“Sometimes, you have to be kind to be cruel.”—Anonymous

The palace is falling to pieces. The gardens are overgrown and wild. The servants are long gone. No one goes near the palace and no one knows why. No one alive today remembers a time before the palace walls began to crumble. Before the vines began to creep. Before the palace was abandoned by everyone who lived there. Everyone, that is, except the King himself. The King has always been there and will always be there. That was the Gift Of The Sorceress. The Gift that imprisoned the King and set his people free.

♦♦♦

Once upon a different time, the palace was resplendent. It was a thing of beauty, the pride of the kingdom. The King was a great ruler then. His is gardens were another Eden and was maintained day and night by the finest gardeners in the world. The King never had to lift a finger for himself, for his servants were loyal, obedient, even proud to serve so fine a King. Back then, people came to the King’s palace every day, seeking his counsel, which was given freely and gladly. The King loved his people and they loved him.

It was the visit from the Countess that set things in motion. Gorgeous beyond words and ardently admired by every young man in the kingdom. She spent a week in the King’s home and he was never the same again. At the time, many blamed the Countess for the change in the King, but that’s unjust. We all make our own decisions, and we are accountable for the consequences to which they lead us.

The King desired her, of course. All men desired her—as did many women—for her beauty was unmatched in all the world. But there is more to true beauty than just looking a certain way. And the Countess’ beauty was truly only skin deep if anyone’s was. She treated others as the dirt beneath her feet. Her own servants, the King’s servants, the peasantry who visited the King’s gardens and came to ask advice of the King, even the King himself was beneath the Countess.

“Why do you let these common people walk all over you?” she demanded of her host. “Look at them. Those filthy common people defiling your gardens, muddying up your home and addressing you as if you were their equal.”

“Well,” said the King, “it’s true I have wealth and power, but we’re all human, aren’t we? We are all God’s children.”

The Countess laughed. “You memorized that pathetic platitude at your mother’s knee and you recite it like a parrot to justify your own cowardice.”

“Cowardice?”

“If you were any kind of a man--any kind of a monarch--you would show these people who you are. You are a King! With a wave of your hand, you can send an army to destroy their village and take every scrap they own. It is high time your people remembered that.”

“But why would I want to send an army to destroy their village? Why would I want to take every scrap they own? They have so little and I have so much.”

“That is not the point! These people should be cowering in fear of you, not coming to you with their petty problems.”

The King wasn’t sure he could follow the Countess’ advice. After all, there had been peace in his domain for many years. Things seemed to be going well. Was it wise to make so bold a change?

That night, as the King slept uneasily, his mind troubled by the words of the Countess, she came to his bedchamber. She entered silently until she desired the King to awaken, then she allowed herself to be heard. Before his startled and awestruck eyes, she disrobed and straddled him without a word.

“I need a real man,” she said as she rose and fell over his strong, eager body. “One who knows his own strength. One who puts those beneath him in their place. One who isn’t afraid to use the power he wields. Are you that man?”

“Yes!” the King moaned, almost growled, the word.

“Swear to me!”

“I swear!”

It began in little ways. The following morning, the King informed his staff that he would no longer be hearing petitions from the villagers and that they were no longer permitted to enter his gardens without paying a fee. Furthermore, anyone who appeared before the King for any reason would have to bring a gift. The servants were confused, and more than a little alarmed, but they obeyed.

Gradually, he stopped saying “please” or “thank you” to his servants when he ordered them around. He began barking at them, demeaning them, insulting them as he worked them harder than they had ever worked before. They were not permitted to touch him, or to look directly at him.

The Countess was long gone, but her wickedness had remained. It was as if the Countess had put him under a spell. But it was no spell. In a moment of weakness he had agreed to dominate, developed a taste for it, and had let it get out of hand. You can hand a man a drink of wine and he might drink it and stop right there, or he might drink another and another. It is not the fault of the person who offered the man a drink if the man chose to become a drunkard.

And drunk is exactly what the King had become. He was drunk on his newly discovered power. The peace of his domain was shattered and he gave himself over entirely to pleasure. His own ease and comfort were the only things he cared about. His people, who had once been as welcome as glad tidings in his home, grew weak and hungry as the King raised their taxes and increased their quotas. And he didn’t care.

The people of the village were desperate. They had no one to come to their aid. The King had once been their friend, and now he was a cruel and wicked tyrant. What could they do? If they angered him, he would raise his army and destroy them at a stroke.

In the end, it was the courage of one small boy that led to their salvation. Seeing the dreadful state of his home and the suffering of his friends and family, this boy set out one night to find someone to help his people. He wandered through the night until he came to a broken down shack in the middle of the forest. A place that no one came to unless they had nowhere else to go. The home of the Sorceress.

The Sorceress took pity on the boy and the plight of his village and she made a sacred vow to use all her skills of magic and mysticism to end the suffering of his people.

Two days later, a visitor from another land came to see the King. She had, of course, been warned about the custom of bringing a gift in exchange for the honor of being seen by the King, and she was certain her gift would not disappoint.

“What do you want?” grumbled the King at the woman who stood before him. She was older than he by twenty years or more, but fancily dressed and clearly a woman of wealth and importance.

“I want nothing,” said the Sorceress. “I heard of the greatness of the King who lived in this palace, and I wanted only to come and pay my respects. And to give you a gift, of course.”

“I see no gift,” said the King. And, indeed, it looked to all the world as though the Sorceress had come empty-handed.

“Many people cannot see that which is right in front of them.” So saying, the Sorceress drew up the hem of her cloak and swept it around herself. In an instant, she was gone, and in her place…stood the clock.

The most magnificent clock ever made. It was enormous, bigger than the King himself and every piece of it hand-carved from the sturdiest, finest wood in the land. It was wound so tightly and constructed so elegantly that it would never run down, and kept perfect time down to the smallest fraction of a second. And every hour on the hour, there would be a display. A seemingly infinite variation of wooden figures acted out scenes from classic stories, tales from scripture and epic poems. The performances were spell-binding and accompanied by impossibly beautiful music and the action was—naturally—in perfect synchronization with the ticking of the clock. Each hour brought a different display which was seen once and then never repeated.

Seated in his throne, the King stared, transfixed, at the clock. Even when the wooden figures were not doing their hourly pantomime, there was something to look at. All along the sides of the clock were shapes and figures ticking in perfect harmony, moving, spinning, or simply rocking back and forth. It never stopped moving, no matter what the time of day.

Forgotten were the daily duties of running his estate, forgotten were his demands on his soldiers, servants and subjects. From then on, all the King wanted to do was watch his magnificent clock. He dared not look away, for fear of missing something which he might never see again.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years. Decades. And all the King did was to sit in his chair and watch the clock. His beard and hair grew long and unruly. His palace fell into disrepair. His servants abandoned him. He didn’t care. He didn’t even notice. All he saw, all he knew, was the clock. It was his entire world.

♦♦♦

Nobody goes to the palace anymore. No one remembers why that is. But if anyone did go inside the palace, assuming they got past the thorny brambles from the overgrown garden and avoided being hit on the head by a falling rock from the toppling towers, they would see nothing but empty halls, long since overrun by spiders, rats and decay.

And in the throne room they would find a man. An impossibly old man. His hair and beard overgrown, wrapping around the throne, binding him to it permanently, staring as if hypontized at a clock. The most magnificent clock ever made. A clock which will never run down, never stop, never set the old man free.

To think, this pathetic old man was once the greatest king who ever lived.

5090 Park Lane Circle was an attractive two-story house in the city of Liston, Michigan. It was built in 1971 and, at that time, it was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Trevor. Mr. Trevor had carried his new wife over the threshold on the day they moved in. Five years later, however, when he left the house for absolutely the last time, he was alone.

The house was sold to the McArthurs, a large family consisting of Mr. McArthur, Mrs. McArthur, Billy, Jason, Michael and Sharon, who was less than a year old at the time. Over the next twelve years, 5090 Park Lane Circle played host to baseball games, movie marathons, tea parties, slumber parties, pancake breakfasts, spaghetti dinners, Christmas parties and the loss of one of the McArthur boys’ virginity.

It was young Sharon McArthur who first made the discovery. She stumbled upon the strange secret of this house entirely by accident and managed to keep it a secret for over a year before the family moved away, deciding that with half their children grown up and moved out, they no longer needed such a large house. The very last thing she did before vacating the first home she would ever remember was to leave a note for the next residents of 5090 Park Lane Circle.

This proved to be the Benningtons. Having only two children instead of four, one of the bedrooms (Michael’s) became a guest room and another (Billy’s) was converted into an office where Mrs. Bennington would work at times when she was not working at the office provided to her by her employer. Her two daughters, Moira and Angela, failed to understand why their mother needed so many offices nor why she needed to do so much work.

Angela found the note Sharon had left as she was moving her things into her new bedroom. She read it, then ran down the hall to where her big sister was moving her own things into her new bedroom. After both of the girls read it, they decided that moving into their new rooms (which was all they had talked about on the long drive from their old home) could wait and they investigated the claim Sharon McArthur had made in her note.

They managed to keep the secret for six years, during which time their mother was forced to do slightly less work until some time after the birth of her first son, Alex. When their baby brother was old enough, Moira and Angela shared their secret with little Alex and he, too, kept a tight heavy lid on it for quite some time.

It did, however, come out eventually, though not through the carelessness of any of the Bennington children. No, it was just one of those unfortunate happenstances which are nobody’s fault but which still manage to ruin things for everyone. The upshot of this particular happenstance was that the Benningtons soon moved away from 5090 Park Lane Circle, which actually sat empty for four years.

When the new owners did finally take up residence, they found a strange and indecipherable note pinned to the washing machine.

As did the family who moved in after them.

As did Carol and Neil Meriwether.

Stuck to the fridge with a magnetic calendar from their realtor was a sheet of paper with a Post-It stuck to it. The Post-It read:

The previous owners wanted me to show you this. Maybe you can figure out what it means.

The note itself read:

Dear new owners,

Welcome to your new home. We hope you will be as happy here as we were. Before you get too comfortable, though, we have one very important thing to tell you:

Don’t move the washing machine.

Ever. For any reason. Do not move it at all. If it breaks, buy a new one, but find someplace else to put it because you must not ever move the washing machine from its current location. Seriously. I know this sounds insane but, trust me, I’m being totally serious.

Sincerely,

Chris Davis.

Carol and Neil took turns reading the note and trying to figure out what Chris Davis was on about. Finally, and without a word, they both went to the laundry room.

Of course, it was really more of a small atrium between the kitchen and the garage. On one side was a cabinet for storing cleaning supplies, and on the other was the washer and dryer. Both of which looked perfectly normal. A bit old-fashioned, perhaps, but still, broadly-speaking, functional. They did their first load of laundry and both machines worked just fine.

Neither of them understood why the previous owner had been so adamant about not moving the washing machine, but they also saw no reason why they would need to move it. So, they threw away the note and promptly forgot all about it.

Two years passed before the washing machine started giving them trouble. No matter how evenly they tried to balance the load, it rocked back and forth. The clothes came out with undissolved patches of soap powder on them. And, finally, Carol went down to move the laundry and stepped in a puddle of water in her stocking feet. It was leaking.

Neil, completely forgetting the warning from the previous owner, mopped up the water with some old towels, then prepared to move the washer so that he could find the source of the leak. There wasn’t much room in the small atrium to maneuver the large, cumbersome machine, but soon he had pulled one side away from the wall far enough that he could get in and try to fix it.

Almost immediately, a bluish blur swept past Neil and, making a horrible squealing sound, scrabbled into the kitchen. Neil could hear its feet clicking against the linoleum. Then he heard Carol scream and ran into the kitchen after whatever it was.

Carol was standing at the kitchen island, making a sandwich. She had dropped both the jar of mustard and the knife she was using to spread it on the bread when she saw the creature which was now running frantically around the living room still squealing for all it was worth.

It was a pig. Sort of. It was blue, with two long tails instead of one short, curly one, and two horns coming out of its head. It was also clearly terrified.

“What the hell is that?!” Neil said.

“I don’t know!” said Carol, who had calmed down slightly from the initial shock of seeing a blue horned pig in her kitchen.

“What do we do?”

“Catch it!”

“What?”

“Catch it, Neil!”

Neil thought for a moment then ran back into the laundry room. He came back a second later with a white plastic laundry basket which he intended to use as a cage for the pig. He charged at the pig which, of course, simply ran away and hid under the sofa. Then darted out and, knocking into a table and upsetting a lamp, hid behind the recliner. Four times Neil dropped the laundry basket on the floor and four times he missed the pig entirely.

“Here, pig, pig, pig, pig, pig!”

Carol had said this as she tipped over the kitchen garbage can. Food wrappers, banana peels, coffee grounds, Chinese take-out boxes and uneaten scraps of meals spilled onto the floor. And even though it had two long tails and horns and was blue from head to toe, it was still, at heart, a pig. It couldn’t resist the smorgasbord on the kitchen floor and while it was preoccupied with a fragment of leftover egg from breakfast, Neil was able to drop the basket and then sit on it. The pig was trapped.

“We got it!” said Carol.

“Yeah,” panted Neil. “Yeah we did…now what?”

Carol didn’t have an answer for this question but, as it turned out, she didn’t need one.

“Oh, good, you caught her.”

Carol and Neil looked up to find a stranger in their home. He might have passed for a normal, stereotypical farmer, in his overalls, flannel shirt, boots and straw hat, were it not for the undeniable fact that his skin was just as blue as the pig’s.

“Mayzie,” he said to the pig, sternly, “you should be ashamed of yourself. Barging into these nice people’s home and making such a mess. Honestly,” he added to Carol and Neil, “I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble. She’s a good girl most of the time, really. Still, I guess we all get a little worked up from time to time. Well, I’ll take her home now. Er, you mind, Mister?”

It took Neil a moment to realize what the blue farmer was asking. Then he stood up and lifted the laundry basket. The farmer picked up the now docile pig (evidently called “Mayzie”) in his arms. He then walked toward the laundry room, Carol and Neil following him closely.

“Well, so long,” said the farmer with a friendly smile, and he climbed nimbly into the narrow space behind the washing machine. But when Neil looked behind the machine a moment later, there was no sign of him. No sign of anything except the bare wall and the wires and hoses connected to the washing machine.

The next person who moves into 5090 Park Lane Circle, if and when Carol and Neil finally decide to leave, will find the non-functioning washing machine bolted to the wall and impossible to move. They, like Carol and Neil, will have to wash their clothes at the coin laundry a few blocks away. Despite this precaution, however, it is likely they will also find a note left for them by the previous occupants, which will read:

DON’T move the washing machine!

Priest~ (Sighs) Okay! Let’s get this over with quickly. Shall we?

Maria~ (in confusion) I haven’t even began my confession yet_

Priest~ I’m sure I have heard it before. Go in peace. And try not to commit the sin, again.

Maria~ (Gasps) But...

Maria steps out of the booth, and shakes her head.

Priest draws the curtain. Takes a quick glance around the cathedral.

Priest~ Finally. She’s gone. Now I can get back to watching the show. (Squeals) Come on Barry, Run! You’re the fastest man alive. Yeah! (Claps his hands).

“Bless me father for I have sinned

It has been 6 weeks since my last confession.”

“Ahhh, It is good to see you again Patrick Murphy

I am pleased to know you have come to repent......

Since God is a loving God and I as his son must be honest

I know why you are here again. The sin of gluttony.

I could smell that Italian hoagie you just devoured before you even entered the church.”

Entering the darkened church from July’s sunshine splendor outside, my eyes were useless. Weary from travel, out of practice in Catholicism, I made my way toward darkened cubical shapes at the chapel’s side.

Sitting, I heard a voice come through the wall.

“Is someone there?”

“Yes,” I croaked back, lifting my water bottle to wet my throat.

“Forgive me father, I have sinned,” the voice commenced while I drank, “I have killed again since my last confession.”

My eyes wide, heart racing, water spilling, I yelled, “Wrong side!” as I ripped aside the curtain and dashed out the cathedral door.

"Turns out by the time I stabbed Murphy you had already poisoned him, so I was let off with a warning."

"You're supposed to be the holy one, padre! What about Thou shalt not kill?"

"Technically speaking, I didn't. You did."

"But I'm safe because of the seal of confessional, right? You can't divulge anything I said while I was in here."

"Nary a word shall pass these lips, you may rest assured."

"Whew, that's a relief."

"You may, however, wish to take a moment to consult with the police sergeant standing outside with his ear pressed against the door."

Light from candles is soft and pure,

Light from LED is sharp and piercing,

Neither are better or worse than the other.

You may gain more creativity,

And be inspired by,

Candle light.

You may gain more light,

And have a more reliable,

Light source with LED.

Candles are more romantic,

More traditional,

Have a calming scent.

LED is more useful

More modern,

Is safer to use.

Neither are better than the other,

Neither are worse than the other,

But you can have your preference.

Candle light,

or,

LED Light?

You tell me.

There's something psychedelic about the rune bear. They're like koalas: they live in the branches of trees, have noses twice the size of their ears, and they're not bears at all. In fact, they look more like beavers with a giant snub nose and soft elephant ears. I couldn't tell you what sounds they make, but I've seen one eat; Crunch, crunch, crunch on cloudy diamonds and calcite cakes. Their teeth are so small and round, like turtle toes and horse hooves. When they curl up in trees, they look like birds' nests or just a bundle of pine frongs. You'd never know it was a rune bear up in the tree until you heard their crunchy eating or saw the shimmering purple glow from their cross-hatched tails. Their light is so faint, you can only see it at night. Sometimes, from above the forest you can see an ethereal turqouise haze through the pine needles from the glowing etchings reflecting off their cobalt fur. It looks like a soft borealis, especially against the sparsely starry sky and plush grey powder snow. They're called bears because their claws and skin are as tough and thick as polar and black bears. They look soft, but if you pet one, it feels like you're brushing your skin with a steel grill-cleaning brush. It's not smooth and gentle, but it's majestic armour. No one's ever looked in the eye before though... my grandps tells me they can steal your secrets and turn them into runes on their tail. That's why they're so valuable- if you can catch them and trace the runes on their tail, legend has it you can learn the secrets of the mountains, the ice, and time if you choose the right runes. That knowledge is valuable, powerful, and dangerous.

A kick to the ribs was his wake up call. The speaker in the corner of the cell crackled. "Get up," a distorted voice said.

McGee squinted. He coughed out the pain. The guard's boot struck mostly scar tissue, but McGee let the guard think his kick did more damage than it did.

"There's a bucket in the corner. You have two minutes to memorize the map inside it. Follow the instructions carefully. Any deviation from the instructions will result in death," the voice said.

He scrambled to his feet. The metal bucket reminded him of the ones his Uncle Jack used to milk cows on his farm. Even though this was not the time to be sentimental, he wanted to fill his mind with good memories in case today was his last day alive.

McGee skimmed the instructions on the map. It was a lot of mumbo jumbo about latitudes, longitudes, and coordinates. Those didn't mean a thing to him. He had never regretted his English degree more than in that moment. The only written instructions were to not stray from the path. He scanned the map for landmarks or any clues that would help him. There were none.

The guard snatched the map from his hands. He lit it on fire and threw it in the bucket. He jammed his rifle into McGee's back. The barrel of the rifle felt strangely at home in his back.

"Go," the guard said nodding.

McGee didn't need to be told twice. He smelled smoke, but didn't look back.

A helicopter thundered above him. McGee raised his hands above his head. He was powerless, whether it was impending rescue or the guards hunting him for sport.

The helicopter landed beside the path. Soldiers motioned to him, shouting for him to run to them.

He ignored them. He knew it was a trap. Defeated, they slid the door shut, flying off in search of other prey.

He walked for days on the path. McGee tried to motivate himself with those quotes about pain just being weakness leaving the body. Everything except hope had left his body.

A familiar house and barn appeared to him in the distance. His Uncle Jack's farm. It couldn't be. Surely the rebels had taken it. The throes of dehydration had to be causing him to hallucinate.

He saw his uncle. Time had taken its toll. He walked with a stoop and a shuffle, but still carried two buckets filled to the brim.

McGee doubted his uncle would recognize him in his emaciated state. Instinctively he raised his hands above his head and treaded lightly.

The livestock became aware of the stranger first. Restlessly they shuffled and made noise.

Uncle Jack shielded his eyes from the sun to look upon the weary figure approaching him.

"About time you showed up," Uncle Jack said.

Wild hearts can't be broken. Not in the way you break a horse. No partner can ever truly be tame and train them to fit the hole in their soul. A wild heart roams from place to place, hiding from the inevitable hurt that follows falling in love. Wild hearts cannot be broken because you cannot get close enough to break it. I'll make sure of it. Wild hearts run in meadows, following the herd, grazing in local bars and clubs. Never stopping long enough a settle. Always sure to protect themselves from any unwanted sidetrack, like a family. Wild hearts may not break, but slowly and surely they crumble. Finding themselves in alley ways and bar fights with no one to watch their back. They crumble under the crushing weight of lonliness they have afflicted on themselves. No, wild hearts cannot be broken, but they do break. Wild hearts settle down, or run until they can't.