Burden of Thought

A wise man said to me once,

"Son, be thankful you are smart.

It won't help you make money,

But it's priceless as a work of art.

The setting sun, the waning moon,

The tremblings of the Earth,

So too does your intelligence

Have no definable worth."

"Stranger," I, to him implored,

"I see no cause for gratitude.

Compared to them, clothed in their sins,

The two of us seem nude.

I ask you why, do you decry

That we should be so elated?

Ignorance is bliss, we know,

And they are all quite sated."

"But don't you see?" Was his reply,

"That's exactly the thing!

They have become blind, deaf, and numb

To life's perpetual sting.

And every day we feel it

We seek a way to ease the pain,

But those poor souls can't feel it,

Because it's dulled their brains.

"We suffer more than them, it's true.

If you feel for them, let it be pity.

Far worse is the curse of thoughtlessness

Than that of the painfully witty.

So bear your intellect with pride

And remember that we're not born equals.

We are both men, but some are dogs,

Some cattle posing as people."

More Stereotypes, Please

Fox is a widely known television network because of its sometimes funny sitcoms, and often hilariously biased news broadcasts. It is perhaps most famous as the host channel of both The Simpsons and Family Guy, part of their “Animation Domination” lineup. While once the network that could boast a large number of comedies which appeal to a diverse audience, Fox has sacrificed what remained of their integrity for simple-minded shows in which everyone fits into a certain stereotype.

Fox has a history of canceling any show that seems too “outside-the-box.” Whenever a show comes around that is innovative, unique, controversial, or just plain weird Fox pulls the plug on it. It's understandable that they would cut shows that receive low ratings, but oftentimes these shows are canceled before they even have a chance to gain popularity. Shows that started off slow are quickly sidetracked for something which was immediately popular in a particular demographic.

A perfect example of this is their innovative new comedy Running Wilde which has been compared to cult classic Arrested Development. Both shows revolve around bizarre concepts and characters which are hard to identify with because of their ridiculousness. Running Wilde ran only five episodes this season before being preempted for the new sitcom, Raising Hope. Raising Hope is everything that Arrested Development was not. The show's central, and seemingly only, concept is that a young man is forced to take care of an infant which he fathered on a one night stand. Of course, the man has no idea how to raise a child, and as he blunders about each episode, he learns something about being a good father.

Fox is also the host channel of Glee, a popular show that shows all high school students as members of cliché cliques. The show is complete with a flamboyantly gay boy, ditsy cheerleaders, a shy Asian girl, an outspoken overweight African American girl, a downtrodden handicapped boy, the know-it-all valedictorian girl, and the noble captain of the football team. Some argue that the inclusion of these minority characters allows the show to surpass boundaries set by stereotypes, but it does just the opposite. The minority characters are all pushed aside so the show can focus on the perfect football captain who was willing to sacrifice his popularity to interact with the school's biggest group of losers.

Last year Fox also picked up its third animated series by Seth MacFarlane, The Cleavland Show. While Fox knows that their original spurn of Family Guy in 2000 lost them many viewers, they now seem to be sticking with any idea MacFarlane creates in an attempt to avoid losing another breakthrough series. Family Guy is often very well written despite its often childish humor, and even American Dad has its moments, but The Cleavland Show is centered around the stereotypes of African American communities in the south. The Cleavland Show has already been renewed for a third season in May, a feat not even yet achieved by The Simpsons or Family Guy.

So why does Fox favor these simple-minded, single concept shows over witty, well-written ones? Sadly, shows that revolve around stereotypes which are commonly found in society appeal to larger audiences. When we watch characters perpetuate certain stereotypes we are pleased because with very little thought process, we were able to anticipate the actions of that character.

Fox does air shows that break stereotype molds, such as Fringe and The Good Guys, both depicting far from average law enforcers. Fringe is a drama following a branch of the FBI dedicated to investigations of events which seem paranormal, but are actually the results of complex theoretical science experiments. The Good Guys is a comedy depicting two Texan police officers who stumble across large criminal operations while investigating petty crimes. In one episode, an investigation into a vandalized vending machine turns out to be linked to a large prostitution ring, and the officers save many of the girls from their cruel pimp.

The main characters in both Fringe and The Good Guys are far from the average CSI or Law and Order style law enforcement. Sadly, with Fringe in its third season and The Good Guys still in its first, it is questionable whether either show will return next season, as both receive low numbers of viewers compared to shows like Raising Hope or Glee. Similarly, Running Wilde also reports low viewer numbers, and is almost certainly destined for cancellation. After being preempted several times, this is to be expected; the show was never even given a chance.

Fox's new motto, “So bold, so brash, so Fox,” perfectly describes the image the company is projecting. They're bold enough to keep force feeding us several different takes on a single idea. They're also brash enough to cut any hint of wit or subtlety out of their programming. They're Fox, and they like to think of you not as a person with specific opinions, but as an individual belonging to a large group that shares the same thoughts.

Towers of Midnight Detailed Summation

BEWARE! MANY SPOILERS! Also some conjectures into A Memory of Light.

Towers of Midnight, by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson is the 13th and most recent addition to Jordan's epic series, The Wheel of Time. This installment, the second to last in the series, takes the reader through the events that lead right up to Tar'mon Gaidan, the Last Battle.

The 13th book both opens and closes following Lan Mandragoran, the warder king of Malkier, a nation long fallen to Shadowspawn. Determined to march to his death by trying to retake his homeland from Trollocs, Lan approaches Tarwin's Gap, where he will make his stand. He has ridden by himself for many leagues across the Borderlands, refusing to raise the flag of his fallen nation so that he does not have to lead others to their deaths. Throughout the book he rides ever closer but finds he cannot stop his countrymen and other Borderlanders from riding with him to a righteous but doomed battle. The very last sequence in the book is the beginning of Lan's charge at Tarwin's Gap, 12,000 men against 150,000 Shadowspawn.

Another Borderlander who is shown battling the Shadow throughout the novel is Rodel Ituralde, the great Domani general. Ituralde is frantically defending the Saldaen city of Maradon, in the western Borderlands. Unlike Tarwin's Gap in the east, the invasion of the shadow has already begun in the west. When Ituralde's character is introduced, around 250 pages in, a detailed map is given of Maradon and his camps. Though hopelessly outnumbered and fatigued beyond any reasonable standards, Ituralde fights against the seemingly endless assault of Trollocs. Showing the tactical genius which makes him one of the Five Great Captains, he outmaneuvers his opponents at every turn, but is forced to retreat several times as he is overwhelmed by the shadow's inexhaustible numbers.

Ituralde is eventually left fighting with only a small group of survivors inside the burning city, when the new, sane Rand Al'Thor brings the aid he long ago promised. The group is about to call their loss and abandon the mostly destroyed city when Rand decides to take a bold stand against the shadow. Descending to the battlefield outside the city with only a pair of maidens to guard him, he unleashes a massive display of power, devastating the army of Trollocs and saving the city. During this scene Ituralde, Bashere, and Naeff the Asha'man watch the battle from atop the building in which Ituralde had been holding out. Naeff says he has never seen so many at the same time and describes Rand as "A storm of Light and streams of Power!"

This is easily one of my favorite moments in Towers of Midnight because it is one of the few glimpses we get at Rand and it shows him using the full potential of his new found power. Unlike The Gathering Storm, Towers does not grant us a passage directly following Rand until a very slim one in the epilogue. We are shown that Rand has indeed transformed into the spectacular Dragon Reborn, unlocking all memories of Lews Therin's haunting life in the Age of Legends, but we only see this through the interpretations of those with whom he interacts. Min is the most instrumental in our viewings of Rand, as her few scenes give us an intimate look at his emotions. Her scenes occur when the two of them are together, and we learn that he has found peace, that the shadow can no longer hide from him, having failed their play for his soul, and that he has realized that he is not a weapon. Though Min plays her own part from afar -she is tasked to learn about Callandor and as always, reads her viewings of people's futures- the few viewings we are given of Rand through Min are her real contributions to Towers.

Through Min, we see how Rand mourns and tries to make up for all the mistakes he has made. He accepts his bodyguard of Maidens which he had always previously dodged, apologizes to his father, weeping, and even uses his Ta'veren nature to counterbalance some of the more prominent bubbles of evil. One particularly noteworthy scene shows Rand re-establishing command in Bandar Eban, which he had previously left in chaos. He hires city guards and brings in supplies and Aes Sedai to heal the people of disease. Most importantly, he arrives at the city docks where thousands of bags of tainted grain are being guarded to prevent the starving people from killing themselves by eating it. Leaving the already opened bags of entirely bad grain, Rand shows that every bag opened now will be full of perfect, untainted grain. Those around Rand may not realize what this means, but we know that Rand is such a powerful ta'veren that the world literally changes around him. Now that he has regained his sanity he is shown reversing the effects of the Dark One on the Pattern.

While The Gathering Storm is mostly about Rand's struggle to maintain sanity and fulfill his destiny, Towers deals largely with his Ta'veren, Mat and Perrin. Perrin's journey is a long one in which culminates in his understanding of the wolf within him, and an acceptance of the leadership of the Two Rivers people. Perrin's path clashes with both Galad, the Lord Commander of the Whitecloaks, and Graendel, the forsaken who is revealed in the prologue to have escaped the balefire Rand meant for her. In the Wolf Dream, or Tel'aran'rhiod, Hopper teaches Perrin to master himself and the dream the way wolves can. As they are training, they discover that Slayer is back and killing more wolves in the dream. This time slayer has been given a dream spike by Graendal, a powerful Ter'angreal which when placed in the dream world, casts a dome from its center. This dome is invisible in the real world and prevents traveling such as gateways, and is visible as a pink barrier which prevents warping outside its area in Tel'aran'rhiod.

With Hopper's help, Perrin is able to master the Wolf Dream and defeat Slayer, though not kill him, destroying the dream spike in the process. Perrin's battle with Slayer is another of my favorite scenes in Towers, and coincides with Eqwene's critical point in the novel, also in Tel'aran'rhiod, making for an amusing meeting between the two of them in which Perrin scolds her for being in the dangerous Wolf Dream. The actual fight with Slayer is lengthy and forces Perrin to use all his knowledge of the dream world. The fight itself is a duel of imaginations and as such things require, it is written extremely creatively. Unfortunately for Perrin, Hopper is killed in the fight, and Perrin is once again unable to help his wolf mentor, who fades completely from existence.

In the real world, Perrin's camp has crossed paths with Galad's army of Whitecloaks. Galad demands that Perrin meet him in battle so that the Light may judge Perrin as a shadowspawn and a murderer of two Whitecloaks. After much delay, Perrin agrees to be tried for his crimes with Morgase, her charade as Maighdin the serving woman revealed, as judge. Perrin explains that he killed the Whitecloaks because they had killed wolves and is found guilty. Galad and Perrin agree that the armies will both go their separate path to the Last Battle and that Galad could extract his judgement, presumably through the form of execution, if both men survived the battle. Following this judgement, Perrin fights Slayer in the Wolf Dream, detroying the dream spike and allowing his army to move the army by gateway.

When the army arrives in its new location, Perrin is deeply distraught over Hopper's death. He decides to head to the forge to unleash his emotions by shaping metal. The Asha'man, Neald helps by keeping the metal the perfect temperature for Perrin, and before they know it, they are both allowing their emotions to take over, doing to the metal what feels right to them. Perrin constructs a massive war hammer with a leaping wolf on its head, naming it Mah'alleinir, or "He who soars" in the Old Tongue. Neald had been instinctively crafting the weapon also, making it a Power-wrought weapon, a tool of superior quality which is especially effective against Shadowspawn. Following this crafting, Perrin accepts leadership of his people and returns his army to camp near the Whitecloaks.

Most of Perrin's army and all of Galad's believe that they are there to ambush the Whitecloaks, but after thinking about it, Perrin had determined that the dream spike had been intended to keep his army in place to be attacked by the shadow. If he had not agreed to the trial with Galad, his army would have been ambushed by Trollocs following their victory over the Whitecloaks. Instead, he allies with Galad, saving his life and the two armies defeat the Shadowspawn together. Overall, Perrin is undoubtedly the most featured and developed character in Towers, growing from a modest man who is unwilling to accept the duties of a lord to a bold and honorable commander. He also find the balance he has sought for his inner wolf and learns to master the Wolf Dream, bringing him an inner peace which he has sought since discovering the wolves.

While Perrin is the most developed and Rand the most inspirational character in Towers, Mat is by far the most entertaining character. We find Mat dwelling on the letter left to him by Vera, and quickly learn that the Gholam is once again after him. After a quick fight the Gholam retreats, and a bad tempered Mat writes an hilarious letter to Elayne demanding to talk to her. The two eventually meet, resulting in Mat signing the Band of the Red Hand into service for Andor, and Elayne comissioning bell founders to build Mat's Dragons. While the Dragons are being built and tested, Mat fights and beats the Gholam, sending it to a fate worse than death, falling forever through the darkness off of a skimming platform.

All this happens during the time Mat is "waiting around" for a gateway to the Tower of Ghenjei, where he fulfills his revenge on the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn. Entering the tower with Thom and Noal, Mat finds his way down the endless maze of hallways using his power over chance. He rolls his dice to determine which way to go at each intersection, 1-3 left, 4-7, straight, etc. When Noal points out that this isn't really chance since some are more likely combinations and Mat can't roll a 1 with 2 dice anyway, Mat proves him wrong by rolling a 1. The three eventually find Moiraine, and Mat, following the information he received from the Aelfinn, trades "half the light of the world" for her rescue and protection from the foxes for their escape. The foxes greedily accept, taking Mat's left eye and allowing his party to leave. On their way out, however, they are attacked by the snakes, whom Mat had forgotten about in his bargain. As a last ditch effort to help the others escape, Noal sacrifices himself to the Aelfinn, revealing himself to be the fabled Jain Farstrider in the process.

In every other chapter in which Mat appears, we see the same old amusing Two Rivers boy. He is still constantly frustrated by his memories from other lives, Aes Sedai, the Gholam, and of course, thinking about his new wife, but he is always the same light-hearted gambler. These last few chapters in the tower show a very businesslike Mat Cauthon. Rescuing Moiraine is a task that he has been told is impossible, but Mat risks his life and even sacrifices his eye to save her. He has long been my favorite character in the series because of his unintentional humor, but the Mat we see develop from his trials with the snakes and foxes is the character we want to see commanding armies alongside Rodel Ituralde and Gareth Bryne in the Last Battle.

Egwene is also an important character in Towers. She struggles to maintain control of the "unified" White Tower while trying to rally the many nations to stop Rand from breaking the remaining seals. Egwene has certainly changed as a character throughout the series, becoming the Amyrlin with a full Aes Sedai scheming attitude. Her character in Towers is certainly an improvement over previous Egwenes, such as the almost insufferable "refuse to break" Egwene, but she is still one of my least favorite characters in the series. Egwene has become the opposite of the timid, subservient innkeeper's daughter she was when the series started. Now she is the leader of the Aes Sedai, a position which seems to have made her headstrong, stubborn, and often careless person.

Throughout Towers, Egwene refuses to trust the people she knows best, relying instead on the minimal intelligence she receives and her own scheming mind. Everyone else who encounters Rand after his change at the end of The Gathering Storm can see that he is a far better person who knows what he is doing. Egwene is the one person who knows Rand who cannot see this change. Instead of aiding him in preparation for the rapidly approaching Last Battle, she tries to turn the nations which support Rand against him. When we last see her in Towers, it is with the assembled armies that are supposed to be fighting the Shadowspawn, gathered to stop Rand's plan. I can only assume that the final book will develop a more reasonable Egwene who can work with Rand and others to fight the Last Battle. If not we are likely to see a parallel to the Fatal Concord, the original schism in the co-ed White Tower of the Age of Legends.

Egwene shows herself to be more than knowledgeable of the White Tower politics in Towers, but in other areas she continues to blunder about, accidentally achieving her goals. The traps she sets with herself as bait are easily countered by her enemies, and she only manages to survive because of the assistance of others from whom she repeatedly distances herself. Gawyn constantly asks to guard her from a threat she believes she must tackle on her own, and he eventually saves her from one that she didn't see coming. Likewise, in Tel'aran'rhiod, she survives Mesaana's attack only because Perrin fights Slayer in Tar Valon with the dream spike. Perrin also shows her that her weaves mean nothing in the dream world, putting her in the state of mind she needs to defeat the Forsaken. She awakes to find Gawyn, almost dead after defending her against 3 assassins against whom she would of been helpless. Hopefully her newly established Warder bond with Gawyn will be a good influence on her in the coming book. I suspect that Rand will need some kind of alliance with the White Tower to deal with whatever is brewing in the Black Tower, and if not he will certainly need them for the last battle.

Elayne is often shown throughout Towers, though she doesn't play a large role in the novel' s plot. As Queen of Andor, she must scheme her way through the city's endless political maze. As if one city's mess weren't enough, she also plans to take Cairhien. She is somewhat successful in recruiting the Band of the Red Hand and in making copies of Mat's foxhead medallion, though the Band is free to leave whenever and the medallion copies block the wearers' ability to channel. Due to her pregnancy, Elayne has become a raging ball of emotions, openly weeping at small things and generally engaging in all sorts of other unqueenly behavior. Because of her bond to Rand, she can feel that he has changed, but she is still convinced by Egwene to oppose his plan to break the seals. The epilogue reveals to us that a massive army of Shadowspawn has used the Waygates to attack Andor, but the city's fate is unclear. Elayne will certainly want to bring her troops to Andor's rescue, but whether she will have time to transport them or time to commit them with the Last Battle so close remains to be seen. Hopefully she will accept Rand's plan and aid him in the Last Battle, but with her pregnancy affecting her channeling, it is unlikely that she will be one of the two women Rand needs to use Callandor.

Aviendha makes only a few brief appearances in Towers and none of these directly affects the events of the other characters, but her appearances reveal important information about the future of world. Following her trial in Rhuidean to become a full-fledged Wise One, Aviendha receives extra visions from the pillar Ter'angreal. It is unclear whether only she was granted these additional viewings or if she permanently changed the nature of the Ter'angreal so that all who walked through could see them. Rather than showing the Aiel's past as was the previous function of the pillars, they showed Aviendha her descendants, beginning with the last of her line and progressing backwards in time to her children.

These visions show how the Aiel become restless following the Last Battle, and provoke a war with the Seanchan that eventually leads to their rise to power. The Aiel are shown as being particularly discriminated against by the Seanchan, treated like insects that need to be exterminated, but it is mentioned that other nations and even both the Black and White Towers have fallen to the Seanchan. Aviendha's own children are particularly important in the Seanchan rise to power. All four of her children agree to attack the Seanchan because they believe the Aiel have no purpose besides war. They also mention that Rand was unsure of what to do with the Aiel following the Last Battle so he made the other nations agree to a peace that the Aiel were not a part of.

Something in Lews Therin's newly unlocked memories tells Rand that he must use Callandor to seal away the Dark One. The sword is revealed to be flawed, requiring its male user to submit to two channeling women. It is also hinted at that the sword may be further damaged, though this may mean some design flaw or an additional requirement of the three who use it. Though Rand has tasked Min to research Callandor and she is easily the female he can most trust, she cannot be one of the two women to assist in the sealing because she can not channel.

Rand asks Nynaeve to be one of the two women and she accepts. This seems a good choice on Rand's part because Nynaeve is one of the only women who's sole focus seems to be on the Last Battle. Both Egwene and Elayne have positions of command and people to watch over, and even Aviendha now has reason to worry for the future of her people. Aviendha is definitely still a possibility as the second woman, but Moiraine seems a much more plausible alternative now that she is free. Moiraine was the first, and for some time only, Aes Sedai that Rand trusted, and she has given what she thought would be her life to protect him.

When we see Rand through Min's eyes, we see that her viewing of him is now of two men lying dead at Shayol Ghul. Presumably one of these is Rand but the other one remains a mystery. My best guess would be Perrin since other viewings by Min have indicated that Rand needs Perrin to succeed and that when the two of them are separated he will fail. I would guess that Perrin is needed to make the physical shield that will seal away the Dark One, much like the 7 Cuendillar disks which were used by Lews Therin to seal the bore. Much as Neald used a circle of men and women wielding the one power to make Perrin's hammer a Power wrought weapon, the Dark One's prison may require a physical item to be forged with the power.

Kronicle

This is the first 2 chapters of what I am hoping will be a lengthy (series?) sci-fi/fantasy novel, entitled Kronicle. I am always thinking about this story and adding to it, so I hope to be regularly updating this post when I find the material workable.

Copyright 2011 Chris Griglack

I - Rude Awakening

If you were asked on your death bed if there was a single moment in your life which defined your existence, could you answer?

There was a time when I thought the question ludicrous. When I thought single moments meaningless, and all of existence a complex pattern of variables. When you spend so much time looking at the world as a beautiful tapestry, it's hard to focus on a single thread.

No one is more haunted by their past than someone who has had six centuries to dwell on it. The longer you live the more you're able to see how your mistakes affected the rest of the world. That's probably why I took the job in the first place, to remove myself from the pattern. To be one of the people who doesn't try to shape the world.

* * *

Standard contracts for chroniclers involve a seven year trial period. If the candidate shows prowess at the job, the contract is extended to a full seven century position. The trial period is an absolute must to determine eligibility, as many cannot deal with the requirements of the job. The job comes with very little perks, the most obvious of which is the immortality granted to those under contract. We neither age nor get sick till the day we resign or are killed. We are able to teleport to any location we can think of, though the limitations of our contracts prevent us from abusing this power.

The job can be extremely demanding. For one thing, no chronicler is allowed to influence events, no matter how trivial they may seem. The sole purpose is to record history as impartially as possible. As inglorious as regular historians may seem, we are their never seen or heard of brethren. For all the important events we record, we never receive credit and our work is seldom seen by mortals. Our work is endlessly analyzed by those with similar contracts and less ground-rules, but few outside the business know we exist.

So for six hundred years I tirelessly agreed not to interact in human affairs, but simply record them as a scientist would the interactions of his lab rats. It is not my job to instigate or quell the cycles which result in wars, uprisings, or social revolutions, only to watch and write them down.

After the first century the novelty of immortality gives way to the infinite loneliness of observing but not partaking in society. Another century passes and this too fades when you realize that order is apparent in all the seemingly random events. That few are destined for greatness, few for infamy, and the majority for nothing other than a blip in the countless record books. That the human race endlessly tries to shape the world around it, and is instead shaped itself is the despair of our species.

While it is the job of the analysts to interpret the events and how they fit into the bigger picture, any chronicler worth his weight can see that the patterns are there no matter how hard we try to avoid them.

So as I neared the end of my first contract, I debated the values of renewing it. Another seven centuries of recording the human race's failure to conquer its animal instincts, or the peaceful quietness of death after a long, meaningless life? Such was my dilemma when the option that broke all the rules was introduced to me.

* * *

I had spent the night the same way I had every other for the past 650 years; combing through the stories of people who otherwise would not be mentioned in any historical records. Every word spoken and its impact. Every miniscule action and its result. Every seemingly important decision and how they culminated in no change for the human race. It was days like this that I simultaneously longed for and mourned the simple human interaction that I had denied myself so long ago.

They all thought it meant something, but it didn't.

I always started recording at noon and submitted my reports at midnight. My own cycle was rushed, and considerately sloppy compared to other chroniclers, but it gave me time to do what I did best: observe.

It's one thing to observe and report from an unbiased scientific point of view, but quite another to watch and feel a disjointed connection with those you watch.

My normal routine involved sitting on the streets disguised as the homeless and watching them interact. Noting every emotional response to the simple events which would in no way affect the pattern. A man's tired footsteps as he walked back to his empty apartment to rest before another grueling shift at his dead-end job. A woman's joy as she steps off her bus to find her family waiting to escort her home. The prostitutes' fear that tonight they wouldn't meet their quota. The policeman's reverent jubilation in knowing that the troublemakers they busted would be off the streets the next day.

As a bum, no one hides their emotions from you. Who cares if the homeless man judges you on your way to score drugs, or smiles at you as you hail a taxi to visit your wife at the hospital? They all pass you by, rarely noticing, never caring.

It was nearing four in the morning when the defining moment of my life literally struck me. A skinny youth in jeans and a dark hoodie approached me. At first I thought he just happened to be moving past me like everyone else, but as he neared he slowed. He was eying me with interest, not the normal dismissive glances I was so accustomed to receiving.

I quickly stood and was about to return to my nook in the record vault when I heard the sharp ringing of change being thrown down on the sidewalk behind me. My mistake was turning back to observe the boy's emotions. I had been out of touch with humanity for so long that I could not resist seeing how I would affect this young man's emotions. Even such a small emotion as a feeling of social responsibility appealed to me, and I thought “What harm could there be in humoring this feeling?”

As I turned to pick up the change, the boy loomed over me, watching but not saying anything. The 79 cents he tossed down was a ridiculously small amount, but I accepted it on the premise that he would feel better about himself. I stood to thank the boy, and as I did the knife flashed in his hand, piercing my left kidney and glancing off my pelvis, leaving a gaping hole and a shallow cut.

I fell to the curb and tried to grasp his leg to pull myself up, but he kicked me off and took a step back so that he was no longer in reach. He leaned down to inspect his work. In a calm, steady voice he said the first thing in nearly 700 years that I could not make sense of: “Tell him I said 'Check.'” With this he walked away, into the night, never to be seen again.

As I lay bleeding on the sidewalk, the only thought I was able to process was that my decision had been made for me. Someone would take my place, chronicling human history, and they too would eventually grow tired of the position. One by one my senses failed me as I slipped into the welcome darkness of what I assumed to be be death.

* * *

Home is where the heart is.

After nearly 700 years everything that could have changed about the place had. Still, some part of me buried deep inside remembered it as home.

I awoke, clutching the hole in my side in the pawn shop which now stood on the site of my birth. An aging, heavy set man yelled at me to get lost from behind the shop's counter. Seeing that I had no intention of moving myself, he approached me with an air of one who was quite capable at forcefully removing unwanted guests. As he grabbed the arm I was using to try to keep my blood from leaking out, he noticed the wound and released my arm, causing me to fall back into a heap on the floor.

I mentioned that the job comes with a few perks. Teleporting is one them, though technically its only supposed to be used to avoid interfering with the pattern. If this had been a conscious effort and not the flailing of a dying man, I might have picked a better location.

The shop's owner babbled something at me while scrambling back and forth across the small width of the dirty room. I felt myself slipping back into the darkness again, but right before I completely faded out, a vision of James appeared in front of me.

My son put his hands on his knees as he leaned down to study my face. His straight dirty-blonde hair hung down past sparse freckles to shroud his whole face above the mouth. The mouth displayed a wide grin which was entirely soured when he swept the hair to the side to show glaring eyes. He was wearing the same clothes as when I had last seen him; the sweat-soaked and mud-splattered denim overalls he wore while tending the field.

“Well looky here,” he drawled, all the while staring into my eyes and smirking as I desperately struggled to maintain consciousness. “Guess we 'bout to have a family reunion! Ya gon' stay for drinks this time? Me 'n Henry, we're settled.”

I had grown accustomed to the wetness of blood spilling from the wound I was clutching, but as an immensely strong wave of blackness swept over me, I dimly felt the blood stop flowing. The room spun wildly as my eyes rolled back into my head, but not before I caught one last glimpse of James, fool's grin vanishing from his face as he rose to stand over me. “You got debts to pay,” he spoke so solemnly, almost reverently. A tear ran down my cheek, and I remember inwardly laughing at myself at the thought that my body had stopped producing blood but could muster a tear. (Recounting this, I realize that the true joke was not my body's last ditch emotional response, but that after centuries of life, this was almost my last thought.)

Just before the this time unwelcome blackness rushed through my mind, I felt a tugging sensation in the deepest recesses of my mind. Before so much as a single neuron could fire in my brain, the dark plague of unconsciousness swept over me once again.

* * *

When I awoke I was in the familiar confines of the Ever-Stable Citadel, or Rock Steady, as we chroniclers endearingly referred to it.

The Citadel is the God of Time's mortal headquarters on Earth. No human knows its true location, making teleportation the only way in or out. My friend Nekket, one of the oldest chroniclers having survived the reign of some long-forgotten Egyptian pharaoh, has theorized wildly on the subject of Rock Steady's location. Sometimes he'll suggest we're in the center of an enormous mountain, or buried deep beneath the earth, or undersea, or not even on Earth at all.

Wherever the location, the Ever-Stable Citadel is exactly what it claims to be. No time passes for those within the Citadel. There are even networks of rooms in which one may remain for what feels like eternity, but when you leave, not a moment has passed outside the Citadel. Because of this, many of those who work for the God of Time work in the past, and have not caught up with reality. The building itself has remained unaltered for all of eternity as far as anyone knows, only those inside change. Whenever I try to rationalize the place's workings, I can't help but admire Nekket's perseverance in chasing the secrets of the Citadel after countless centuries. Surely any other man would have gone insane after so many years of frustration.

I was in one of the Rock's smaller rooms, brilliantly clean metal walls reflected the room's single small light millions of times over until it resembled the summer sun. Several gleaming metal cabinets lined the walls. The room was bare save for the cot on which I lay and the IV which stood guard nearby.

I sat up, and was amazed to find no pain in my side. If I didn't know who I was working for I'd have thought I died and somehow gone to an industrialized heaven. I tugged up the thin, plastic feeling fabric of the hospital gown I had on, and examined my side where I had been stabbed. Where the gash had been, there now stood a faded jagged scar that looked to be several years old. As I was inspecting the rest of myself for new scars the room's only door opened, and one of the Citadel's many Eternal Priests entered.

The Eternal Priests are a strange sect within the otherwise flawlessly mechanical operations of the God's mortal headquarters. Their purpose is unknown to the other workers, but whatever task they are given they perform as all priests should: reverently. The many workers within the citadel are networked together in a clear hierarchy based on the importance of their positions. Chroniclers collect data which is given to analysts to interpret, and is eventually used by the rarely seen Shapers. The Shapers have their own hierarchy which none of us below them understands, but their purpose is to fix the few flaws which occur in the pattern. Somehow, the priests have more authority within the Citadel than the Shapers, and they never hesitate to use it. Their loyalty and devotion to their unknown cause is fearsome, and they act as if they are the most crucial part of the process. Nekket once told me that they weren't much better than infernal priests. He meant it as a joke but the way he kept looking around before he rapidly blurted it out diminished the effect.

“I see you are fully operational again,” the priest spoke as if he was fully in control of the situation. His loose white robe concealed his figure, but his uncovered face was that of a thin, elderly white male. Small bifocals hung far down his long nose, which when combined with the few wild tufts of gray hair that still remained on his head, gave him a bird-like appearance. The robe's only adornment was a ball of gray with several colored sinuous lines emanating from it. This was displayed over the priest's heart and though I did not know its meaning, few of the priests I had seen had any sort of emblem on their pure white robes, so I assumed him to be high ranking within their order.

“Yes, sir. I'm ready to catch up on whatever reports I've missed.” This was meant to be a quick get-in, get-out response. I rose from the table, searching for clothes, but the priest's next words made me halt.

“Your reports are being taken care of.”

“Am I fired?”

“You are being given a vacation.” I thought he was joking, but the look on his face was entirely serious. I waited and a long silent moment passed before he continued, sounding annoyed that this was proving so difficult. “We would not fire you for being victimized.” He paused again, looking disappointed with how this sounded. “If we no longer desired your employment we would simply have let you die.” He looked satisfied with that.

“I've never heard of anyone getting a vacation here before.”

“Most of the workers are better at staying alive than you are.”

“How long do I have off?”

“You get a week, then back to work. Same rules apply as when you're working but you don't have to report.”

“Got it.” I couldn't do much with those restrictions, but I figured the vacation might help me sort out my contract dilemma. My mind was already drifting that way when the priest interrupted the thought by placing his bony hands on my shoulders. I looked at him, and his eye twitched faintly as he tried to add even more serious tones to his face.

“He wants to see you before you leave.”

“Who?” I couldn't stop the question from getting out in time. The priest looked horrified, then rapidly drew a symbol in front of my face. I cringed at first, not understanding his gesture, which led to even more frantic hand gestures.

“The Boss?” This question was just to verify. I had never actually met the God of Time. Even my initial job offer and training were carried out by people far down the chain of command.

“The Lord Kronic.” The priest's regained expression of severity was replaced for a moment by one of bliss.

“Why? Where is he? How do I get there? Why me?” The questions rolled out one on top of the other. The priest shook his head and waited for me to finish before answering with mother-like patience.

“Just think of the Lord of Time and you will appear before him. You have only been permitted this honor this one time, of course. There are clothes in the largest cabinet, I suggest you put them on before you visit Him.”

I nodded my head dumbly and walked towards the cabinet, lost in thought. The priest opened the door, but turned back to me before leaving. He cleared his throat until he had my attention, and I turned holding up a blue cotton shirt that was now looked much bigger than it had neatly folded. “Don't let it happen again,” he said gravely.

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I once again just nodded my head until he departed, leaving me that extra mystery on top of all the others I had already. Had the man been referring to my accidental blasphemy? The reprimand had sounded more serious, as if the priest had been scolding me for almost dying. I reminded myself to tell Nekket about this so we could have a laugh about it later. A very quiet, nervous laugh.

I dressed in a pair of dark blue slacks and a gray long-sleeved shirt I found hidden towards the bottom of the pile of clothes. I quickly reexamined the scar and was once again disturbed by its aged look. I would have to ask the Boss how long I had been healing if I got a word in.

Sighing, I sat back down on the cot closed my eyes and relaxed my mind until there was only one thought left.

Time to see the Boss.

II – Higher Power

Without opening my eyes I could tell I was no longer in the same room in which I had awakened. I could feel a slight breeze, the air quality was unlike any other I had experienced. Each breath that entered my lungs brought with it an overwhelming sensation of cleanliness. I felt, quite literally, reborn with every breath, the memories and emotions which had been brewing for centuries receding to the deepest crevasses of the mind.

“I see you're enjoying the sanctity of this place. It pleases me to allow mortals to experience the unrefined purity of creation every once in a while,” the voice was melodic. Though there was no rhythm to the spoken words, it gave the impression of an entire choir singing rather than a single speaker.

I opened my eyes only to find nothing but brilliant white light all around me. I could see no ground below me, and when my mind proceeded to follow this line of thought, I became increasingly worried that I could not actually feel the ground either. The entire effect was unsettling, so I closed my eyes and forced myself to take deep breaths in a vain attempt to ignore the constant spinning sensation and building nausea.

“The scenery takes some getting used to, I'm afraid. The trick for humans is just to relax and not think about it. I could create a background for you if you think it might help.” Without opening my eyes, I nodded my head weakly. The light my eyelids failed to block out suddenly faded without a sound. The air did feel a bit different, so I decided to risk opening my eyes again.

The scene that greeted me was the vast black canvas of outer space. Stars sparkled in the distance, and I thought I saw the dim outlines of planets and asteroids as the slowly orbited around their focal points. The gasp that was my immediate reaction served as a heartwarming reassurance that I was surrounded by breathable air.

The light immediately around me intensified, providing a brief view of several small twinkling shaped hurtling through the darkness between the stars. Turning to identify the source of this illumination, I found myself mere miles away from the orange glow of a star.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the briefest glimpse of a receding solar flare which must have been the cause of the brightening. I marveled for a moment as the massive plume of fire withdrew into the writhing sea of shifting flames before me. The only thought left in my mind was the observation that the whole thing was eerily quiet. There was no crackling or any other sort of noise that I had come to associate with material burning.

The silence was finally interrupted when my nausea caught up to me and I dropped to my knees to vomit. I noticed that while my knees struck something hard, allowing me to fall to them in the first place, my vomit sailed off into space below me as if just a small, disgusting asteroid. As I picked myself up, spat, and wiped my mouth on the sleeve of shirt which had recently been given me, the silence was broken again, this time by my intangible host.

“We are not so different, you and I.”

This comment was so different from anything I had anticipated, (though in truth I had completely forgotten about the Time God's presence, and therefore not anticipated anything) that I was thrown completely by it. “Wh-?” Was all I could manage to say, and I am still unsure what I would have eventually stumbled upon if I was able to voice the mass confusion of thoughts running through my head.

He interrupted me with an enormous gale of laughter, causing me enough confusion and anxiety to wreck my train of thought. When his laughter finally died down, his voice was still gleeful as he spoke. “Relax! It was a joke! One I thought you would appreciate.”

At this point I was thoroughly confused and could only reply “No. No... Sir?” My voice was weak and I thought I could feel that dazed look on my face which always appeared when I wanted to scream “What the hell is going on?”

He only chuckled briefly at my confusion, but it was nothing like the monstrous laughter of the moment before. “Address me however you want, but decide on something quickly. Time constrains even me.”

Again I was stupefied in a rush to think so many different things at once. Eventually, one got through, and I was left with the single thought of “How the hell would one address a formless god?”

“You wanted to see me, sir?” The words eventually tumbled form my mouth on top of each other.

“Well that hardly needed asking, did it? Calm yourself. You are not in trouble, I simply want to ask you what you remember about your... accident,” the word “accident” did not flow out with the rest of his words but came after, a straggler apart from the flock. It made me think he suspected me of intentionally getting stabbed. This reminded me of the priest's warning to not let it happen again. Did they really think I had gotten myself stabbed intentionally?

“Well...” I began, and proceed to tell him everything I could remember, glossing over some of the finer details. When I got to the incident itself he interrupted me.

“So, this stranger just walked up to you, stabbed you, and walked away?”

“He said some nonsense before he walked away, sir. Typical crazy person.”

“What did he say?” He sounded suddenly interested in what I had to say.

The moments right before and after the stabbing were a bit fuzzy to me. Even when your body is miraculously healed, the mind tries to pretend the whole thing never really happened. “He said 'tell him' ... something,” I struggled to remember. Part of the difficulty was that what I thought he said was complete nonsense. At the time I was more concerned with not bleeding out on the sidewalk than with trying to comprehend what my assailant had said.

“Tell him what?” Prompted the god. No concern with who the message was intended for.

“'Tell him' … 'I said “check.”' That's it, I'm sure of it.” A long pause followed in which I guessed he was trying to understand the cryptic gibberish.

“Sir?” I hesitantly asked, sure for a moment that I had been abandoned to float forever in the emptiness of this not quite space.

“Are you still here?” He sounded annoyed, like he had been deep in thought and I had interrupted him, which was very likely the case, I realized with a shameful blush.

“I don't know how to leave,” I regretted the answer immediately, but it slipped out before I could think about it.

“You use the door, of course,” it was obviously a joke, but unlike the last one, all the good humor had gone out of his disembodied voice.

Despite his obvious irritability, I decided to ask a question of my own. After all, he had trapped me in a strange parody of space and questioned me.

“Lord,” I began, hoping this title would coax a straightforward answer out of him. “What's the whole point?” I asked him. It was the question that had been on my mind for centuries. “Life, I mean. Why are we all here?”

“Ahhh the age old question. I have to admit, I was expecting something more original from you, but what can you do? Since you asked though, it's all about testing mankind's willingness to circumvent small bodies of water.”

“What,” was my only response. His answer had thrown me a bit off-guard so that for the moment it was all I could do to think of what a body of water was while all the profound reasons for human existence fled my mind.

“You know, puddles and the like. At what point will a person expend an effort to go around and when will they simply give up and walk right through? Fascinating stuff, though I'm ashamed to admit we still don't have a formula for it yet.”

“Another joke, then? That's all that life is to you?” His inability to answer even a single basic question was beginning to infuriate me.

“Certainly not! Jokes have a purpose; you tell one to make someone else laugh. There is no reason for the existence of the human race. No purpose that you were created with the intent of fulfilling. You simply are, thanks largely to an oversight on my own part,” this last part came as a sort of fast mumble, but the voice representing my god was quickly past it and on to different subject matter. “But I am here now to make sure you can fit in snugly with the rest of the universe. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“I think my curiosity has been more or less killed at this point.” Until this point I had hoped against hope that there was something my species was meant to do in the universe. Otherwise why have all the chroniclers taking notes?

Depressed, I turned to leave before realizing that I had no idea how to escape my current environment. Turning back I ventured a hesitant, “Is there anything else, sir?” and hoped that the response would not contain any other philosophy-destroying statements.

“Remember, you are on vacation,” came the disembodied voice from all angles at once. “Try not to stress yourself. I'd say engage in a hobby, but clearly your extracurricular activities are of a questionable nature that always ends in great pain for you. So for the extent of your vacation, do something that does not interest you in the slightest. This should exclude all such activity.” I thought about this for a bit, and decided I'd best just continue doing my job as if I weren't on vacation. No other chronicler had been hurt during work as far as I knew. It was possibly the least interactive job that had ever been created, and so therefore was likely to keep me out of trouble for at least a couple more weeks.

I nodded dumbly, and because I was not sure if he could pick up on this signal, threw in a quick “sure thing boss.” I sensed a sort of satisfaction in the air, an overwhelming feeling of mission accomplished. Again I turned to leave, expecting to now find a doorway of some sort in my path, but there was no such thing. Space continued endlessly on before me in every direction I turned until I stamped my foot in frustration and mumbled some choice curses (or prayers considering their divine orientation) under my breath.

It was during the peak of my frustration, when I was about to raise my voice to again address the god of time, that I was whisked unceremoniously back to the room in the Citadel where I had so recently awakened.