No Smoking, Please!

***This is not an original by me. This is a traditional poem recited by my Great-Grandfather, Papa B, the original Storyteller in my life. ***

One of my bygone recollections,
As I recall the days of yore
Is the little house, behind the house,
With the crescent over the door.

'Twas a place to sit and ponder
With your bowed down low;
Knowing that you wouldn't be there,
If you didn't have to go.

Ours was a three-holer,
With a size for every one
You left there feeling better,
After your usual job was done.

You had to make these frequent trips
Whether snow, rain, sleet, or fog--
To the little house where you usually 
Found the Sears-Roebuck catalog.

Oft times in dead of winter,
The seat was covered with snow.
'Twas then with much reluctance,
To the little house you'd go.

With a swish you'd clear the seat,
Bend low, with dreadful fear.
You'd blink your eyes and grit your teeth
As you settled on your rear.

I recall the day Granddad,
Who stayed with us one summer,
Made a trip to the shanty
Which proved to be a hummer.

'Twas the same day my Dad
Finished painting the kitchen green.
He'd just cleaned up the mess he's made
With rags and gasoline.

He tossed the rags in the shanty hole
And went on his usual way
Not knowing that by doing so
He would eventually rue the day.

Now Granddad had an urgent call,
I never will forget!
This trip he made to the little house
Lingers in my memory yet.

He sat down on the shanty seat,
With both feet on the floor
Then filled his pipe with tobacco
And struck a match on the outhouse door.

After the tobacco began to glow,
He slowly raised his rear;
Tossed the flaming match in the open hole,
With no sign of fear.

The blast that followed, I am sure,
Was heard for miles around;
And there was poor ol' Granddad
Just sitting on the ground.

The smoldering pipe was still in his mouth,
His suspenders he held tight;
The celebrated three-holer
Was blown clear out of sight.

When we asked him what had happened,
His answer I'll never forget,
He thought it must be something
That he had recently et!

Next way we had a new one
Which my Dad built with ease,
With a sign on the entrance door
Which reads: No Smoking, Please!

Now that's the end of the story,
With memories of long ago,
Of the little house, behind the house,
Where we went 'cause we had to go!

The Quest for the Truth

There once was an Old Man who was raised in a world at war with itself. There were many factions in this war, but it ultimately came down to two groups, those who believed The Stories were true and those who did not. Many had died in this war who had forgotten what it was about. After centuries of fighting, there were no great debates anymore. The Council of each group no longer studies The Stories themselves or consulted with others about them. No one even read The Stories anymore.

Those that did not believe The Stories to be true never read The Stories, yet they believed with all of their being that The Stories were falsehoods created to mold the minds of the populous into mindless slaves of those more able to manipulate The Stories to serve their own purposes. They avoided reading The Stories out of fear that they would become subject to those who ruled the believers.

Those that did believe The Stories to be true no longer read them because an edict long ago outlawed the translation of The Stories into languages that everyone spoke. Unfortunately, this resulted in the separation of the truth of The Stories from those that believed them. Eventually, even those that taught of The Stories were in the dark regarding what they were truly about.

The Old Man asked what The Stories were. He asked The Council of both sides and the councils of the smaller factions that made up the two sides. As it was, no one knew The Stories anymore, and yet their accuracy was still fought over. So the man started to search for any existing copies of the stories. He demanded of The Council of believers to be granted access to them. Each time he presented his case, he was turned down. The Council told him, "Things are fine as they are. There is no need for change." When he inquired of the non-believers, he was presented with the same frame of mind. Things had been the way they were for too long. No one even knew how to change them anymore.

There were those who heard the story of The Old Man. Some took pity on his apparent lack of knowledge about the books. Some were angered that he questioned The Council. But there was one group that found his search refreshing and a sign of hope.

The Piedad sent a message to The Old Man saying that they had the answers he was looking for. He only had to meet them at the seventh hour of the seventh day of the seventh month, for that was the only time they could appear and have the blessing of The Storyteller and her ilk. The Old Man waited for months for the approved time, trying to stave off bringing war into his own home; Trying to keep his children and grandchildren from fighting in the wars. He begged them to let him get to the truth of the matter and then they could decide for themselves if they wanted to join the fights. Only his grandson, Hidetaka, listened and stayed out of the fighting, though it brought much pain and teasing from his former comrades.

Two months later, the Piedad approached The Old Man and led him to an abandoned city that seemed as old as time itself.

"There is no way these were built by our kind," The Old Man marveled. "They are far too grand for our current technology, let alone ancient."

"Shh," one of the Piedad responded. "We are entering the sacred place of knowledge. The resting place for the tomes of the ancients."

They led the Old Man to a building that was covered in a writing he could not understand. The doors were guarded by stone animals he did not know, but would not like to meet in the flesh. They climbed the stairs into the building and opened the twenty foot doors.

Inside of the building were the Piedad, taking care of the tomes by keeping them clean, transferring the knowledge of the tattered tomes to newer, fresher pieces of paper, using long lost technologies to preserve the tomes as best they could.

The Old Man was led to a woman who seemed to be ageless. She seemed forever stuck in her forties. She was dressed in royal garbs and had a circle of bodyguards around her at all times. She motioned to her men that The Old Man was safe.

"I understand," she began in a soft, grandmotherly voice, "that you are looking for The Stories that started the never ending war. Why are you looking for them?"

"I wish to make sense of my world," replied The Old Man. "If people are to die over a bunch of stories, should we not at least know what the stories are about?"

"At last," she replied with a smile. "At last someone has the initiative to question. We have been the Keepers of Knowledge for ages. We were to encourage thought, discussions, new ideas, questioning of the status quo. Unfortunately we were banished and forgotten centuries ago. I am a direct descendant of The Storyteller of old. To her children and grandchildren, she bequeathed the original copies of The Stories. We have worked for a long time, developing new technologies, preserving techniques that worked, in our attempts to preserve them. The Storyteller warned us that the day would come when these works would save the world."

"May I see them," asked The Old Man.

The woman smiled, "of course you may. We encourage the seeking of knowledge here."

The Old Man followed her and her guards deep into the building's underground area. There was no light here, but the Piedad had no problems finding their way around. They had traversed this path many times. The Old Man, however, kept stubbing his toes, tripping and eventually had to grab onto one of the Piedad guards to lead him.

Finally they stopped. The woman made some motions with her hands and a door opened to a room, softly lighted by what The Old Man assumed to be magic. The woman motioned for him to step forward and he did so. When he stepped into the room, the lights brightened so suddenly and so fully that it hurt his eyes. He trembled in fear at this unknown technology.

"Go forth," the woman encouraged. "The truth you seek is just ahead of you."

The Old Man looked and saw a tiny object made from paper that he had never seen before, but had heard of. It was a book, which were usually reserved for the members of The Council, but he doubted that theirs had as much detail work put into them as this book, no bigger than a deck of cards, held. He reached out to touch the book but withdrew his hand, fearing he was in violation of some rule.

"Go on," the woman told him. "The book has been waiting for someone like you to read it."

With her blessing, The Old Man picked up the book and gently pulled open the cover. Inside of it, written in the language of his ancestors, were The Stories, in their original form.

"But," he protested, "I cannot read this. I do not recognize the language. And I am far too old and too close to my days to learn this ancient writing."

"Then we shall have to send you forth with the means for someone younger than you to learn and to translate," the woman smiled. "To be honest, we all thought you would be younger, but I trust there is someone to whom you can entrust the task of being the Revealer of Truth for your world."

"Yes," he replied. "My grandson will be happy to engage in this work. He is the only one who would listen to my requests to stay out of the fighting, now he shall be rewarded with the knowing of the truth."

"Be careful Old Man," the woman said, "The Revealer of Truth is a position of great responsibility. If you give this task to your grandson, he will hated, hunted, and quite likely tortured for bringing the truth to the people. Would you truly want him to go through this?"

The Old Man considered, "No. But I also cannot let him live in a placid state of emotionless acceptance. I want my grandson to grow to challenge The Council when they are wrong, to bring peace to those who war over what they do not know. May he forgive me for charging him with this responsibility."

The Old Man was escorted to his home where he found his grandson waiting for him. "Hidetaka, the burden has been passed to you. Translate The Stories using the books the Piedad have given us, and tell the world the truth about them as best as you see fit. Whether you think they are true or not, whether you interpret them one way or another, just make sure people are allowed to know what they are fighting about and can choose whether they truly want to fight for it or not."

With that, The Old Man passed out from exhaustion and died. Hidetaka buried his grandfather and spent his life wandering, knowing that the books would get him in trouble with any council that found them. Even before he was finished translating, he was already spreading the word to the people about the importance of knowing what you are fighting for, the importance of questioning the status quo, and, most importantly, the importance of thinking for yourself. The people who heard of his works gave him a new name, Dankward.

Azazel in Love

How long have I been a demon in love?
How long since I first saw your pale beauty?

I was rejected by God up above
I became a creature of cruelty.

That is when I saw who you would become
While learning the paths of the Divine Will.

Your wit was sharp and your tongue never dumb.
To have your beauty any girl would kill.

Bought you sought to destroy my bretheren
Your blade drew blood for the great rejector.

I was jealous of your place in Heaven
But wanted to become your protector.

The Princes set a bounty on your head
From the time before you were even born.

Ev'ry demon came and was defeated
You even turned some with your lack of scorn.

You were quite the precious and gentle child
It even hurt me to try to hurt you.

As the years passed, you never became wild.
You stayed precious as well as tranquil too.

I sought to bring you over to my side,
Away from The Rejector of Heaven.

You followed my logic as time did bide,
You learned things not allowed by God to men.

Several times I broke your spirit of trust
And I got you to doubt his existence.

I would not let you hurt from a sword's thrust,
But I did hurt you with logic and sense.

And yet you stick to your belief in him
You will never forget that he loves you.

My love for you is not based on whim
I long for when, my bidding, you will do.

Your spark of the divine will never die
You will always be beautiful to me.

We'd be one if not for the One on High
You will always haunt me with your beauty.

The day will come when we will have to fight.
We will try to kill each other that day.

I do not know that you could compete with my might,
But by my side, you shall forever stay.

How Spiders Got Eight Legs

Once upon a time there was a woman who was gifted in the crafts of weaving, sewing and writing. No one could tell a story as she could; she would tell her stories in the form of weaves, embroidery, quilting and written word.

As her society dictated, she needed to marry. Many men came calling for her hand but she refused them all. When approached by The Council about why she would not marry, she answered "any man can provide for a good family and look good, but these traits only last a few years at best. Find me a man who can tell a story as well as I, and I shall marry him."

The Council was aghast at her arrogance. All of their sons had been refused. So they devised a plan to punish her and teach her a lesson.

The Council collaborated for weeks crafting the finest story they could think of. When they were done, they gave it to Amleth and told him to tell it to The Storyteller and she would marry him. Amleth had never been able to get a wife for he was mean, cruel and used his fists more often than his words. Excited at the prospect of being allowed to marry, he rushed to The Storyteller's home and proceeded to tell the tale, accompanied by The Council.

"What a story Amleth," she exclaimed when he finished. "But you did not write it and you have no others. Therefore I will not marry you."

"That was never the agreement," The Council retorted. "You only asked for a man who could tell a single story. There was never a requirement that it be his own or that there be more than one."

The Storyteller had been caught in her own trap. She reluctantly agreed to marry Amleth and he was eager to have a wife to do his bidding. Years passed and Amleth became meaner and meaner, especially when their union produced no children. Amleth blamed The Storyteller for not being able to carry a child to term and beat her continuously for it.

In desperation she sought the aid of The Healer. She begged him for the means to carry a child to term, using her storytelling art, she conveyed to The Healer the pain she suffered and the importance of having a child. He was moved by her words and gave her a potion, but warned her to only drink one drop each time she wanted a child. The Storyteller thanked him and ran home.

When she got there, she was so desperate for a child that she drank the entire potion right away. That night she conceived and soon her belly swelled with pregnancy. Amleth was pleased and let her be for a time. Soon, however, she felt that there was something unusual about her pregnancy. She sought the advice of The Midwife who told her that she was in such pain because she was carrying more than one child. How many, she couldn't say, but she knew The Storyteller's womb to be full of life.

Finally The Storyteller gave birth to four children, three boys and one girl. Amleth was please with three sons and let her be, but so did everyone else. The Storyteller had no one to help her care for these four children while still fulfilling her duties as a wife and partaking in her crafts. She grew frustrated and realized she would need more arms than what she had.

Using all of her weaving skills, she wove for herself two sets of arms and attached them to her sides. They were strong enough to hold each of her children, even as the children grew older.

At the age of one, each child was finally given a name. To his sons, Amleth gave the names Gahiji, Andrej and Hariraja. To her daughter, The Storyteller gave the name Ebru, in the hopes that she would take after her mother's talent. The Storyteller was not disappointed.

As the children grew, Amleth's fuse shortened. He demanded more his children and his wife, expecting them to show how great he was by their being perfect. The boys began training with weapons and hunting when they were taking their first steps. They were ripped from their mother's arms and trained to be men before they were boys. Amleth demanded more children from The Storyteller and beat her soundly when she failed to produce more. Ebru he did not acknowledge.

The children developed a hatred for their father that mirrored The Storyteller's. She weaved stories to encourage this hate. It built and built until it was time for Ebru to marry.

Ebru had inherited her mother's talents which made her highly desirable as a bride. The Council brought their male descendants to forward as prospects and gave Amleth bribes to win over his favor. But Ebru's desire was for Tomomi, the son of The Healer. Tomomi had proposed, but Amleth had chased him away and starting breaking his daughter's will so she would marry a child of The Council. The Storyteller refused to have her daughter follow in her path and wove poisonous threads into her arms and legs. Amleth died on contact that night when he tried to lay with her.

The Storyteller was brought before The Council and given one chance to defend her actions. The Council had been against her for years so she would be doomed if she did not tell the greatest story of her life.

She started softly, calling upon all of her skills and began weaving her tail of woe, frustration and anger. She called upon Calliope, Clio and Melpomene. Soon her daughter joined her story, adding Terpsakhore and Euterpes' touch. The Council began to weep at the beauty and tragedy that these women were able to weave.

When their story was finished, The Storyteller and Ebru were silent and awaited The Council's judgement. The Council decreed Amleth to have been a poor man, not worth the talent that he married into. Therefore, The Storyteller would have to be the one whose approval was sought after regarding the hand of her daughter. However, murder could not go unpunished. The Storyteller was condemned to weave extra arms for all of her female descendants that whoever sought to marry into the family would know that she and hers were dangerous.

After Ebru and Tomomi were married, The Storyteller saw the effects of the potion The Healer had given her as her daughter gave birth to several children, many four at a time. Using her extra arms, she was able to help Ebru take care of them, earning herself the nickname Grandmother Spider.

So remember this, those who tangle with Grandmother Spider's kin, do not treat them lightly, or ruin their works, for she has weaved them many arms of poison and power, and they will use them.