about to embark, he was thankful he could enjoy the weathers first respite.

'You've made the journey in the rain before haven't you? Surely it isn't to much to ask of a healthy young boy?' The Cardinal send bending down and patting Peter's shoulder. He then leaned in and whispered something Peter couldn't quite hear. Peter wasn't compelled to ask the Cardinal for a clarification and before he knew it he was stomping through the mud, on the familiar road into the town.

Peter had experienced these sort of lapses in time before but wasn't all too worried by them. It felt natural and without having to conjure any sort of justification, it seemed as if this was a way of life not uncommonly led by all of the monastery. Peter was blind.

Looking down at the letter in his hands, Peter saw the first drop of rain. Falling and landing next to the black ribbon affixed with wax. The drop rested on the paper a moment and then traveled inward. By the time the two had fused the letter was dotted by a dozen more drops and Peter hid it beneath his coat.

Peter looked around him at the soaking wilderness that surrounded the monastery and wondered if these trees looked anything like the pines of Rome. He wondered about his god, and he wondered about the poor Mother and Father who he was delivering the letter to. Brother Isaac was kind and Peter was sure his family was aswell.

Peter wondered about his own family

and the rain never stopped.

 4- Brother Isaac

The rain kept pouring on into the night, getting worse maybe, and all at once  Peter's path was drowned by an overflowing creek. What had once been a calmly running stream was now 8 feet wide and rushing just fast enough to knock the boy off his feet.

He stood at the bank of the rapids, hands on his waist with his face askew, twisting to produce some solution tot his problem. The sides of the now quite narrow path Peter was traveling on were of no boon to his plight. To his left dropped a rocky embankment, almost vertical enough to be considered a cliff. Here the torrent fell off in an unbounded waterfall. Not peaceful, it was a rush job thrust upon the normally serene setting by a truly blood thirsty storm. 

Peter wondered, 'what hand does my god have in this?' and prayed a moment.

To the right side of the path rose a slope nearly as steep as the drop to the left. The slope was covered in a layer of leaves and mud which was now threatening to slide downward onto the trail blocking Peter's way in either direction.

After compiling all of his pros and cons, Peter decided he could risk trying to make it across the mess of a stream. 'If i make it into town tonight I can sleep in the church, start a fire and warm up.' The prospect of a warm fire gave Peter the final push he needed to make his attempt. 

He once again inspected the turbulent aquatic terrain looking for the best way across. It was all basically the same and Peter settled for a full charge across. Straight line. Pushing off of the edge of solid earth with his left foot, his right was shot down into the freezing cold rapids- to his waist. Upon reaching the bottom, his right foot slid immediately from its landing spot on the mossiest of stones. 

Submersion.

Black.

He awoke with water in his nose. This was a feeling he had always dreaded. Such constant discomfort could drive him mad. After coming to terms with the plight of his nose (in what to a perfectly conscious person would seem to be a quarter of a second- to the delirious Peter seemed to be an hour or so) Peter came to be aware of his surroundings. He was not yet warm but was no longer being beaten with the lashes of winter. That devil storm. He was laying down and covered by blankets, he knew this feeling and it lifted his spirits greatly. No longer possessing the fear of opening his eyes and dispelling some dream, he awoke to a warmly light wooden celling. He blinks. His eyes have cleared and in the corner of his newly found vision sits a woman.

'Your alive! Its a wonder!' The woman says. Peter could hear that she was old. He could see her as she stood and hovered over him. She had silver hair and a face shaped like an old vegetable. 

'Ive made you soup, whenever you feel as-though you're able to sit up you ought to have some.' She Began moving away, into the room. ' You're very lucky we found you there! How did you manage to land yourself in the stream?'

Peter spoke with a stifled voice,'I was coming down to deliver a letter. I wanted to make it to town.'

'Well you made it boy, I wouldn't suggest the same rout next time' The old woman replied. 'My husband found you washed up against a rock right near the small bridge leading into town, Over the stream. Said you were just a stranded noodle.' She said followed by a laugh.

Peter sat up to inspect the room and capitalize on warm soup. He was still very cold, keeping with him some of the chill he had accrued floating down the stream. He swung his legs off of the bed in which he was laid to find his feet had no feeling in them. ' Miss-' He called to her, starring at the dead feet. 'My feet don't work.' Peter had grown up fast but this was that childish fear, all consuming and real.

'Don't worry, they have to warm up slowly, soon well put them in warm water.' The Old Woman picked up the soup and started toward Peter. ' Now why were you coming down again? Do you come from the Monastery? Awfully young, Do you come from there?' She sounded genuinely interested.

' Yes that is where I'm coming from' Peter said not caring, accepting the soup in his hands, and with all of his mind. This was his focus. It was probably too hot for normal hands to hold, the woman used a rag, but Peter cupped the bottom without a wince. There was no spoon so he sipped from the bowl. It warmed him instantly and his face went flush.

'My son is stuck up in that damned monastery on some tangent. The menace conducting that operation ought to be hung.' The woman said. Peter did not flinch but continued with his soup. ' How did they steal you away eh?' She asked cocking her head.

Peter looked up.' Well my parents were killed so I was sent to there to live. It really isn't so bad.' And for what Peter knew, it wasn't.

'We couldn't pay our proper tax on account of the hard times so they took our boy. Said he had to work doing labor for that monastery for a year. At the end of the year that Cardinal had him thinking he was on a mission from god. Now they call him Brother'

Peter looked up from his bowl.' What was his name, there's a chance I know him. I know a lot of the Brothers up there.' Finishing and taking another sip. 

'They call him Brother Isaac.' She said sitting on the bed beside Peter. ' He is Brother Isaac now. That Cardinal changed him somehow. Got into his head. Better hope he hasn't gotten into yours. You really ought to leave that place.You can stay with us. We have raised a boy before.'

She leaned in. She wanted a son again.

Peter forced the sip of soup down his now clenched and nervous throat. This was the mother of that poor wino who killed himself. He looked over at his jacket resting by the wood oven, knowing inside was the death notice of this sweet woman's son. He knew she deserved to know but did not want to be the one to tell her.

The sound of the rain grew louder a moment as the door to the outside swung open and a thoroughly coated man stumbled in. ' Your awake boy! amazing! He's alive!'

Peter Wondered about god.