On Creativity: The Secret to Creating Great Art

    My stint as a visiting artist at Hartwick College earlier this year was nothing like I expected yet everything I could have wanted. Being placed somewhat unexpectedly in the role of educator alongside the familiar one of puppet-builder proved both challenging and rewarding in a myriad of ways I could have never anticipated. It is an old axiom that the teacher learns more than the students. I found this to be very true. One of the most surprising aspects of teaching for me was the way it confronts you in a very real and tangible way with what you know.

     Since the end of my residence, I have been slowly trying to compile observations about living the creative life in a series of essays. I am attempting to confront the realities of the creative process in as pragmatic and rational manner as I can. I do this partly to record my own ideas in a coherent form, but mostly out of a sense of gratitude to my former students and colleagues. It is my fervent hope that these writings can help others along their journey. To this end, I will endeavor to speak in the broadest possible terms, using the word "Artist" in it's most general sense.  

    On a personal note to all those I associated with during my Residency: I apologize for those moments when I could be cranky irrational and overly demanding. The only defense I have to offer is that I felt that I could relentlessly demand excellence from you because time and again you proved capable of it.
I am extremely proud of the work we did together!

"Here are my Principles, and if you don't like them...well, I have others!"

-Groucho Marx

The Secret of Creating Great Art

There is a moment that every working creative dreads. It is that moment when an enthusiastic and appreciative person asks “How do you do that?” They don't mean how was one specific project accomplished. They want to know how to PAINT, How to WRITE, How to ACT! It as if the artist could, by some magical act of beneficence tell them a simple universal truth that would part the veil and magically welcome the questioner into the sacred order. Any answer that can be given is going to come as a terrible letdown. It will ring false or trite in the ears of the audience. They come to you seeking to unlock Truth and Beauty and are forced to make due with cliches like “Write what you know”.

No artist can tell you what you want to learn in a few short sentences. They can give you a few pointers, certainly they can draw you a map, but you need to embark on your own voyage. The process is always going to be your greatest teacher. I have been fortunate enough to have had the guidance of many wonderful instructors, both in a formal and casual capacity, and have found their insights of inestimable value. At the end of the day, however, I must admit it was the wood that taught me the most about how to carve.

I have discovered that there is,after all, a great and universal truth to the creative process that can be stated simply and succinctly. Here it is-At long last revealed the secret that every successful artist knows! I should warn you, it's terribly disappointing the first time you learn it

The secret to creating great artwork is simply this: Make bad art.

Behind every masterpiece painted lies a graveyard of terrible drawings. Every soaring violin composition reached it's heights on a scaffold of hours worth of scratchy shrieked notes. That beautiful inspiring passage from your favorite writer is only possible because of pages and pages of poisonous prose. Those dancers that float effortlessly across the stage have fallen more times then you can count

This is another one of those stories we tell ourselves as artists: Some people are just “born with it”. They are naturally talented, and so opportunity falls in their laps. They are blessed by the gods with something divine that makes them more that the rest of us.
That's true. It's called a work ethic.

Don't get me wrong, Natural talent is real. There are people who are more musically inclined, more graceful, more visually oriented from birth. I have met these people. This is an excellent start. It opens the door for them but rest assured they have to climb the mountain just like anyone else.

Here's what really happens: A young person shows some aptitude for a task. They are praised by their friends and family, and so they continue to try. With a little more effort and a little more positive reinforcement, they realize that they really enjoy doing this more than anything else. Because they are doing what they love, they embrace it. They work hard and never notice the effort because they enjoy every minute. Obstacles become challenges. The desire for praise turns inward. Instead of wanting the praise of parents, the young artist wants to be the best, to say something original. Parents worry about these new found obsessions and start to encourage their child to do pursue other interests. Peers may even mock the young artist for their strange new obsession, but by now none of this matters as much as the passion. Like any other addiction, it takes hold of the person's being and begins to define them. As the process of learning the craft gets more difficult, the artist becomes less and less capable of extracting themselves until they can barely imagine doing or being anything else. I know this to be so because it is my story, along with thousands of others.

The special trait that artists have that you believe you don't isn't talent. It's passion and determination. Successful creative people are simply those who continued to work. Stop telling yourself that you aren't “Born with it” or whatever other convenient excuse you are hiding behind. Nobody wants to hear how you can't even draw a stick figure. That's a cop-out. If you truly want to draw, pick up a pad of paper and fill it in. Once you've finished that one, move on to the next. Make your mistakes like everyone else, and learn from them. Don't expect to get it right the first time. You won't. Keep trying. Each attempt teaches you something new. Remember, you are honing a skill. It's a lifelong process.

Fiction: The Lake

                                                 The Lake.
                                           By John A .Ryan

“You boys really thinking of doing the Six Lakes Swim?” The old bar owner at the Lodgepole Inn deposited our breakfasts in front of us. He had a long nosed ungainly lank-limbed melancholic air that reminded me of a moose. The Lodgepole was not the ideal venue for a pre-swim breakfast. It's grimy wood paneling, flickering neon beer signs and clientele that appeared to be mostly left over from last night identified it more as a seedy small town dive bar than a place to get a good meal. It was however, the only eating establishment in the tiny town of Barrelhead

“I am” replied Dave starting in on his buckwheat pancakes “Tim here is my support team. Right Tim?”

I paused Monster Push on my tablet and looked up “That's right. I follow along in the canoe in case he gets in trouble.” I took a sip of my bitter coffee and hungrily contemplated the mountain of greasy eggs and bacon that was my Lumberjack Special


“Not many make it all the way through”the bar owner mused aloud


“We aren't many” Dave grinned and took a swig of orange juice “I've already beat Juniper, Monroe and Wolf lakes.


“Tuurngait is the breaking point for folks. Four miles of glacial run-off against a headwind. It claimed that Sorrel girl last summer and that fellow from Whisper Falls” he gestured with the coffee pot towards a wall of yellowing newspaper clippings. “You city boys might find it more than a match for you”

“They said the same thing about Monroe, didn't they, Tim?”


I mumbled affirmation through a mouth full of toast “We broke the old record”


“Take my word, friend Tuurngait Lake is the tough one. It'll change you. If you make it out the other side, there's no saying you'll be the same person as dived in.”

“You sound like you're speaking from experience” I said


“Back in '73” he confirmed with a nostalgic smile“Sooner or later everyone round here tries the Swim”


“What happened?” asked Dave


The Barkeep chuckled through the mists of recollection
“I never left. I'm still here, aren't I?”
With that he stalked through the swinging doors to the kitchen.


* * * * * * * * * *


“Do you think it's some sort of local past-time to try to freak out tourists?” Dave asked me as he downshifted the pickup


“They have to do something. You can't even get a decent radio station this far north” I flicked a twig goblin causing him to explode into a cascade of leaves and earning a hundred points


Dave clicked his tongue
“What is it with you and that game? You've been glued to that screen for the whole trip”

“You need to try it. It's seriously addictive. You travel through the Magic Woods looking for treasure and try to push the hidden monsters away before they grab you. ”


“Christ, Tim! We're surrounded on all sides by pristine wilderness and you're ignoring it to bop invisible monsters! We just drove under an eagle's nest and you didn't even notice. How can a digital forest possibly be better than the real thing? Just promise me you'll leave that thing in the truck when we're out there okay? I need you focused.


“Have I let you down yet?”


“No, man, and I really appreciate you doing this for me. I'm just a little on edge”


“Don't let that old coot from back in Barrelhead get to you, Dave. It's like you said. They have nothing better to do than to try and scare people. You'll make it fine and we'll have a celebratory dinner in his bar and be off to Pinetop in the morning. Just like we planned, right?”


“Right” he relented “Could you do me a favor though and turn that off? It's making me nervous”


“No problem”


I traded my tablet screen for the windscreen. Dave was right. The view was spectacular.


************************************




“Isn't it weird the way the mist hasn't burnt off yet? It's already 11:30 ”


The mountains keep the cold air trapped down here. Makes the water nice and brisk” Dave grinned as he zipped up his insulated wet suit “ I wouldn't have it any other way. Just look at this place! If it were warmer it'd be teeming with tourists”


I had to admit he had a point The snow cloaked peaks rose like spires into the clouds appearing in places to bleed into them. armies of deep green conifers ascended the mountainsides from the lake shore accented here and there with highlights of crimson and gold from the occasional maple or birch that had already begun to turn, even though August wasn't even halfway through. In the distance a loon's clarion call rang over the ghostly waters. As I stood on the rocky lake shore with my friend it felt as though we were the only two people in the world .


Watching Dave go through his series of leg lunges, knee bends, and shoulder stretches I contemplated how we had come to be here. Most men going through a divorce would sink into despondency and drink. Dave, for reasons known only to himself, threw himself into the idea of open water swimming with a frightening zeal. We had known each other casually for a few years. Like most of our circle of friends, I had viewed Dave's aquatic pursuits with a mixture of admiration and detached amusement. Then Bethany left. After four years of gradually growing apart, she finally decided that she'd had enough of my antics. Even though I was devastated, I understood. If I were honest, I had to admit I wasn't a particularly boyfriend. Brooding over my fate one night at O'Malley's I ran into Dave fresh off a triumphant race. Several rounds later he confided that he wanted to try longer swims but he needed a spotter. He surprised me by asking me to take on the role. To my further astonishment I found myself agreeing. That was eight months ago. In all the hours of training, long drives, and poring over topographic maps, we rarely discussed anything personal, but a friendship born of the bonds of shared purpose and mutual heartbreak.


“Here's the plan” he announced, shaking me out of my reverie “We'll take it nice and easy today. Once we get about 50 yards out, I'll do my plunges. From there I'll check in every twenty minutes for a breather. That should be every half mile or so. I reckon we'll make the other side in about two hours. You ready?”


I nodded my assent


“Fantastic” he said, snapping his goggles over his eyes “Lets go swimming”

Dave marched intently towards the water. With his beard pushed up into a sharp peak by the rim of his wetsuit hood and his jaunty swaggering gait he looked like a fugitive from an early animation. I scanned the cargo of my candy-apple colored canoe one last time to make sure everything was in order and pushed her nose into the lapping waters.


****************************************
Just past the halfway point, I had fallen back into the easy paddling rhythm that had become automatic after several months. Just off the left side of my bow, Dave had switched from an Australian Crawl into his preferred Butterfly Stroke. I could see his arms break the gray surface of the water in canted parabolic arcs punctuated by the sharp intake of breath. It had become a subconscious game for me to time my paddle strokes just after these breaths. One of my first cues of trouble, should it arise, would be the interruption of this pattern. For the moment, his labored flight across the lake's surface continued unabated.


Although I would never admit it to Dave, I had come to relish these moments out on the water as rare moments of quietude. He often accused me of having a technology addiction. In the privacy of my mind, I agreed. It seemed like my entire life was bathed in the glow of screens. I like computers for their endless entertainment value and their logical nature. You could get any information you wanted out of a computer, provided that you knew how to ask. In my lifetime I had run into few things that were this simple to understand. The trouble was that so much screen time left you unprepared for the messy and illogical real world and filled your head with electronic chatter. Skimming across a silent northern lake allowed my mind to work unencumbered and made some much needed reflection possible. Of course, if I ever let Dave know this I would never hear the end. Dave is one of those people who is relentless in his opinions and advice. Conceding that he was right on a point would be inviting a ceaseless barrage of well intentioned council on every aspect of my life. Well intentioned or not, I felt uncomfortable at the thought of inviting that level of external scrutiny.


Far above my head, an osprey hovered, silhouetted on ruler straight wings against the clouds. I wondered if it was the same bird that half an hour ago glided almost within arms reach, examining me with it's mad tangerine eyes. On the near shore a mule deer doe and her twin yearlings collectively decided that my friend and I posed no threat and began to drink. Nearby in a stand of tall spindly trees-


I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, for what I saw, what I believed I had seen, could not possibly be there. A second closer look confirmed this. There was nothing among the trees. For just an instant I had imagined that there had been a figure standing in the copse of pines. It had been taller than any person could be, almost the height of the surrounding pines. I thought it was the form of a man, seemingly composed of the limbs of trees, a gangling coniferous Colossus. dark as the shadowed bark gazing out over the water with an air of infinite sorrow. It was a trick of the light conspiring with my overstimulated imagination that made the shadows of branches resolve themselves into a pine tree giant straight out of a fairy tale illustration or off the screen of Monster Push. Even knowing that it couldn't possibly be real, the impression stuck powerfully and eerily with me. I decided that it would probably be best if I took a break from that game for a few days and resumed paddling. My momentary lapse in concentration had caused me to fall an embarrassing distance behind.


I strained my shoulders for almost ten minutes behind the paddle. My redoubled efforts seemed to do little to close the distance. For fear of pulling a muscle I called out to Dave to slow down and let me catch up. He slowed his strokes to a stop I saw his grinning head turn towards me. His arm broke the surface to give me the OK signal. Dave tread water for a moment or two before, to my horror, his head vanished beneath the glassy water with barely a ripple. A shout of panic escaped my lips as I began to paddle with all my might. From the cold water rescue course we had taken, I knew that every second underwater was potentially lethal. I was still to far away to reach. Dave and he had already been under for longer than was safe. I had just reached the point where I saw him disappear when an explosive inhale shattered the silence. Dave had re emerged supported by two other swimmers. His face was drained of color except for the sickly bleached violet of his lips.

“Get him aboard now” commanded a woman's voice from the smaller figure in the pale blue wetsuit. We heaved Dave's dead weight onto the canoe. I hastily tore open the package of a Mylar blanket and wrapped it around my friend's shivering body


“We'll start a fire onshore. Meet us there, quick as you can” With that order the woman and her companion shot away swiftly and gracefully as a pair of otters.


“Cold grabbed me all the sudden” sputtered Dave “Must've hit a thermocline. Froze right through me.”


“Hold still, man. I'm so sorry! I got distracted and fell behind. It's just lucky those two turned up.”


“Yeah, lucky” agreed Dave, teeth chattering.


By the time we made it to shore, the woman was already tending the beginnings of a good sized campfire. I could see her companion's yellow and black suit clearly among the trees as he searched for more wood. She helped me beach the canoe, and lift Dave onto the shale by the fireside.


“Blankets and dry clothes in the big orange float bag” I instructed her as I peeled away the wetsuit.


We helped Dave into a dry sweatpants, sweater and draped a wool blanket over him.


“I can still move my fingers and toes. No permanent damage” Dave announced. He attempted to sound clinical, but I could hear relief pouring from each syllable.


“It's really lucky you guys showed up” I told our new companions “Do you live around here?”

The woman made a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt.


“That's one way of putting it. I'm Megan Sorrel. He's called Quinn. He doesn't say much.”


I shook hands and introduced myself. I was astonished at how cold their hands remained even after drying by the fire. With their hoods and masks removed, I finally could get a good look at them. Megan was a handsome woman with her dark hair cropped in a fashionable short style I couldn't pinpoint it, but she looked familiar somehow. Quinn would have been a perfect specimen of a blonde breezy Californian were it not for an unusual network of facial scars and his pale skin. Both of them had skin even paler than Dave's when he was first pulled from the water and the same unusual shade of green eyes. I wanted to ask if they were related and how Quinn had come by his injury, but I felt that it might be impolite. Instead we sat for several moments in mildly oppressive silence.


“The Lodgepole man says that you have come from far away” said Megan, more as a statement than a question


“That's right. We live down towards Carson.” I affirmed. “Dave wanted to swim the lakes.”

“Thanks for saving my life, by the way” Dave chimed from beneath the blanket


“I haven't yet, but I will” Megan told him “I will save both of you. Take my word on this. You do not belong here. You should go and never come back. Forget your swim”


“Okay, I choked up a bit, but I'm sure I can make it across after a few days rest” Dave protested


“You aren't listening. We're showing you a kindness because you are strangers here. Get in your boat and turn back. If you swim another stroke the lake will claim you and you will never leave it again. Tuurngiat Lake is protected ”


“Look, Don't think I'm not grateful to you and all, but you can't scare me with whatever superstitious nonsense there is about this lake. I don't believe...Where'd they go?”


The mysterious pair had vanished as suddenly as they appeared, leaving not even a footprint. The campfire was the only sign that anyone else had ever been there.


*****************************************************
Once we had loaded up the last of the gear, we sat in the cab of the truck with the heater blasting watching the sun descend behind the peaks.


“Okay, that was a little weird, but I think we ought to try again next weekend, don't you?” Dave announced, breaking the silence.


“No.” I said “I think that's a really bad idea.”


“Oh come on! Just because they slipped away and hid while we weren't looking? I thought you had more sense than that Tim.”

I took a deep breath and weighed my words carefully, scarcely believing what I was about to say.
“It's not that. Well, it's not just that. If it were just the disappearance, I might think it was just some sort of trick but-”
“But what?”


I considered telling him about what I had seen, but after I regarded my friend's incredulous expression, I knew Dave would think I had completely lost my mind. Another detail, no less uncanny, floated to the top of my recollection .

“Do you remember the girl who was supposed to have drowned here last year?”

“Yeah, sure. What about her?”


“Well when you got up to use the bathroom back at the bar, I read the clipping. I just remembered. Her name was Meg Sorrel.”

“Are you kidding me? That's your reason? It's either some locals messing with us or a coincidence. It can't be the same person.”


“I think it was. There was a picture”

Dave sighed heavily
“Unbelievable! I'm the one who has a near death experience, and somehow you are the one coming unhinged. Tell you what, Let's go back to Barrelhead. We'll have some dinner at the Lodgepole, you can take another look at your article, and you'll see how stupid you're being. Maybe then we can talk about this like reasonable people. All right?”


***************************************************


An hour later, as we were arguing over the map on the shoulder of the road, a highway patrol cruiser pulled up behind us in the dark.


“There any trouble, fellas?” The trooper was a large suet-y man in his late fifties His gleaming pink face appeared as though it had been shaped from pressed ham


“Hi officer, we're a little lost. We're trying to get back into Barrelhead.” I said


When he burst into laughter, it occurred to me that I had never actually heard anyone guffaw before.


“Now what on earth would you want to go there for?”

“We thought we'd get a bite to eat, and maybe spend the night” Dave told him


“I suppose you can if you want” the trooper chuckled, “But you'd be the first people to do so for about a hundred years. Barrelhead's a ghost town, boys. I have no idea why they keep putting it on the map. The only road in has been totally grown over for at least sixty years. What you want to do is push on for Smokesville. That's about forty to forty five minutes south on Route 18. Tell Erma at the diner that Officer Daniels sent you. She'll treat you allright. Drive safe now.”


Still chortling to himself, Officer Daniels swaggered back to his car and sped off.


Dave's face was a mask of disbelief.
“Okay, now I'm freaking out.” he muttered “ What the hell did we eat for breakfast?”



-J. Ryan 2013

Food for thought

Here's something to consider:

Look down at your clothing. What are you wearing? Does it fit you? Is it comfortable? Did you think very much about it before you put it on, or like me, did you just pick the first items that appeared to be clean? Even if you took elaborate care and thought in choosing every item you wore- making certain your shoes offset your shirt just right, and so forth- here's something so simple and obvious that it probably never even occurred to you at the time: Every garment you are wearing was most likely made by another person. There are of course rare exceptions to this statement, but chances are even if you have made every item of your own wardrobe, it is unlikely that you also harvested the raw material, processed it, dyed it, and wove it into a cloth. These activities were all done for you by other people who you will, in all probability, never meet.

They might live on the opposite side of the world, or two houses away for all you know. Now think about the hundreds and hundreds of items you use every day, from the tools you use, to the food that you eat, to the place where you live. Every one of these things represent a moment in the life of another living person with thoughts, loves, and dreams like yours. They each have friends and family as well. They made these things for you. They most likely never knew or cared that the thing they were doing in that moment was for you. Whatever their reason for creating the object in question whether it was an exquisitely crafted piece, made with the joy of a crafts-person, or the cheapest piece of mass produced garbage produced at the end of a long shift, somebody made these things. Each and every life in this society is utterly dependent on the work of anonymous others.

If you met these people face to face, what would you say to them- The person who designed your computer, who harvested the cotton for your clothes, or made your favorite cup? Would you want to thank them, or offer criticism? What if you discovered they were the person you cut off in traffic, or the guy you smiled at in the street?
Would this change anything?

Here it is, the fact that is so massive, that it is nearly impossible to see . It is as easy to take for granted as gravity or oxygen and just as necessary for our survival:

We are all, in the most real and tangible sense, connected to every other human life on this planet. Our actions, for good or bad change the world around us in ways we can never comprehend. Regardless of belief or politics, Each and every person is an important part of our world that helps shape it into what it is, regardless of whether they understand that or not.

Taking this into consideration, don't we owe every person we meet a huge debt of gratitude? Isn't it our duty to, at very least, be kind to one another?

Under this light, the highest human aspiration would be to make the world a better place for everyone else in whatever way we can.  

...and sometimes I get cranky and wind up writing Letters to the Editor

Published in this weeks edition of "Hometown Oneonta"
(The Daily Star wants it to be 177 words shorter)

During the course of my apartment hunt, I was recently shown an apartment with a hole in the ceiling large enough to fit a dining room table into. The owners of the building treated the fact that the tenants of the apartment upstairs may at any moment become roommates with a blasé indifference that needs to be seen to be properly admired. They assured me that the obvious massive structural damage was no problem and could be patched up and ready for me to move into by tomorrow.
The truly astonishing thing about this story is not merely that it is perfectly factual and presented without the slightest exaggeration, but that the landlords in question were actually willing to rent Non-Student Tenants.

A person like myself who has been searching for less than a year might actually stand a chance of finding a place to live here.

This sort of thing must be stopped!

Oneonta, as you may know is in the midst of a severe housing crisis. Of all the apartments here, a mere 97% of them are made exclusively available for student rental.

Clearly this is not sufficient. All local rental units must be converted to student-only housing without delay!

Unfortunately the landlords of this town are forced to contend with a persistent population of non student renters, who, with their unreasonable demands, are far from ideal tenants. These are the sort of tenant who will actually have the audacity ask for their security deposit back, request to be allowed to keep pets, and worst of all demand to live in the kind of conditions where the SPCA will allow animals to live. Our poor landlords are virtually powerless against this outrage. The rules governing rental housing in our beloved town are so hard on landlords that they may occasionally consider obeying them! Some are left no choice but to rent to so-called “Young Professionals” (which we all recognize as a euphemism for things like:“Adjunct Professor” or “New Family”).

It is essential that the town council do everything that they can to eliminate the subtle menace of these adult renters from gaining a toehold in our beloved town. If we allow such undesirable persons to find a place to live here, they may eventually buy houses, start businesses in our precious vacant storefronts and disrupt the cherished Status Quo with completely unwelcome prosperity. I urge you, Citizens of Oneonta, to do everything in your power to prevent this dangerous element from making their homes here. Keep our rents high and standards of living low! Make sure our younger population stays transient and do your part to prevent terrifying change from taking root. We must do everything in our power to prevent any potential of a population increase.

Only by taking definitive action against this menace today can we keep things exactly the way they are!

John Ryan
Oneonta?

Save The Arts! An Open Letter to The Upper Darby School Board

The school district I attended is planning to cut it's arts and physical education programs in a shortsighted attempt to save money. I think that this is an absolutely devastating and foolish decision. Everything that can be done to prevent this should be attempted,  Please do your part and sign the petition Here. I wrote the letter below to express just how important this issue is. I regret that I cannot be more personally involved due to the fact I no longer live there. Please feel free to forward this to anyone you feel needs to see it. I know I plan to.

Dear Upper Darby School Board:

    You have recently announced plans to cut funding for the arts in your schools, effectively eliminating them. While this may provide you with short term financial benefits, I believe that the consequences of this action are greater than you could anticipate I am writing to encourage you to reconsider. I work as a professional puppeteer who tours throughout elementary schools all over the country. I therefore get to witness the impact the arts have on the lives of children. Unfortunately for your purposes, these effects are not easily quantifiable. How do you measure laughter or inspiration? Unlike most other subjects, the nebulous benefits of arts education are notoriously difficult to gauge. Fortunately, as both a professional artist and alumnus of you school system I am into the unique position to provide you with some statistical information.

    According to The Pennsylvania Youth Suicide Prevention Initiative's website (PAYSPI), an average of 1300 young Pennsylvanians take their own lives. I can state with absolute authority that in the period between 1986-1993 that, because of active participation In Upper Darby's arts programs, at least one less young person cut their own life short.

    Some well meaning adult told me during my senior year that someday I would look back on my high school career as the best time of my life. They were not at all amused when I responded by jokingly requesting to be shot. This was typical of my attitude towards school, which I also recall comparing to a minimum security prison. I was an introverted and socially awkward student, combating clinical depression and the added social stigma of having been classified as “Learning Disabled”. I was relentlessly bullied by my peers for being “weird” and “different”. The overall result was that I was one of those students that are the bane of a teacher's existence: a reasonably bright student who refused to apply himself. I was miserably unhappy and contemplated suicide often. I even made a few attempts at it.

    When I tell you that participation in several excellent arts programs, including Summerstage, Marching band, and various visual art classes, saved my life, I am by no means exaggerating or employing hyperbole. Learning that I had some aptitude for drawing and theater gave me a focus and sense of purpose that I couldn't find in any of my other courses. Through these programs, I found that I was no longer alone. I met new friends who showed me that would never fit in with the mainstream, I was funny, talented, and likable. I learned to cherish my “weirdness” as a manifestation of my creativity. I clung to the arts like a life raft. I auditioned for every production I could and began to spend lunch and study hall periods in the art department whenever the understanding faculty would let me. I found something to live for. Through persistence and hard work I developed my abilities to the point where I was accepted to a good art school. Today I am a living example of a very different statistic: I am one of the 5% of art school graduates who work in their chosen field.

     I hope that when it comes time for you to make your final decision, You will consider my story. Arts programs can actually save lives. I realize that my experience is not typical, but consider this: while they may be in the minority, there are others out there like myself who need the arts programs on a fundamental level. Their lives are worth saving. Mine certainly was.

John A. Ryan

Puppeteer and Sculptor
Upper Darby High School Class of 1993

Bestiary I: The Manthikaar

                                                                 The Manthikaar

Manthikaar (male) in threat display

                                Description:
The manthikaar is a medium sized, muscular species of tiger. Their coats are shaggier (especially in the winter) and more subtly marked than those of other tigers. They are darker orange to crimson in color with dark brown stripes that form a nearly solid chocolate colored patch along the animal's back. The ears are small and dark brown. The underside is whitish in color with white patches of longer fur along it's cheeks, eyebrows and around the mouth and tuft of the tail. These patches are longer and more pronounced in males. Males are also sometimes as much as ten times larger than females. The manthikaar, due to the short, compact shape of it's skull,has a muscular jaw which gives it a powerful bite. The paws are broad and thick making the creature able to climb easily and negotiate drifting sand and snow easily. The unusual tufts of “facial hair” along with the comparatively short muzzle give the manthikaar's face a cantankerous and nearly human appearance, which gives this animal it's name. (In the Muhor language lit.: Manthi=elder[masculine], kaar=sand. Or: Old man of the Desert)

                                                                       Behavior

Not much is known about the manthikaar in the wild as it is a solitary, secretive creature that is primarily nocturnal and prefers inaccessible habitat. They are territorial animals that will aggressively drive away, not only members of their own species, but any other large animal that it considers to be competition. A manthikaar when threatened, will arch its back and hold it's tail over it's body in a manner reminiscent of scorpions, while emitting a series of low coughing growls. If this threat is not heeded, the animal will attack immediately and will persist until the threat is either driven off or killed. Mating occurs in the towards the end of the short rainy season. Courtship is brief as the male and female will only tolerate each other on their territory for short periods. Two to three cubs are born in the spring. They are independent and sexually mature at one year of age, although it is estimated that only forty percent of cubs will reach this age. Manthikaar are hardy resourceful hunters that rely mainly on the traditional feline “ambush “ strategy. It is uncertain how long they can survive without food and water, but it is widely accepted that during lean periods, this animal can lose as much as forty five percent of it's body weight with no apparent ill effects. Their metabolism is thought to slow down to nearly exothermic levels when stressed. Manthikaar have been known to live up to twenty years in captivity. Their lifespan in the wild is unknown.

                                                                        Habitat:

Found throughout the western foothills of the Rusting Mountains and the Great Northern Desert. It prefers rocky, arid terrain relatively close to water.

                                                                           Diet:

The manthikaar is a versatile and opportunistic hunter. From camels to mice, it has been known to eat anything it can catch including wolves, hares, goats, tortoises, unicorns, wild boar, pheasant, mountain oxen, deer, and young dragons. While accounts of predation on livestock are doubtlessly exaggerated, they do take place. More frequently than other big cats, this species will intentionally hunt people. There have also been unconfirmed reports of manthikaar fishing and scavenging.

                                                                           Status:

Locally common

                                                                          Threats:

The manthikaar has fared better than many big cats due to it's secretive nature, fearsome reputation, and local taboos. Development and habitat encroachment have been minor threats due to the rugged terrain preferred by these animals. Still, It's fur is warm, soft, and attractive which makes it prized and a pelt fetches a handsome price. They are also hunted to protect livestock. An adult animal is fairly safe from predation, but cubs and adolescents are threatened by larger predators, such as bears. There has been reliable documentation of instances of an older manthikaar preying on cubs, but these instances of cannibalism are thought to be rare.

                                                   The coming of the Mantakaar

                                                           A Muhor tale

In the time of our Ancestors, There lived a fierce and warlike tribe on the plains to the east. This , you say, is nothing unusual and you are right to think so. On the plains of Kentar, such people grow as plentifully as the golden grasses. This particular tribe that I speak of was so wicked and bloodthirsty, it is said even their own horses were afraid of them. They craved battle as a man in the desert craves water. They swept across the land like a winter storm destroying any who they came upon. Even the other tribes lived in fear of them and would flee when they approached. One day the chieftain of this murderous horde called his men together and spoke to them thus:

“Oh, Brave Horsemen, Mighty warriors, Hear my words! Our shadows have grown too long on these plains. There are none left who has courage enough to face us . It has been a long time since we have tested our strength in battle. We have taken to fighting among ourselves for want of an opponent and I fear our proud people will soon tear ourselves asunder if we continue in this manner. I say let us pack up our encampment, leave the Kentari Plains and look to the west. I hear that on the far side of the towering snow-peaked Rustings, there is a rich and beautiful land of jeweled cities and fragrant gardens. There every woman has the beauty and bearing of a queen in any other land. Why should we not go there and live as kings?”

The fearsome band quickly agreed and set out that day for the foothills of the Rusting Mountains. Now, I needn't tell you how treacherous the mountain passes can be, even when the spirits have not set themselves against you. There are snowstorms,avalanches and biting winds. The passes are narrow and high, with sharp rocks beneath. Wild beasts and demons live there. Only a great fool would attempt to cross the mountains unguided. These tribesmen were born without fear and were ignorant of all of this. They did not know the way or the words to appease the spirits, who were angered by such arrogance. Before long the spirits beset these travelers with the worst the mountains had in store. While they were mighty warriors, a spear cannot fight against weather and hunger. Lost and starving they were forced to eat their horses. Many succumbed to the cold or sickness, or else fell to their demise, leaving their bones to bleach in the sun and be picked clean by the birds. So it was that a journey that should have taken no more than ten days lasted for many months. Fate was kind to our people and merciless to those warriors of the plains.

           When the survivors emerged on the other side those unforgiving peaks , exhausted, battered and only a handful of their former numbers left, they came out too far south. They did not see the shining silver ribbon of the Anajai beneath them, surrounded by the rich green fields and bright roofs of our cities that welcome us home from our wanderings. No, They came out in a place where the hostile red wastelands of the Great Northern Desert stretched from horizon to horizon uninterrupted. The remaining men tore out their hair and bellowed in fury to have traveled so far and so hard through the mountains only to come to an inhospitable barren place. They turned upon their Chieftain with blame in their eyes, In their rage those men tore him to pieces with their bare hands. In that moment they finally became completely uncivilized. The last trace of the tribe's humanity vanished. They turned into wild beasts. Hair sprung from their flesh, their hands turned to claws and their teeth lengthened to fangs. Great curving tails arched over their backs like a scorpion's. Their heads flattened and became empty of any thought but hunger. Their eyes burned with unquenchable anger.

 

       From that time forward, those once haughty warriors skulked in the shadows of night as large wild cats. They shun all company and have become the beast we now call “Manthikaar” This is why the manthikaar's coat is red to remind any who look upon them that these beasts were born of blood and murder. It is said that these animals hate humans particularly and will devour them on sight because seeing people remind them of what they once were, and what they have become. Hunters believe that death reveals it's true appearance. They say just before a manthikaar, dies, or it kills you, the beast will show you his human face. Because of this, and because it's spirit is likely to be vengeful it is unlucky to kill a manthikaar.

                                                                Muhor

         Muhor is a small nation that is situated in the Anajai river valley between the Rusting Mountains and the Great Northern Desert. The Muhor people are hardy and compactly built. They are renowned for being shrewd merchants and skilled craftsmen. Muhor jewelry and leather-work is especially sought after. Muhor is primarily an agricultural economy. The fertile lands near the river are primarily given over to grains and orchards, while the foothills of the Rustings are populated mostly with shepherds and their flocks. Life in the arid lands around the Anajai is harsh and unforgiving. The river is swift, difficult to navigate, and given to frequent flooding. Storms can arise suddenly from the desert to their west and blizzards sweep down unexpectedly from the mountains to the east. Droughts are common. The winters are long and frigid. It is perhaps understandable that the Muhor are inclined to think of the natural word as being cruel and capricious. The main trading routes of the Muhor are either southwards via the Anajai River, Caravans east across the Great Northern Desert, or eastwards through the mountain passes and over the vast Kentari Plains. As the climate of the plains is much more hospitable than that of their homeland, many Muhor have attempted to settle here, only to be driven off by the proud nomadic tribesmen who live there. The tribes of Kentar are also not above raiding a Muhor supply train. Consequently, very little love is lost between the two cultures.

Copyright J. Ryan 2012

Recovery

       Exactly one week ago after meeting a significant deadline, and entertaining  friends at what i think was a pretty good party in my home, I was truck by two unusual pieces of fortune. The first being that shortly after the last guest departed and I could finally relax and turn in for the night, my immune system also decided that it had earned a well earned break and let a particularly virulent stomach flu through it's defenses unchallenged. I will due the reader the small courtesy of not describing this in any greater detail than to say it was notably worse than any travel ailment I have ever contracted. The second piece of fortune was that after a lifetime of abuse at my hands, my laptop had come to the conclusion that it had done it's last noble duty and shut itself down permanently (my adversarial relationship with modern technology is near legendary).  So there I was, laid up for three days unable to eat solid foods and with no electronic means to distract myself from my discomfort. Honesty compels me to admit that at the time I was not feeling particularly lucky at the time.

        I did what all sick people do when there is nothing else to occupy their time. I slept, drank plenty of fluids, read, and thought. I thought about how much I enjoyed getting lost in a good book. When was the last time I had done that? I realized that I do not draw very much anymore either. I had gotten a laptop to write with and instead I spent most of my time basically channel surfing from video to puzzle game to mildly entertaining website. I have wasted countless hours of my precious and finite life doing this! Meanwhile the back storehouse of my mind was piled high with ideas for any number of projects and stories that would be perfectly usable with just a bit of work. Instead of putting in the effort required when I came across one of these artifacts of thought. I would sigh, mutter the word someday under my breath and go back to exploding colored orbs on a screen. I was behaving like a man who was given a treasure map and used it to patch the hole in the roof!
         I looked at my lifeless computer on the floor with it's jaunty checker-cab paint job (The friend who sold it to me neglected to mention that it was yellow until it was too late. I had to fix that somehow. I always sort of liked the results). I thought about what was stored on it. If I could turn it on one last time, it wouldn't be links to the network of distracting websites I would rescue, it would be the story drafts and artists statements, and various photo files  I would try to preserve. Maybe some of them weren't very good, but dammit they're mine, truly mine and I want them back!  (Another friend assures me that I should fortunately be able to save most if not all of these). My life was being frittered on trivialities. How had I permitted this to happen?

     As I regained my health, My sense of perspective recovered with it. As soon as I could manage I erased my access to those games that were all too easy to spend a day playing and brought nothing productive into my life. I grabbed a notebook and sketch pad from a nearby table and began to flesh out one of those thoughts that had obsessed me in a minor way for years. I did not complete it, it may be years before I can. I have at least made a good beginning and this is sometimes enough to be going on with. For now I am reading more and enjoying the slow meticulous work that must follow the first rush of a new creative venture, rediscovering the simple and easily forgotten truth that to walk a great distance, you must travel one step after another. I can proudly tell you that probably the most time I spent in front of a screen since last week  has been writing this entry. Once I saw my bad habits for what they were and what they cost to maintain, it became very difficult to contemplate returning to them. If the circumstances that led to this minor epiphany are not in retrospect extremely fortunate, then I do not understand what luck is!

Fiction: Border Crossing Part III

                                                                III

The Manticore’s eyes burned with mad ferocity, His all-too-human face was empty of any expression apart from raw, vacant hunger. The monster’s gaping maw hung slack and slathering revealing rows of sharklike teeth within. Ribs protruded from his gaunt lion body. The beast’s ragged panting echoed across the barren rocks and gnawed bones of his lair. His breath was fetid and foul smelling. From the hair of his matted threadbare mane to the poison dripping tip of his scorpion tail, the manticore was a creature of anger hunger and want. He was quite possibly the most terrifying thing Connor had ever seen

Alba’s hand drifted carefully towards her blade’s hilt. With infinite care she drew the sword from its scabbard.  To Connor’s shock, she deliberately set the weapon down beside her. She began to croon softly to the ravening beast in Russian. Connor didn’t understand the words but the tone was unmistakably gentle and even affectionate, as if coaxing a frightened child. The manticore rocked uncertainly for a moment on its haunches, the chitinous, segmented tail cocking like a squirrel’s. He lurched to his feet and began padding towards them.

“What the hell are you doing?” hissed Connor in panic “Don’t call it!”
                “Shut up and let me concentrate,” she rebuked without changing tone or looking away “watch!”

At first Connor thought he must be hallucinating. The Manticore appeared to be walking forward without moving. Then he realized that it was shrinking as it came nearer.

“How are you doing that?” He gasped

Alba scratched the ears of the rust colored cat that stood in the manticore’s place.

“It wasn’t me,” she told him “the enchantment is the Light Queen’s”

The cat purred appreciatively at Connor’s caress. Connor laughed with relief.

“It was a harmless cat all along?” he chuckled, incredulous.

“It would be more accurate to say he’s still a manticore” sniffed Alba. Connor hastily withdrew his hand. The cat butted his leg affectionately.  

“Wait, What? How?” Connor demanded

Alba sighed wearily.

“It’s all about perception”, she explained as she absentmindedly stroked the animal. “If we had fled, he would have chased and devoured us. Had we fought, we would have been faced with an invincible foe.  He reacts to the way he is treated. The Queen loves enchantments like this. It’s her style”

*************************************************************

The tiny tailor cast an appraising eye over his handiwork. His push-broom mustache twitched.

“That will do nicely” He concluded

“I’m not wearing this, I look like a clown!” groused Connor.

“You must dress not to draw attention to yourself on the Other Side, Sir”, the tailor chided. He reminded Connor of his neighbor’s geriatric terrier. “this way you will not draw attention to yourself”.

Connor gazed at his own reflection. He couldn’t imagine any situation where this outfit wouldn’t stand out

“I want to see!” Alba’ voice demanded. The dressing room door burst open. Connor had never seen anyone actually fall over laughing before.

“No! Absolutely not!” She wheezed with mirth.

“All the Bards of the realm dress in this fashion, Lady”. The tailor’s watery eyes were full of reproach.

“No they do not” she fired back, still giggling. “How do you expect him to walk all the way to the Queen’s court in those stupid curly toed shoes? Get him a decent pair of boots, for heaven’s sake! While you’re back there, put that quilt he’s wearing back on your bed and get a travelling cloak that isn’t made of patchwork. Brown or gray would be best.”

The spindly tailor drew himself up with dignity.

“As the Lady wishes, but how will people know the gentleman is a bard?”

“He’s not a bard, he’s just a musician” Alba corrected “If it comes to that he can tell them. Now go get a more practical cloak and boots. I need to change.”

“Wait a minute, what about the hat?” Connor demanded pointing at the gigantic black floppy creation with it’s yard long maroon feather.

“That, we’re keeping” Alba grinned wickedly and disappeared into the next stall. The tailor bowed formally before vanishing into the back room in a cloud of unhappy muttering. 

“If anyone asks, we’re on our way to a costume party right?” she reminded him from the other side of the wall.

“Won’t that sword in your garment bag be a problem?” he asked

“It was made in the Realm. Most people on our side can’t see it. Also, unlike most metal it can be carried over the border. You remembered not to bring anything metal right?”

“Just my mandolin strings. You said that was okay. Will I need a weapon?”

“You don’t know how to use one, so no”, her accurate diagnosis was muffled by a rustle of fabric Instrument strings are fine as long as they aren’t iron”

“Why do I need the mandolin in the first place?” The tailor re emerged and began to make the changes to Connor’s costume.

“It’s custom to bring a gift to court. The Queen likes music. You’ll play for her.”  Alba’s voice explained.  Connor glanced back into the mirror. He had to admit the new boots and cloak were an improvement.  The door swung open again.

“How do I look?” Alba twirled in front of him. She looked as though she had just stepped off of a decorative beer stein and was about to start yodeling. Connor had never seen anyone looking less like a warrior.

“Fine” he told her gruffly. The tailor obviously didn’t feel this was sufficient.

“Your Ladyship looks very fetching. If I may advise, though, the fashion is to wear one’s hair loose these days.”

Alba patted her tight French braids

“It’s out of the way like this.” she decided after a second of inspecting her reflection. The tailor produced two carved wooden lockets from his vest pocket. She placed one around her own neck before putting one on Connor.

“What’s this?” he asked

“Soil from here. It’ll keep you grounded”

“Seriously?”

Alba nodded. 

“Time moves differently across the border. You never know if you’ll come back five minutes after you left, or a hundred years. If you carry a bit of earth from your side with you, it keeps the connection stronger. You won’t lose more than a year with this on. Now let’s get moving. We have a long way to go.

As they left Alba pressed a few large golden coins into the tailor’s palm. He made one more valiant attempt to place the hat on Connor’s head.

“I’m not wearing that! She was joking!” Connor protested, ducking out the door.

Fiction: Border Crossing Part II

                                                                II

                The massive stone doorway dominated the muddy patch of esplanade where it stood. Like a giraffe in a bathtub, it demanded the viewer’s attention by its sheer size and improbability.

         “How can no one know about this being here?” breathed Connor, astonished.

        Alba calmly regarded the ancient, cathedral sized structure

                “If you don’t cross the Bridge of the Wind it is not here. The Mirror Gate is a between-place. You can only find it by one path.”

                “Impossible!” Connor murmured to himself.

                “You would not use that word so often if you truly understood it” she said. He found Alba’s matter-of fact demeanor a bit trying at times.  She pointed at an elaborately carved decorative relief panel.

                “Can you read this inscription? No?  Roughly translated, and leaving out the unnecessary poetry, it cautions you to stay on the path. It says that a great danger may lie within if you aren’t mindful of what you cannot be without.”

 Conner felt drained and confused and they hadn’t even passed the second obstacle. This was nothing like he had imagined such an adventure would be like.  His incomprehension must have shown on his face.

“Thoughts”, she explained patiently “It is called the Mirror Gate because it reflects what is in your mind. Do not ignore the warning. It is potentially the most dangerous of the Three Passages, worse even than The Guardian. Focus your mind and stay on the path no matter what you see or hear.  Flee from your greatest fear or chase your heart’s desire here and you’ll be lost forever. Concentrate and stay on the path. Are you ready to go? “

“Almost”, Connor tried to think of something pleasant and calm while his heart pounded in his throat.  “I know that this is kind of a personal question, but what do you see in there?”

Alba gave him a half smile.

“Wolves”, she stated. “Always it is wolves”

 *****************************************************

“It is a bit much to take in at first” Alba sympathized. 

Connor gazed out the diner window attempting to absorb everything he had just been told. On the other side of the glass a tiny woman rode by on the back of an enormous pig laden with baskets of apples. 

“So…like a parallel dimension?” he attempted

She lapped a dollop of mayonnaise from her thumb with a rose petal tongue.

“If it helps to think of it that way, then yes” she nodded

“…And all those stories about witches and dragons?”

“A better word might be memories. We’ve filled in the gaps with our imaginations over the years and gotten some of the details confused, but for the most part it’s amazing how much the old tales have gotten right. There’s a whole other realm that overlaps ours and for some reason you’re one of the few who can see it. This is a dangerous position to be in if you don’t know the terrain. It is crucially important we get you an audience with the Light Queen as soon as possible”.

“Wait”, Connor sputtered “you’re telling me there really is a queen of the fai…”

“Never use that word!” barked Alba. She rolled her eyes “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Say “Good Neighbors” or “Fair Folk” If you need to refer to them. You never know what you’ll summon otherwise”.

“I don’t get it. Aren’t we talking about the little people with butterfly wings? What’s so bad about them? “

Alba took another bite of her second bacon cheeseburger, chewed and swallowed before responding.

“You say that as if you hadn’t just seen a Kobold” she scoffed

“You mean the guy with the squashed-in face? How dangerous could he be?”

  “If he had found out which eye you could see him through, the nasty little beast would have plucked it out and eaten it like a grape. He nearly got your name, too.”  She smiled sweetly. “As it stands, through him you’ve already annoyed the Unseelie Court and there’s far worse than him under the Dark Queen.  That’s why we need to get you allied with the Seelie Court, and quick! To answer your question, there are, in fact, two Queens of the Star People: one light, one dark, both powerful and both of their courts are perpetually at war with each other and now you are in the middle of it.”

Connor stared unseeing at the crust of his club sandwich

“Why does this thing with names matter? I’m sure I’ve said the “f” word before and nothing happened”. 

Alba snatched another fry from his plate.

“Before, you didn’t notice. The thing about the other realm is when you notice it, it notices back. Words and names have power. It’s a magic so old we’ve all but forgotten it on our side. Giving someone your full name is like giving them a piece of yourself. It can be used to summon and control you. Never give your name to anyone you do not trust with your life. When in doubt introduce yourself as ….Heron.”

“Why Heron?”

“You look like one”, she giggled. “Now I’d like to summon some lemon meringue pie!”

“You’re so tiny, where are you putting all this food?” he marveled

“Quick metabolism” she grinned.

“I’ve been duped!” He cried in mock despair “I wish you had warned me about this before I agreed to treat, you’re going to bankrupt me!”

“Think of it as the lesser of two evils. The last person I know who annoyed a kobold had thorns spring up everywhere he sat. It took months to break the spell, too.” Alba smugly popped another of his fries in her mouth. “Besides, I’m going to act as your guide in the Beyond. It’s the least you can do.”

“You’ll really take me there? When?”

 “I need to get time off from work and inform my pack leader,” she mused. “It should take about a week. Until then, remember these rules: Never tell anyone your full name or use the “f” word, never accept a bargain or a gift without understanding the true cost, be polite to everyone you meet, and under no circumstances eat or drink anything given to you from the Other Side.  Follow these guidelines and you just might survive long enough to make the journey.”

Connor chuckled uneasily.

“Pack leader? Don’t tell me…you’re some sort of werewolf” He had made the joke to cover his nervousness, but he could tell immediately he had said exactly the wrong thing. Alba’s thin frame stiffened and her eyes narrowed.  In a razor edged whisper she informed him:

“No. Not a werewolf, a lycanthropist!”

“Listen…No! I’m sorry! You’ve been really good to me, explaining everything and offering to help me and all. I really am grateful, and I went and insulted you without even meaning to!”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed.

“I forgive you, Connor. You didn’t know what you were saying. It is exactly that sort of mistake that could cost you your life, however. Try to be careful.”

“I still have so much to learn”, He shook his head ruefully “I don’t even know the difference between a werewolf and a lycanthropist “

“Self control” Alba announced.haughtily.

 *****************************************************

Two days after Alba and Connor exchanged numbers and parted company, He found himself wandering in Riverside Park just before sunset. It was strange, he reflected, how quickly he had gotten used to seeing things almost nobody else could. It certainly helped to understand that they really existed, and for the most part would leave him alone.  As he wandered, Connor became aware of a sweet melancholy ambling music played on some sort of breathy flute.  The source of this melody was a satyr perched on an ornamental boulder in a small spruce grove, playing a reed pipe.  He sat down on a nearby bench to listen. The music drifted to a gradual finish. Without looking up, the satyr spoke.

“If you don’t want to appear to be talking to yourself, you might pretend to use your mobile telephone” The goat-man’s voice was rich and deep without the slightest hint of a bleat to it. Connor fished the device out of his pocket and put it to his ear.

“Thank you. That’s a really good suggestion” Connor said into the phone. “You play beautifully.”

The Satyr slid down from the rock and trotted over to join him on the bench. The fur of his legs along with his beard was a blotchy brown and white pattern. His face handsomely fused human features and a goat’s muzzle. The creature gave the air of youth and merriment one moment, and great dignity and wisdom the next. Connor wondered how old his new acquaintance really was, and wondered if concepts like age had any bearing on creatures like this.

“My friends know me as Cattail” offered the satyr extending   a thick strong hand. Connor shook it firmly.  He remembered Alba’s warnings.

“I’m called Heron.”  The name still tasted strange in his mouth.

Cattail nodded slowly. His amber eyes had the strange horizontal pupils of a goat’s.

“That suits you. You are Dooley’s new musician friend?” It was more of a statement then a question. Connor was surprised

“You know Dooley?

“Our world is smaller than this one these days. Word travels through it fast, and everyone knows the Invisible Man. He is a powerful friend to have.”

“Why do you call him that?”

The satyr exhaled slowly.

“Dooley gave himself that title. It is his joke. He says on this side you need no magic to vanish, you just need to hold a paper cup and mutter.”

Connor digested this.

“It’s not vey funny “he said finally.

Cattail turned his painfully earnest face towards Connor.

“No, Heron.” He agreed solemnly “It is not funny”.

The man and satyr sat together for a moment in silence.

“I’m going across soon, what is it like on the other side?” Connor asked

“The realm has many different faces, just like here. My glade is green, cool and peaceful. Naiads sing from the deep pool, and there are many kinds of fruit to eat. It is a beautiful place.” Cattail reflected on his home contentedly for a moment before asking, “You are going to visit The Queen?”

  Connor confirmed this was so.

Cattail ran his hand over his curved horn thoughtfully.

“It is a long and perilous journey. You will need a protector. Do you have someone to guide and guard you on your way?

“A girl has agreed to take me, but I don’t know if she’ll be much of a protector really.” Connor told him, “She’s called Ice.”

The satyr drew in a sharp breath.

“You do not know Lady Ice very well, I assume?” The words seemed to come from a long way off.

“We just met. Why?”

Cattail paused to choose his words.

“Heron, listen” he finally said “There are creatures across the border too terrible to contemplate, beasts of nightmares with no mercy and hearts of shadow. When these things awaken from their dreams in terror and cold sweat, Lady Ice’s name is on their lips. She is a fierce warrior and one of the most respected among the Wolves.  You could not have chosen better if you thought about it for many days. You are most fortunate in your friends.”

 ******************************************************

“It is time” Alba stated, “Let’s go

The gigantic doors began to grind open with glacial speed

“I have to return from this,” Connor thought irrelevantly “I promised Cattail we would teach each other some tunes”

Alba sighed heavily as the stone doors gradually swung open.

“Nothing is ever done without dramatics here” she complained theatrically to the sky, “It gets tedious”.

Connor laughed anxiously. He gripped the handle of his mandolin case and forced himself to concentrate on the trip he took to Yellowstone when he was nine.  With a deep breath he followed his guide through the Mirror gate and into Fairie.

Fiction: Border Crossing Part I

        Since several people told me how much they had enjoyed "Haunted", I decided to try my hand at another story.  Interestingly, Dooley, Alba and Connor all started out as minor characters in other tales. Those of you who know me well enough to know my weakness for wordplay will appreciate the fact that when it came time to give Alba a surname, I resisted the urge to make it "Kortuna" or"Tross".

Without further ado, here's the first installment of "Border Crossing"

Enjoy!

    Border Crossing

          “Just keep walking and stop looking down!” chided Alba.

Connor swallowed and forced his eyes away from the brightly lit party boat in the icy river twenty feet below.  The ancient rope bridge gave another sickening lurch.

           “I may not actually be mentally ill, but I have definitely lost my mind.” He told the night air under his breath. He tried to focus on a fixed point on the horizon like all the books said, but it was difficult to choose one among the brightly lit city skyline when the slightest breeze made the bridge sway. He checked the strap of his mandolin case again and tried focusing on the pommel of Alba’s sword. This did not help.  

         “I still don’t see why we couldn’t cross over there” Connor complained pointing at the remarkably stable looking suspension bridge upstream.

         Alba shot a reproving look over her shoulder and sighed dramatically.

          “I know I explained it. You keep thinking in terms of conventional geography. We could get to the same shore that way but it would be a different realm.  This is the only way, see?”

          Connor did not see. He never liked heights at the best of times and crossing the river at midnight on a frail rope bridge that might technically be imaginary was not the best of times.

         “As tall as you are, I don’t see how you can be afraid of heights”, Alba stated airily “It must be traumatic for you to get out of a chair.”

             Connor swallowed hard and did not answer.  He knew she was only trying to lighten the mood but the only thing that would do that would be for him to stand on solid ground again.

        “If it weren’t for that homeless man I wouldn’t be here right now”, he thought, staring at his own blanched knuckles.

                                    *********************************************

           “Do you have anything that you can give a poor soul who’s down on his luck?” slurred the beggar, holding out a grimy palm towards Connor.

         The old man’s face was gaunt and wrinkled as a walnut. His matted beard would probably become white after the next rainstorm.  His ragged clothes smelled of whiskey, sweat and earth. People walking through the park were making a wide detour around him.

        Connor invented a code that he lived by when he moved into the city. Part of it was that no matter how drug addled or lunatic the person addressing him appeared, he would always respond politely. He would never allow himself to forget that they were a person too.

         “I’m sorry, sir. I just spent the last money I had getting this banjo repaired.  Unless you want a tune, I’m afraid I have nothing to give.” Connor expected the old fellow to swear or shuffle away disappointed. Instead the beggar clapped his filthy hands clapped and crowed with delight.

          “Aha! That will do for me! A tune on your banjo will be just the thing to lift old Dooley’s spirits. Play for me, lad! Let it be a merry tune”, Dooley nodded slowly with the sagacity and certainty only available to the very drunk.  “This old world has enough sorrow in it”

         Nonplussed, Connor made his way to a nearby bench, unpacked the instrument and checked his tuning.  Another one of his principles was that he never refused to play when asked.  He brushed his sandy hair out of his eyes and began to pick out a jaunty reel that he learned just last week from his friend Tom.  Halfway through the first phrase he was amused to remember it was called “Whiskey Before Breakfast”. Dooley shut his liquor blurred eyes and began to sway appreciatively. Before long, his sway had turned into a loose jointed, inebriated, shuffling sort of hornpipe. Connor found himself chuckling as he played.  The laughter proved infectious. Connor realized as he began to improvise on the theme that he was now in the middle of a small knot of people who were laughing and clapping along with the song.  He finished to applause and the audience dispersed. About ten dollars had been dropped into his case. Connor fished out the money and pressed it into Dooley’s palm.  The old man eyed him suspiciously. For an instant Connor could have sworn the beggar’s eyes became clear and focused.

         “What’s this for” Dooley demanded

         “For you”, Connor replied “, I played you a tune and that tune made money, that makes it your money.”

        “A gift freely given?” Dooley asked, apparently confused.

        “That’s right.”

      The beggar struggled with the concept for a moment.

     “And you want nothing in return? You ain’t even going to tell me not to spend it on booze? ”

     “Would it do any good if I did?” countered Conner, laughing.  

     “Gift freely given” Dooley told the sky. The intoxicated slur was gone from his voice. The beggar’s eyes had suddenly become sharp and bright as though they had emerged from behind a cloud.

    “Had you said or done differently, lad, I would have walked off without more than a fair thee well”, Dooley addressed him with authority “but as you’ve done me a good turn asking for nothing in return, I must respond in kind. Your visions are real, son. Blocking them out with medicine is doing you no favors.”

    Connor could feel the blood drain from his narrow face. He had never told anyone about the hallucinations, not even his best friend Tom.

    “What? How did you… what are you …. That can’t be!”

     Dooley gave an avuncular chuckle

     “Typical of people nowadays. You run into something you can’t understand and you just deny it and assume that something must be wrong with you. You try to cure yourself before you even understand what you’re dealing with, and usually make things worse. That’s the age we live in I’m afraid.”

     “But I see things that can’t possibly be there!” protested Connor

     “That you believe can’t possibly be there” corrected Dooley “Tell me, since you know so much, do you see your visions with one eye and not the other?”

     Connor nodded mutely. He could not believe he was actually having this discussion.

      “They ever tell you to do things, or do they mostly just leave you be?”

      “They let me alone, but my analyst says…”

    “Doubtlessly a fine person”, interrupted Dooley “but they don’t know the first thing about it. Mostly when people see things that others cannot it’s a sign of madness. They’re seeing what isn’t there. Then, there are rare folks like you with the Sight.  You are seeing what’s really there, and what few others can. What you see can be, and is real. Stop taking your pills and you may learn something worth knowing.” 

     The old man’s eyes suddenly snapped out of focus. Dooley took a lopsided bow that nearly overbalanced his body and stumbled off down the path.   Connor packed his banjo and left the park as if in a dream. At the gate he looked back to convince himself that he hadn’t imagined the whole exchange. Dooley was engaged in a heated argument with a tree.  Shaking his head, Connor wandered off and tried to forget the whole thing.

        ****************************************************************************

    The next morning Connor found himself staring at the two white tablets in his palm, unable to bring himself to ingest them. He slid them back into the bottle.

   “What the hell, it’s just for one day.” He thought as he grabbed his keys and headed out the door to teach his first guitar lesson at the shop. Nothing strange happened all morning.

        That afternoon at the crosswalk of Oar St. and McCLancey , Connor stood beside a regal looking woman in a business suit waiting for the light to change when he heard a scuffling by his leg. Looking down he saw an odd little man who didn’t even come up to his knee. The spindly limbed creature had a look of intense concentration on his Pekinese -like face and one long fingered hand deep in the woman’s handbag. He extracted an expensive looking phone from the bag and a wide predatory grin split his stringy red beard. Conner instinctively snatched the gadget away from the little man.  Connor shot him a reproving look before turning to address the woman. She had clearly not noticed anything.

    “Excuse me miss, but this just fell out of your bag”

   Startled, the woman took the offered phone.

    “I didn’t even hear it drop. Thanks! My whole life is in that thing. I don’t know what I would do if I lost it” Without a backwards glance the woman crossed the street and turned into the doorway of a tall building.

     “Master is very clever to spot me”, chirped the little man in a surprisingly falsetto voice. Connor had expected a bullfrog croak from the stout little figure. “Tell me which eye you can see me out of, Clever Master!”  He was grinning sycophantically up at Connor with an impossibly wide mouth filled with tiny pointed teeth. The little man’s fawning demeanor failed to conceal the cold menace in his bulging eyes.

    “I am nowhere near fool enough to tell you that” Connor curtly told him

     The creature gave what it clearly believed to be a jovial laugh.

    “Master is clever indeed! Master must tell me his name so that I may properly in his service”  

    “Little Man, you have business elsewhere!” barked a stern woman’s voice from behind, causing them both to jump. The source of the voice was an ash blonde woman. She probably stood about five feet tall and every inch of her radiated indignation. The little man bowed deeply and simpered

      “Your pardon, My lady but I was merely asking my friend a question”

      The woman’s blue eyes narrowed with disgust

        “He is no friend of yours”, she sniffed haughtily “and you will get no answer”

       “Forgive me mistress, I meant no offense! “The creature groveled.

       “You have business elsewhere”, she stated imperiously. Connor realized that her slight accent was probably Russian.  “You should be off to discover what it is now. Do not mistake this for a suggestion.”

        The little man’s eyes bulged in abject terror. He bowed and scraped several steps backwards before bursting into a lopsided sprint into the mouth of an alley.  The woman turned her penetrating gaze on Connor.  He felt uncomfortably under scrutiny.

        “That”, she informed him “was a very stupid thing to do.”  

         “So I should have just let that…thing rob her? “ Connor demanded, feeing childish and indignant. He was treated to another critical stare.  She sighed

        “Probably not”, she admitted “but sometimes it’s wisest not to interfere. Most folk know me as Ice.” He shook the proffered hand,marveling how small it seemed in his own

        “ I’m Conner Davis. Nice to meet you.”

         The woman seemed slightly taken aback. She studied him for a long second before she appeared to reach a decision.

     “My Name is Alba Petrovavich“She smiled “and you, Connor Davis shall buy me lunch now.”

    “Um…Okay. Glad to. But why?”Conner asked, confused.

      Alba's smile widened knowingly as she counted the reasons off on her fingers:

     “Because I am hungry, because you need to know what I have to tell you, and because I have probably just saved your life!”

          

c. J. Ryan 2011