Lacromia's Test

There was a strange force which drew her to the crude church at the end of the only true road in the town. The hem of the scratchy wool dress trailed mud across the oak floor as she made her way between the pews towards the altar. Flame from innumerable candles flickered, hurling cold shadows around the room, glimmering off the town’s prized possession the ornate gilded cross standing sentry on the altar. Chill seeped through her garment as she knelt on the floor, her head bent over her clasped hands. For the past two raids she enacted this same melodrama, begging a deity who refused to hear her for the strength to stop what she knew to be wrong.
“You are here at an inhospitable hour. What troubles you my child?”
Lacromia barely lifted her head, stringy chestnut hair mostly covering her face. The priest’s figure popped into view out of the corner of her eye as he drew closer. Dressed in head to toe black like all of his orthodox brethren, his long grey beard and hair could not hide the calm wisdom which radiated from his weather-beaten visage.
“I need help, father.”
“Help with what?” he asked gently as he took a seat beside her.
“I have done terrible things.”
“What terrible offense could someone so young have committed?”
“I cannot tell you. All I can say is they are horrible, monstrous crimes.”
“Why have you done these things?”
She lowered her head a bit, her hair further covering her expression. The same series of questions had been posed to each of the priests in the prior villages, searching for answers and absolution where there was none.
“My master wishes it. I am trapped, father. I cannot refuse him, but I do not want to do the things I have done.”
The priest placed a comforting arm around her and she rested her head gently on his shoulder taking what little reassurance she could in his well-meaning paternalism.
“You are being tested, my poor girl, placed in an impossible position. One in authority requires great evil of you, but it places your eternal soul in jeopardy.”
“I fear I do not have a soul left anymore. What should I do?”
“All of us are obligated to seek morality and justice wherever they may hide. There are no perfect people or solutions, but one must not do what they know to be wrong simply because they were ordered to do so. Even if it means death or persecution, one must stand and fight. Do you have the courage for this?”
The vampire threw her arms around the elderly priest, tiny sparks dancing across her skin as the coven swarmed into town. He hugged her, expecting tears, little knowing her ability to cry had disappeared many decades ago when he was still a young man.
“You are frigid, my child. How long have you been out in the cold?” he asked with concern, feeling the icy chill of the woman’s body as if she had been buried in snow for days.
“It seems like forever,” she whispered in response. “You are right, father. I cannot accept what is happening around me. I must fight this even if it means my death.”
Terrified screams began to filter through the walls, calling for help as the vampires battered the village. The priest attempted to pull away, sensing something was terribly amiss, but she clung to him, preventing his movement.
“Forgive me, father. I am being tested and tonight I will fail this trial. One day, I hope to redeem myself in your eyes.”

Nightfall of the psyche

Having fun writing short stories; enjoy the excerpt:

The blood was scalding as it spurted out of the torn artery, the vampire utilizing his fangs like twin blades as he ripped into the man's neck. He did not know what pity was, could barely remember any but the most basic driving forces. A soft gurgling was the only noise as the man choked on his own blood, his heart's drastic beating hastening his own destruction. There was no pity, no remorse, no escape. He had not wanted to die either, but no one had given him a choice. No one showed his wife and children an ounce of pity; they merely slaughtered them as they sobbed in terror. Mercy was a useless emotion. In the end, there was no peace.

Careful or you'll end up in my novel

Sometimes parts of my life intrude on the others defying my desire to compartmentalize. I walk around the hushed hospital at night and see monsters in shadows. I talk to people and engineer characters. In place of everyday life there are plot constructs. I think a certain amount of daydreaming is healthy. It allows me to fill stagnant hours and deal with stress, but occasionally my fantasy world can be distracting. Today I walked through the city orchestrating a nifty if not incredibly bloody chase scene complete with hefty body count. In place of urbanites, I see victims, heroes, demons, angels, predators and prey. I always wonder what's going through the minds of the people I pass. How many are doing the exact same thing, silently watching the world of imagination and reality collide.

Repairing cracks in the facade

I hear truly horrific things in my line of work. Maybe it's just my personality, but I seem to attract either genuinely sociopathic people or people with tragic histories the likes of which most wouldn't believe. Both are taxing to deal with. There are some people who no one can help. They will spend their lives using and abusing others, callously engineering their environment to their benefit. They usually come to see me through legal obligation or because they are trying to get something from me. In the end, there is no progess to be made and little anyone can do. The second group with the tragic histories I can and want to help, but sometimes I forget what it is to have to bear witness to the tragedy with them. Although I didn't live it, sometimes the emotion in the room is so raw it is possible to experience it with the other person. They want you to experience it, to get a glimpse of what they suffer. Through this you are able to take the pain away just a little bit and help them heal. It all takes its toll. I like my job and wouldn't change it, but it's a harsh look in the mirror on a daily basis. Not only must you contain others, you must contain yourself. Some days that's easier said than done. Many put up a good front, but few humans are truly stable.

The Cassandra Complex

Of all the creatures I created for the literary world in which I play, by far the most tragic are the Amunites. For those of you who haven't read the first book in the series (Lost Devil's Throne, go get it. I am not above shameless self promotion.), the Amunites are human oracles, people who can see the future of anyone or anything they run across. How terrible must it be to know a tragedy is on the horizon, but powerless to do anything about it? To a lessor extent, this happens to all of us during our lives. If we're particularly observant, we can see the hurdles before our loved ones or ourselves smash into them. We may warn and advise and still be forced to witness a bad outcome. Just because you know there's a trap doesn't always mean you can avoid it. One of my favorite characters from Greek mythology had this problem. Cassandra knew what was coming, but was cursed so no one would listen to her warnings. No matter what she did, she understood she would inevitably bear witness to unspeakable carnage as the city she called home went up in flames. She's described as being crazy and, frankly, I don't blame her. In writing the Amunites I often wonder what keeps them from going nuts and they tread a very thin line with regards to their sanity. Insanity is, after all, a rational response to an insane world.

Lesson for the week

I almost got hit by a bike yesterday. Not an unusual occurance in a big city during the summer, but this sequence of events stuck in my mind. I honestly didn't see the guy since I was looking for cars on a one way street. Since cars couldn't come from behind me and turn I wasn't looking behind me. Should I have looked anyway in retrospect? Probably. As I prepared to cross the street, he came from behind and turned to bike against traffic down the street. I wasn't expecting him and my hand grazed his tire at which point he cussed me out and shook his head in disdain like I was a stupid, petulant two year old. Not the first time something similar has happened and certainly won't be the last, but it reminded me of a recurring theme I've been noticing. No one takes responsiblity for themselves anymore. I am in a unique position to hear every excuse known to man. It's the rare person who looks at me and says "I was to blame, it's my fault." I do the same thing too from time to time. It's easier to blame others, but it doesn't solve the problem. The only way to fix problems is to control what we have direct control over and that means admitting we have control in the first place. Blame is easy, responsibility and work is hard. And always look because you never know what's coming up behind you. Thus endeth the lesson.

Solitude

I get to work freakishly early. I am up anyway sans alarm at some ridiculous time which I attribute to the training we're required to have since medical school to function on as little sleep as possible. I like the world better either early in the morning or late at night. There's a peacefulness which simply can't be found during the day. Time to breathe, time to think. I get my best writing done during this time as if my imagination feels stifled by the crush of humanity and sunlight. I am comfortable being alone for extended periods of time. It works for me. Maybe it's because I interact with so many people for my work on such a personal level. During my down time I don't want to talk, I don't want to be in big crowds. I just want peace and quiet. I think that's why my husband and I get along so well. We both see the value in comfortable silence. Sometimes it's enough to be there for each other guarding the solitude of the soul.