What If?

This morning I woke up excited. It's my 13th birthday, and a month ago my Dad promised to take me to a football game when I turned 13. I've wanted to go for as long as I can remember. Most of my friends at school have been before--it makes me feel kind of childish that I haven't, but Mom has always said that it's a horrible sport, and "no place for civilized humans, much less a child." I, of course, respond that I'm not a child; I'm a young man. She glares at me.

But today was my day. Dad had promised, and yesterday when he got home from work, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while Mom cooked dinner.

"I got tickets to tomorrow's game for you and me, Trent," he said. "I'm taking the day off work."

"Jack!" my Mom exclaimed, dropping a wooden spoon into the Spanish rice. "You CANNOT take him there!" There was fire in her gaze.

"Hon, he's going to see it sooner or later. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it is," Dad said, that soothing, calm tone in his voice.

Mom just looked at him for a minute, glaring with that look that would, if directed at me, cause my backside to start reddening spontaneously. Then her shoulders slumped, her head dropped to her chest, and she started crying quietly, shoulders heaving as big alligator tears dripped onto the stove top. Dad went over to her and wrapped her in his arms, stroked her hair, and whispered to her. It made me horribly sad, but strangely euphoric. I'm growing up, and Mom's starting to realize it. I hate hurting her, but it feels good to know that they're seeing that I need to start making my way into adulthood.

When Dad woke this morning, I was dressed and waiting in the living room.

"Happy Birthday, bud!"

"Thanks. You gonna get ready for the game?" I asked.

"Why don't you eat some cereal while I drink my coffee and shower," he said.

"Already ate," I replied. "How long 'til you'll be ready? We don't want to be late!"

He came over and sat down next to me. "Trent, I know you're excited, but trust me: the game won't start without us, OK?"

I nodded. He smiled at me for a moment. The smile made my chest swell with pride, and my eyes threaten to spill for some odd reason. He shook his head, swallowed, got up and moved back to their bedroom without another word.

We took his truck into the city. Mom wouldn't let us leave until he showed her that our tickets were in the family section of the Coliseum. "If he has to go, he has to go. But he DOESN'T have to sit with those uncivilized cretins." She packed us a light lunch, we loaded up and took off.

The Coliseum was packed out. The feeling was electrifying, hearing the crowd roar, and feeling that electric energy crackle across the stands, fans leaning forward to catch a glimpse of their team as they readied to come out onto the field. My heart was pounding before I sat down; by kickoff, I could barely breathe.

Dad sat quietly next to me, watching me, smiling lightly when I looked over to him.

It was an amazing game; both teams fought hard. The score was tied 13-13 until the last 20 seconds of the game when the opposing team fumbled the ball on the 37 yard line, and our linebacker grabbed it and ran it in for a touchdown.

The crowd exploded! Fans were jumping and screaming. The player who fumbled the ball slumped to the ground, shaking. It looked like he was crying. His teammates stood on the field, stunned and dejected. One guy started screaming, and ran toward the locker room. A guard blocked his way and he fell to the ground, head in hands.

There was a lot of celebrating on the field as the final buzzer sounded; all I could hear was a dull roar in my ears as the stands rumbled with the shouts and pounding feet of overexcited fans.

Then a sudden hush came over the crowd.

"They say the commissioner has no mercy," I heard a guy beside me mutter to a friend.

"What's happening, Dad?" I asked, uncertain.

"Shh. Just watch," he whispered.

Then a somber guy in a black suit who looked vaguely familiar was shown on the huge game screen above the stadium. He stood for a moment, glaring out at us as we craned to watch this strange turn of events. The he slowly extended his right arm, fist closed, thumb straight out to the side, and held it almost directly in front of the camera.

The crowd shifted as one, moving to the edge of their seats. Nobody was breathing. I looked up at my Dad; he was staring intently at the screen mouthing something under his breath. It sounded like, "No; please, no."

And as the Commissioner's thumb began it's slow arc downward, I heard my Dad gasp, "Oh God, No!" And then the crowd exploded again.

"What is this, Dad?" I asked, panicking a little.

He looked at me; his eyes were tearing up. "Bud, we're going to stay here because you need to understand something," he said.

"Dad!" I cried out, alarmed. My Dad never cries.

"They're prisoners, Trent," he said. "All of the players are prisoners. They practice for months for this one game. If they win, they're sent back to live the rest of their lives comfortably, their families with them there at the prison. If they lose, then the Commissioner decides their fate."

"What do you mean," I asked, staring down at the field as a slough of guards ushered the jubilant winning team off the field. The losing players were clamoring at the guards, trying to rush past toward the open gates there on the sunken field. Every time a losing player got too near the gate, a guard with a stun gun would zap him and he'd fall to the field, shaking.

Dad was crying openly now. "They're Christians bud. They were thrown into prison for being Christians. And now they're going to open that gate over there," he pointed across the field, "and release lions. And these...these people are going to cheer while those lions attack and maul losing team. Because they got a 'thumbs down' from that evil man up there."

I gaped up, uncomprehending. "I...I...Dad?" I stammered, as I heard the gate clang, and the roar of the crowd intensified. I glanced down as a huge lion bounded out of the open gate, directly at the last victim of the guards stun gun, as he twitched, trying to get his paralyzed arms underneath him. Just as the lion took his final leap, Dad bundled me up, covered my face with his enormous hand, and pulled me out of my seat, toward the exit.

I cried silently all the way home. Dad cried next to me in the drivers seat.

"Why?" I asked. He just looked over at me and shook his head.

Mom was sitting in the kitchen, head in hands when I walked into the house. She watched as I climbed the stairs and went into my room. I climbed into bed and lay, weeping silently, staring at the ceiling. She came in a while later.

She sat on the edge of my bed, hands in her lap, and looked down at me. After a bit, she spoke.

"Trenton. That's why we don't tell anyone where we go on Sunday's; it's why we park around the block, and walk up the alley to get to church. And it's why you're not allowed to talk about church with your friends at school. What we're doing is illegal, and if we're ever caught, that will be your father playing on that field someday, fighting for his life."

I cried.

She finally leaned down and hugged me.

Democratic Writing-Installment 1

For an explanation of this project, please read my previous post. Otherwise, enjoy! And PLEASE-provide feedback, and ideas for the next installment! Let's make it a fun project!

Consciousness dawned slowly as light gradually filtered past my hooded eyelids. Long damp eyelashes sticking to each other gave the impression that I was behind bars.

My right arm ignored the command from the brain to bring my hand up to wipe my eyes. It was as if the arm was absent; I felt nothing. I focused, tried mightily to remember where I was and how I’d come to be here, but it felt as though someone had packed my head full of pillow stuffing. I could think of nothing other than the fact that I no longer had a right arm.

The room came slowly into focus. The flickering light hurt my head. I had to clench my eyes to shut it out, but not before I saw that I was lying on my side, cheek resting on cracked terracotta tiles, some missing in places- grimy, strewn with the detritus of neglect. Corners and crevices were piled with dirt and trash.

The tile ran up the walls (although numerous pieces were missing there; in falling off, the missing tiles had torn away huge chunks of sheetrock, so that, in some places, rotted framing showed through). Pipes stuck through the wall in various places-small pipes. From one, brackish water dripped

dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip

steadily, running across the uneven floor, then pooling about a foot in front of my face. Mouse droppings floated in the pool.

As the room began to register, my thoughts came into focus. I heaved myself onto my back, then I lifted my head. Somewhere deep in my head, a jackhammer began working desperately to break its way out. I clenched my eyes shut, let my head fall back to the dirty tile floor and rested for a second, let the clamoring in my head subside.

This time, I rolled my head to the right, opened my eyes slowly, and used my left arm to search about for my right. I groped about, then, screamed involuntarily. My right arm was gone. My heart beating frantically, I felt for the stub- then breathed a sigh of relief; the arm was apparently asleep. It was twisted abnormally behind my back, and was pinned beneath me. I used my left arm to push my body off the ground enough to swing my lifeless right arm around from underneath me. It lay cocked off strangely to the right, but almost immediately, a painful tingling started working its way up from the fingertips.

I let the fingers of my left hand feel for my legs, and having confirmed the presence of all appendages, moved on in my mind to the next pressing issue: Where was I?

I used my left arm (and my still weak right arm) to grab a pipe sticking from the wall, and pull myself against the wall. A lifetime later, I’d pulled myself to a slumped, sitting position, back resting against the wall.

The room had no windows. The single door in the far wall looked to be made of steel- painted and repainted, then repainted again-countless times it appeared, as virtually every color in the rainbow, and every variation thereof, showed through somewhere on the door. It had no handle, knob, or visible lock of any sort.

The wall I rested against had a line of pipes sticking from it. One of these was the one emitting the steady drip of water. There were holes in the floor too-in fact, at some point in my gradual awakening, my olfactory senses had returned. From these holes in the floor emanated the most offensive of smells. Had I any strength, I likely would have vomited. As it was, I barely had the energy to smell.

The light came from a bare bulb attached to the ceiling. A string hung down a few feet, well within reach were I standing. From the floor though, it might as well have been 100 miles away.

I looked down at myself. I had on a torn sweatshirt, grubby jeans, socks and no shoes. I can’t recall having put any of this on, but the clothing was mine. I looked around for my shoes. No shoes in the room.

I tested my strength-leaned forward and rested my upper body weight on my arms. They wobbled, but held. I bent forward, pulled my legs around behind me, and duck-crawled toward the door. The door couldn’t have been more than ten feet from where I rested, but it felt like ten times that. I stopped and rested twice during the journey. When I finally reached the door, I rested my weight on my elbows, and used my head to push against the door. Solid. It wouldn’t budge.

I pulled myself into a sitting position, rested my back against the door, and pushed. Still no movement. It was locked from the outside.

I’ve never thought myself to be phobic, but the thought of being locked alone inside this dirty, cramped room, immediately pushed the remaining cobwebs from my mind, and replaced all rational thought with raw, stark terror.

I screamed. Long and hard. I must have cried because at some point, I looked down to see fresh, wet drops on the front of my sweatshirt. I don’t know how long I screamed, but it was enough to make my voice hoarse, my throat raspy.

My energy finally spent, I sat, gasping for breath, almost hyperventilating. I found myself staring, but not seeing, back at the opposite wall. The human mind, I think, has a built in mental defense mechanism, because I don’t recall any coherent thought penetrating the stark fog that enveloped my mind. I think that when we run up against a mental roadblock, a situation or circumstances that are utterly incomprehensible, the mind begins to shutdown to protect itself, otherwise insanity begins to set in. It only allows rational thought once the mind has begun to take in and organize the situation.

Here I sat, in an old, abandoned bathroom. Nobody, it seemed, had been here in the recent past, except for me and some number of rodents (although the building still had electricity and at least one working light bulb). The door was secured and locked from the outside, seemingly impenetrable. I had no idea whether it was day or night. I had no idea, in fact, what day it was. I didn’t recall dressing in these clothes, or any circumstances that led to my being here.

And I was alone-completely alone.

This time, I wept silently.

The Taming of a Heart

Shawna, the kids and I, along with Mother and Dad and a few other friends, went, this weekend, to see The Taming of the Shrew, by William Shakespeare. A group of budding thespians has, for the past few years, put together a Shakespeare Festival, showing various plays at an amphitheater in a local park.

They did a fine job-in fact, we plan on seeing it once more before the festival ends. For those of you who've never read the story, nor seen the play, you'll not understand the context of the passage quoted below, but it's not really necessary to be quite honest. The thing to note is that this entire passage is a speech by Katherine, a key character in the story, to an entire group of friends and acquaintances. She uses the venue to chastise her sister, and another friend, for their irreverent treatment of their husbands (or, to be more fair-and perhaps, politically correct-disregard of their husbands).

But, I'm not trying to make a point here about the appropriate behavior of a wife. The passage struck me-hard, in fact. Because, in my mind, it speaks directly to the spiritual condition of so many Americans. Religion is popular again, but I'm afraid that so many of us have religion, or more specifically, relationship with God (because, really, that's the purpose of religion) completely wrong. But I'll let Katherine tell it.

Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:
It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks, and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?--
I am asham'd that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace,
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toll and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband's foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

And, so, I ask you: does this passage, in your mind, tell the story of religion in modern America? Explain, if you will.

Name That Character

I often force you, my faithful readers, to muddle through my clunky prose and disjointed thoughts, rarely allowing you any true fun.

So, tonight, I present a bit of literary sport. Below I have listed 25 characters from important literary works (many classics, all well-read; almost none would be classified as "popular fiction"). Some, I'll admit, ride the line between classical and popular literature, but were impactful enough to me to be included-and since I author MyndFood, I've taken the privilege of including those characters I wished to include!

That said, here are the rules: the characters are listed 1-25; your answers should be include the answer number (i.e. 1-25), the title of the literary work, and the author, as well as either "B" or "N". The appropriate format is shown below:

1. "My First Novel", P.J. Green, B
2. "My Second Novel", P.J. Green, N

One answer per line. Titles and author names should be spelled correctly, but I'm not a lit teacher, so I'll be reasonably flexible (just make sure I understand). Answers should be emailed to me (at the email address shown in the right hand column) as complete. Make sure your list is complete and accurate, as there is a prize. The first person to send me a complete list of answers, formatted as I've requested, with all answers correct, will receive a free MyndFood Definition tee-shirt. A few key details here-ALL answers must be correct. That means if any are incorrect, the contest continues. If you are the winner, I will notify you by return email within 12 hours of your submission, buy I will not necessarily end the contest at that point.

One final rule: as you can probably, with just a little effort, find every answer on the internet, and there's no effective way of monitoring your usage, there are no restrictions to the methods you use to find the answers. I only ask this: go through the list first, and fill in all those that you know. Only turn to the Net after you've exhausted your literary knowledge. Which is the purpose of the "B" and "N". For those that you actually know (that you don't have to look up), put a "B" for "out of my Brain." For those you have to look up, put "N" for "I had to resort to the interNet."

Any questions? Good! Here goes, then! Enjoy!

1. Muff Potter
2. Jacob Marley
3. Sancho Panza
4. Desdemona
5. Lennie and George
6. Carrieta White
7. Bernard Marx
8. Anne Shirley
9. Edward Rochester
10. Dr. Alan Grant
11. Long John Silver
12. Sam Gangee
13. Ona Lukoszaite
14. Simon Legree
15. Ishmael
16. The Pardoner
17. Guy Montag
18. Roland Deschain
19. Christopher Snow
20. Jing-mei Woo
21. Andrew Bolkonski
22. Buck
23. Jack Burns
24. John Galt
25. Ron Weasley

(Note: a few of the characters appear in multiple of the authors' titles. Any of the applicable titles are acceptable in that case)