Men are from Mars etc

The following is a story I've been lugging around in hard copy, always looking for an excuse to throw it out. Well, what better way than to put it into blog entry!

Remember the book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" by Dr John Gray? Well, here's a prime example offered by an English professor at Southern Methodist University, English 44A, SMU, Creative Writing, Prof. Miller.

In-class Assignment for Wednesday

'Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story.  The process is simple.  Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right.  One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story.  The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story.

The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth.  Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent.T he story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.'

"The following was actually turned in by two of my English students:

Rebecca - last name deleted, and Gary - last name deleted." 

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The Dream (Creative Writing)

The world around me starts to dissolve into nothing. Two men are begging, pleading with a man in a suit "No! Please he'll forget us."

"He won't forget you. He'll see you again on TV. You will be a science fiction show and you.." he turns to the second man "..will be a soap opera"

"No!" they both shout as they are dragged away.

"Excuse me!" I say

The suited man looks surprised, turning both ways to see if there is anyone else I may be speaking to.

"Yes you" I demanded "I'm talking to you!"

"I'm sorry" he replies "but you shouldn't be able to perceive me, let alone speak to me. Something is obviously wrong with the system at the moment. Are you sick, ill or delirious?” he asks.

"I have a head cold at the moment, but that's beside the point."

"Ah! That must be it, you're delirious - seeing things."

"I'm fine, but who are you?"

"Well, since you've asked, I am your id."

"My what?"

"The anthropomorphic personification of your imagination. I am the one who keeps control of your dreams - tries to help you make sense of them." then his demeanor becomes more sinister "And then eliminates them before you awake."

At that moment I recognise my id as a dead ringer for James Spader.

"You’re serious?"

"Oh yes. Right now you're asleep - probably feverish actually, it's the only explanation for why you can perceive me. Usually you are blissfully unaware of my existence. But come now, dream number three is about to start."

I turn to ask him what he means, but as I do so, I realize I'm on a footpath, somewhere, who knows where. I'm dragging a some pieces of cardboard around and a few meager possessions rolled up in a blanket. I select a good piece of footpath, under cover and begin to lay out the cardboard on the ground. Soon four other men come near to do the same, but they see me there and look disappointed.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Sorry, it's just that we usually setup here. We'll find somewhere else."

"There's room for all of us." I say, and they look overjoyed.

They begin to setup and soon it looks like there's no place for me. I turn to walk away and one of them says, ‘Hey your spot is over here, in between all of us. We'll keep you safe tonight in return for letting us stay here.’

I thank them and put down my cardboard, rudimentary mattress and pillow, other possessions and lie down, wrapped in a minke blanket to keep me warm. As soon as I think 'I shouldn't be here' I'm instantly outside of myself, observing. Standing right next to my id. Standing next to him is another-me wrapped up tightly in white linen and bound with blinking Christmas tree lights and struggling to get out. It looks like he's going to succeed.

"What? I though I got rid of you?"

"Who is that?” I ask, pointing to homeless-me.

"Isn't it obvious? That's your fear of failure. It's quite a common theme. Frankly, I find it boring. The feckless self-pity, the meekness rewarded with gratitude. Seriously B grade. I wish he would get shanked once in a while just to add some reality."

"What? You want to see me shanked?"

"Oh no. Not you. Just that perception of yourself. I am you."

"I'm nothing like you!"

"Oh please! Spare me the self-loathing. I do enough of it for the both of us. You revel so much in your analytical capabilities and your critical thinking that every night I have to cleanse your soul of the monsters you unleash upon your psyche. If it wasn't for me you'd wake up a gibbering mess that needs to be spoon fed."

"May the shades of Jung and Freud haunt you forever."

"Plagiarist! You got that from Zelazny. Remember: everything you know, I know. But come, it's time for Christmas dinner." he finishes as the other-me successfully escapes from his bonds.

I turn around and realise I'm in a buffet of some kind. I offer my plate to the server and receive a slice of roast ham. Further down the line, there's turkey, cranberry sauce, duck and other foods typically found at Christmas. I realise I am moving slowly and my skin is wrinkled. I am old. I make my way to a large table full of people I know: my kids - all adults now - with their wives and children. I sit down at the table and a small girl climbs onto my lap and kisses my cheek and looks at me with a sparkle in her eye.

"Merry Christmas Grandpa! I love you."

A wave of bittersweet happiness washes over me as I look at the empty seat next to me. As I do so I think again 'I shouldn't be here' and once more I am an observer, standing next to my id.

"I can't seem to keep you in one place right now, can I? It's a pity, I like this one, however you need to do something about that empty chair."

"Why is it empty?" I ask "Did someone die."

"No. Someone never happened. Your future-me will always be like that as long as you keep feeding homeless-me. However, I no longer have any time to indulge you, I have work to do."

In an instant we are on top of a ten-story building. It looks like the outside portion of a luxurious penthouse apartment. I instantly know my id lives there. There are three representations of me standing on the ledge, all pleading for their lives. They notice me.

"Don't let him do it!"

"Who are they? What parts of me do they represent?"

"Destructive influences. You're better off without them."

"Who gets to decide that? You?"

"Why yes, as a matter of fact. But more to the point *you* did, by giving that power to me."

"I don't remember doing that!"

"Of course you don't. You didn't want the responsibility. However I tell you what, I'll let them decide."

My id pulls out a handgun.

"I'll make all of you a one-time deal. Trust me, have faith and jump. You have my word that you will be unharmed. Hesitate, and I will shoot you in the head. You have three seconds. One...two...."

All three of them jump. Seconds later there is a sickening thud. I rush to the side and peer over. There, lying on the ground are the bodies of my three doppelgängers.

"You said they'd be unharmed!"

"I lied. Time to go."

Instantly I find I'm sitting on a recliner watching TV with what feels like a heavy, soft warm blanket over me. I have comfort food at my disposal: cheeses, olives, salmon, chocolates that I am constantly eating. The room I'm in is a large one and there's a constant stream of people entering the room at the rear and muttering their disapproval of the situation. My youngest son is beside me also watching. I'm on TV, telling jokes - all ones I've told before. Comical-me has a TV audience, all laughing at every single joke. I start thinking this is simply a comedy show, but the jokes are intertwined around a complex melodramatic love triangle. I can tell this is going to end badly for comical-me so I change channels. I end up with an explicit porno playing. Since my son is watching beside me I try to change channels but I can't. This is when I notice the blanket on top of me is actually partly a naked woman and what I thought was the remote control was actually one of the blanket-woman's breasts that I'm squeezing.

"Don't stop!" the blanket-woman moans. Instantly I'm an observer again.

Blanket-woman looks at me and says "Great! A threesome!"

I find the remote and quickly change the channel. It's a televangelist channel and I am the preacher.

"Good choice!" says preacher-me to real-me. He then points an accusing finger at lustful-me "You need to repent!"

I change the channel again, this time it's a an episode of Star Trek. I'm one of the engineers. The engines are about to explode, but engineer-me grabs some tools and climbs into the bowels of the engine room saying "Don't worry. I can fix anything!"

I walk to the back of the room where my id is congregating with the disapproving crowd.

"Had enough yet?" he asks smugly.

"I'm still trying to make sense of it all."

"Give up. You'll go crazy." He leads me out of the room into a featureless wasteland. "And this, I'm afraid, is where we part company. You're about to wake up and within thirty minutes, you won't remember a thing. Subconscious memory doesn't translate to long-term memory - as you know."

"No, I don't think so. I've seen enough to know I don't want you in charge."
"That's preposterous! I AM you. Remember? I am simply a representation of your id. I'm the one who keeps the nightmares at bay. Without me, you wouldn't be functional from day to day."

"And yet, strolling through my dreams here, amongst the random collections of my Jungian archetypes, there's one thing I've noticed."

"And what's that? That they all look like you?" he sneers.

"Almost. They all look like me EXCEPT for you."

The color drains from his face as the featureless background starts to dissolve, slowly becoming the Christmas cafeteria scene from earlier.

"You know, I'm starting to think about this, about how it all fits together, and what your place in this is. More importantly, how did you get to be in charge here."

My id retorts uncertainly "I told you, *you* did.”

“Yes, I know. And yet something’s been bothering me. My id is supposed to be the primal, uncontrolled part of myself. That’s not you, that’s why you don’t look like me at all. You’re not my id, you’re my Super-Ego.”

As I say the words, my fake id deflates a little and the Christmas cafeteria fully appears. Seated at the table are all the representations of me. The empty chair beside mine is still empty. I wave my hand at the table.

“These are the various manifestations of my id...including you”

“I though you said I was your super-ego.” He sneered.

“That’s a part you play, as the ruler archetype. You’re both: my super-ego as I imagine you to be. An idealised version of myself that I can never achieve.”

“You’re making a mistake - can’t you see that?”

“The mistake I make is in suppressing my realities. I *need* my fear of failure - it keeps me from making stupid decisions.”

My super-ego is noticeably shorter now - and younger.

“I’m just happy to eat the crumbs from your table.” responds homeless-me. Lustful-me (complete with blanket-woman) is already gorging himself on food.

"Oh shut up!" retorts my super-ego.

"I'm the sum total of all my fears and dreams - positive and negative."

"Well, I know when I'm not wanted. I guess you want to go and shoot myself then!"

"That's where you're wrong. See the empty seat at the table? Well, that's yours. I do need to be reminded from time to time that I have responsibilities and obligations outside of myself. However, I also have an obligation to myself as well."

Almost with tears in his eyes my super-ego sits down. The next time I look at him I see myself - my twelve-year old child self. I realize I am being judged by the expectations that I made of myself before I became an adult. He looks up at me and says "You won't win. I told you, you'll forget all about this within thirty minutes."

I smile back and say "Not if I write this down as soon as I awake."

As the scene fades to wakefulness, I enjoy watching all of my archetypes arguing with each other over Christmas dinner.

"Time to write." I say to myself.

In searching through some old documents, I found this short story based on Warhammer that I wrote in the late '90's. Enjoy! 

Note: The abhorrent Games Workshop spelling of “Brettonia” has not been used.

The Chanson of Bernard le Favor in Prose

Extracted and condensed from the 158 verses and 17 choruses of “Le Chanson de Bernard le Favor and the Songs of his Noble Valour” as composed by the Bard Julian le Troubador.

Bernard crashed through the swamp, stumbling as he ran, tears blinding his vision. Barely able to see, his thoughts were fixed on just one thing… to run, and get away from that battle as fast as possible! Against this single-minded goal impeded no other thought;not sustenance, time, direction, not care for himself, not even shame at his cowardice. Yet deep inside, gnawing at him, was his love for the Fay Enchantress.

Finally, Bernard’s strength exhausted him. He tumbled headlong over a log and down a small hill. There he lay, crying and cursing himself at his cowardice, unworthy of the title of Knight Errant. Faintly; the sounds of battle came to him, for he had not blundered that far. The clash of steel on steel, the twang of bows, the hum and discharge of potent magic! Technically he was still on the battlefield, though some distance behind enemy lines.

Resting for a moment, Bernard stifled his sobs, wiped away his tears and began to survey his situation: He was out of the swamp now, that much was good. He was without mount, and his unit had been destroyed. But it was when his beloved Duke, Folay, Duc de Parravon, fell in battle that his courage had left him. Bernard had run from the battle like a frightened child.

The might of the Lizardman army had amazed him. He had thought they would be weak. But the sheer power of the Slann-Mage Czantekel had stunned him. He had seen the power of the Empire battle wizards inaction, tempered by the Waagh of the Goblin shamans, been repulsed by the power of Chaos. But nothing… nothing had prepared him for sight of the white fire of High Magic as it incinerated a mighty unit of Grail Knights in lance formation. The mighty Slann-Mage then proceeded to deal a mortal blow to his beloved Duke, whilst at the same time casting down all the spells the Fay Enchantress could weave. He himself had been overwhelmed by the missile fire from salamanders and those pesky skinks with their deadly bows. One by one, the Knight Errants under his charge paid the ultimate price in defence of Mother Brettoni. After that, he had no courage for the fight.

Wistfully, he sat and held a token in his hands, he caressed the simple trinket lovingly and fought back more tears of remorse. The object he held - while worthless to others - was more priceless to him than life itself. He allowed this thought to grow in him and his fear turned into something else. Gaining a further resolve he pushed his anger deep within him. Standing slowly he took his sword in hand and tied around it the trinket he was carrying. It was a tress of hair, a gift to him from the Fay Enchantress of Brettonia.

He had broken his ban!

In truth he had not prepared himself properly. Bernard had allowed his pride to deceive him. For he was a Knight Errant Champion of Brettonia! And what is more, he had been granted a favour from the Fay Enchantress herself!

A snorting sound snatched Bernard from his thoughts. Spinning around, sword in hand, he was ready to fight! Out of the swamp, dripping in muck, trotted a Brettonian Warhorse. Despite its sad appearance it still held its head up high, a sure sign of the Elvenhorse blood that still pumped through its veins. Although its carapace was stained Bernard could still clearly make out the heraldry. This was the horse that recently bore the Duke of Parravon. Amazed at the courage of the Duke’s horse in seeking out another rider so that it could return to battle, Bernard wasted no time in mounting up. He had no Lance, his sword would have to do.

Listening for the sounds of battle, he spurred his new horse on. Around the swamp charged with a new sense of urgency. Still out of sight, Bernard could tell the battle was not going well for Brettonia, the sound of Brettonian archers had long faded. He feared for the Enchantress, that she might have been slain. The very thought appalled him and filled is heart with dread, but within burned a new resolve. He spurred his horse on to greater and greater speeds. Rounding the swamp, his heart leapt with joy, and then filled with dread.

Morgiana was still alive, but beleaguered. No knights now stood to defend her. Only a handful of mounted squires protected her from the Lizardmam Saurus warriors! Yet still she battled on, weaving her mystical incantations in magical combat with the Slann-Mage. Even imperilled herself, she always protected her troops whom she enveloped in a red vapour of protection which surrounded the Fay Enchantress.

Bernard could see the battle was hopeless. The Lizardmen were just too numerous, and the Slann-Mage’s magic was too powerful. He had heard that all their minds where magically linked as one brain and they acted individually as if their were dozens present. Yesterday he had scoffed at such notions, now he feared they might be true. His own situation was equally impossible. One Knight, against an entire army? Still, he could not desert the Fay Enchantress a second time, his honour would not allow it. He silently prayed that Morgiana’s favour still held, and that his cowardice had not broken it. She had promised him that as long as he was true and faithful to the Seven Commandments of Chivalry, fortune would smile upon him in battle. Armed with this thought, he raised his sword, turned and raced his warhorse towards the Slann-Mage.

A unit of skinks turned to face him, they fired their wicked barbs, but all failed to penetrate his knightly armour. He charged them with a mighty crash and 2 fell beneath his sword while his warhorse dispatched another. They fled, and Bernard ran them down and slaughtered them in their tracks. Racing across the battlefield he attracted the gaze of Morgiana le Fay. He saluted her as he charged towards the Slann-Mage, his horse answering the call to battle. Morgiana acknowledged him as he charged. She smiled at him, pleased to see him once more. No look of recrimination came from her, it was more relief that he was alive, and proud to see him return to the battle. Morgania cast her incantations as he rode and whispered softly, words which carried to him across the battle and echoed loudly in his ears.

“Sir Bernard! The Slann-Mage is doomed to perish by your sword!”

Bernard felt the words of power. Surprised at the responsibility with which the Fay Enchantress had entrusted him, he charged the Slann-Mage directly. The Slann-Mage too had felt the power and turned to face Bernard, fear and doubt emanating from the expressions of Saurus’ that bore him. Bolts of fire and energy threatened to sear his bones and rend the very fibres of his being. The Fay Enchantress threw them down, protecting him in his charge with scant regard to her own personal safety. Even as he watched, the hopelessly outnumbered Squires protecting her buckled under the immense onslaught of Saurus Temple Guards and gave way, leaving her open to attack!

The Slann-Mage renewed its magical attack on him. Shifting in his seat, his Brettonian Warhorse responded adroitly, carrying the weight of rider and armour with ease it dodged the bolt of white fire which incinerated a pursuing salamander!

The clouds parted. A shaft of light crossed the palm of the world with silver, coming to rest on the charging figure. The skinks and salamanders blanched, unable to bring their craven weapons to bear on such an imposing figure as a charging Knight of Brettonia in all his glory! For he no longer was Bernard, but Sir Bernard the Favoured and his charge was to slay the Slann-Mage or suffer Morgiana Le Fay to perish upon the battlefield. Bernard crashed into the Slann-Mage’s personal guards, forcing them back. Facing the Slann-Mage directly he raised his sword up high…and swung...

Bernard could not remember what happened next. At first he thought he had failed and died in his attempt. Regaining his strength he staggered upright and looked at the blackened earth which surrounded him. His faithful horse lay dead beside him, he himself was badly wounded. Before him lay the broken body of a once proud Slann-Mage.

Surveying the battefield, the Lizardman armies were in disarray. With no Slann-Mage to protect them, they were no match for Morgiana’s magical might. The mounted squires were putting down isolated pockets of resistance. A unit of archers had rallied and Brettonian bows were once again twanging into units of Lizardmen. Those that did not flee, either perished by the sword or were turned to frogs by Morgiana’s spiteful glance. By dusk, it was clear the battle belonged to Brettonia. The Slann had been taught to fear the thunder from the hooves of the Brettonian warhorse!

Morgiana entered the tent where Bernard’s wounds were being tended.

“Your Errand is at an end.” She announced simply. “The Lady of the Lake has bestowed her favours upon you today. You are now Sir Bernard le Favor, Knight of the Realm of Brettonia. It is customary at this time to bestow the Errand of Knighthood upon another, as you yourself were so appointed.”

Bernard swallowed hard, trying to clear his thoughts. “Send for the Captain of the Squires.” He commanded.

“He is dead.” came the reply from one of the attendants. “But there was one who stood beside the Enchantress when all others fled.”

“Send for him.” Commanded Bernard. Like it or not, he was the now in charge. The only knight to have survived.

The trembling squire entered the tent, protesting “I am not worthy of this honour. My knight is dead and many of my kindred slain, mine own captain I could not save.” He hung his head in shame.

At this juncture Morgiana intervened. “You are not to blame for their deaths. Rather your courage has given meaning to their sacrifice. You must further their honour by taking up the banner and providing purpose to their lives, and justification for their deaths. As long as you live faithful to the Code of Chivalry, they will forever be with you! It is the solemn duty of living to continue the work of the dead.”

The young squire knelt before Bernard. Bernard drew his sword and touched him lightly upon his shoulders with the flat of the blade. “In the name of the Lady of Lake, I bestow upon you the Errand of Knighthood, the right to wear armour and the right to ride a Brettonian warhorse. I bind upon you the Code of Chivalry with its Seven Commandments. I give unto you the responsibility of the defence of the realm, the protection of the innocent, and the relentless pursuit of the Holy Grail. May you one day sup from its holy contents. Amen. You may now rise Sir…”

Bernard paused, realising too late that he had forgotten to inquire of the young squire’s name. “Percival.” Finished the new knight. “Sir Percival.” Concluded Bernard.

Although young and trembling, Bernard caught a momentary glimpse of the future, of great deeds that this knight would perform. But then it was gone, which is well for such tales are the reserve of another long Chanson.

Outside it began to rain, but that was far from anyone’s mind. Now was a time of rebuilding, of remembering the dead, of accepting new responsibilities and burdens. No one spoke in that small tent, all preferred to sit in stunned silence. A silence broken only by the croaking of frogs in the rain.