Macario Reyes

Claude sat pensively in his study and chewed on the end of his favorite pen. He swiveled back and forth in a worn leather computer chair, while his eyes remained affixed at a large photograph of a cave painting on the far wall. In his many years of archaeological study, he had never seen a depiction like it. Rectangular shapes that gave way to long trails at their tops decorated the painting. These trails stretched from each rectangle into a small figure at the center, while people ran away in ever direction.

Claude rose from his chair and turned to a brown satchel placed sloppily on his desk. He stared at the bag with a smile at first, which sulked to a frown as he continued to peer at it. "Was it you?" He asked with a laugh. "Were they running from you?"

"Dad, I'm home!" An adolescent voice bellowed from the living room.

He ignored his daughter's call and peered closer at the bag. What bothered him so much about it, he wondered. It looked so ordinary, no different from any bag he had owned before. Shabby leather exterior, almost rusted metal buckles, and weakened stitches that were on the verge of expiration. Just an old worn out bag, so why was it at the center of the excavation?

Claude's daughter peeked into the room. She watched her father, who appeared locked in a staring contest with an old bag, with a quizzical look.

"Umm... dad?"

"Wha?!?" Claude shouted in surprise. He took a moment to gather himself, and then turned to see his incredibly startled daughter. "Oh, Lourdes, it's you. What are you doing home?"

"It's five. Are," she paused, "you ok, dad?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Claude took a long exaggerated exhale, and placed his hand on his chest. His heart still raced, but he forced a hearty laughed and smiled at his daughter. "Just working a bit too hard, I guess. I'll get dinner started in a few."

"Alright." Lourdes said unconvinced. She glanced at the leather bag on her father's desk, and it's cover slipped open. "What's that?"

Claude eyed the bag. "This thing? Just something, we found at a dig. I'll call you down when dinner's ready."

"Ok," she replied. Lourdes continued to spy the bag, as she slowly marched up the long wooden staircase to her room.

One day, in a park over there, a dog went up to a man and said, “Hello, man.”

There was a cow too. She was cool because she made milk, and cheese, and ice cream. In the park there was a cat that went over to the dog.

The cat said, “Hello dog. Hello man.”

Together they went to the cow and had a party. The cow laughed hard and sprayed milk everywhere. Then a man came, he picked up the dog and threw him at the cow. The cat, shocked, said “Noooooooooo!”

No noticed, but there was a TV there. Its name was Obby- obby.

The cat wished to go to the mall to get some catnip. So he said, “Bye bye people I return to the moon!”

And so the cat went to the mall, which was really a spaceship that went to the moon. However, it only went to the moon on Tuesdays and Sundays, except on holidays.

The dog, who was thrown at the cow, got up and said, “I'm gonna pick my nose and show it to you!”

The man got sick for a year and said, “I feel like a man who could swim to the moon!”

The dog felt that made no sense, so he went to the TV, and watched some Obby. The cow, still laughing and spraying milk, died.

The cat is not in the story at the moment.

The TV and the dog went up to Quinn, and asked how he liked to pick his nose. After Quinn explained, they asked how he got into the story.

A new character, who only would say one line, was an old man that said, “Hello.”

The cow, who decided he didn't want to be dead, sat down next to the dog and watched Obby with him. The dog turned to the cow and said, “Aren’t you dead?”

The cow said, “I am?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“Are you?”

"I am."

So, the cow died. Again.

The old man went to the moon with the cat that said, “The moon is pretty, but why is there no cheese?”

Together, they began to think of the cow, who died earlier--but not really. Then a long, drawn-out musical about the cow began. It was on channel 13 of Obby. The dog looked at the TV, then a car ran over them. The Quinn came out of the car, picked his nose, and said, “I’m picking my nose.”

Then time went real fast and THE END!

Or is it….?

And what I said was true, watching out for yourself keeps you out of situations like this. Look at what helping people got us--no treasure, no reward, and now we're being chased halfway around the world by God knows how many thugs who intend to stab us. I said let's grab the gold and run. But no, you wanted to save the little girl trapped in the dungeon. Do you even know where we're taking her? Of course not, because you never think these things through! Now Creepy-Von-Wizard Guy and his army of stab-happy goons are after us. Man, I could be back at the tavern right now; drinking beer and giving gold coins to loose women. Instead of running around, knee deep in swamp shit, with a mute little girl on my back! I mean, no offense kid, but these guy right here--he's an idiot.

Entry for Day Fourteen.

It is with genuine conviction that I declare my utter contempt for these massive collection of buildings that these cavemen referred to as cities. They are nothing but open sores on the world, where every crevice bleeds waste and every inch of earth screams in agony. None of the crew can hear it, but I can. It is deafening, that dreadful noise; always drumming, always beating, always roaring beneath this concrete skin. I can never escape it, the wails echo through the ears to assault the mind.

Unbearable.

Though, if only this offense would belong to the ears alone, I might survive--albeit begrudgingly. No, I am at siege from every front and at every angle. My breath is choked with the foul odors of burning and decay. Everywhere there are openings that cough more muck into the air to assault my nose and claw at my skin. Oh, my beautiful skin, this oozing grime covers everything. I can feel it crawling over another inch of me as I write this. It is too much to bare.

The captain seems unaffected by these crimes against decency. She and the crew wait patiently for this treasure to arrive. As if the will of God is worth than our health. This is madness! Insanity! To sit idly here and cavort with these disgusting beggars. They reek of the smell of depravity and poverty. It clings to my clothing, and I can taste their vile stench in every bite of food.

I will not stand for this any longer! The captain will hear of my discontent.

Tomorrow, after a bath and tea.

Adrian Kinglier, Third Officer under Captain Noel Rodes
Angsana Ship, Rizal

He was so frightened to watch
the Circus
and the Monsters in the Ring
and the Clowns themselves

The circus brings its own terror
which he would feel
in his cold sweat

There is no escape from it
Things in the Circus have shapes
All of which are very strange
That is because the Circus is strange
The clowns are strange
Also the acrobats
the ringmaster
elephants
All are strange

If there was escape, he fears
the clowns will follow
Will they?

“Finally! I’ve caught you!”

Life was full of surprises for little Guinness Rhodes. This had become especially true since she began her travels with the infamous spell-slinger, Alaric. In the time since her path had derailed into his, Guinness had been attacked by celestial deities, been eaten twice, and had had so many angry mobs chase after her that she could complete a mile-long run in five minutes. Guinness noted that things like that always started the same way; a loud yell, some drawn swords, and then running. On occasion there would be some large explosions tucked in between.

So, there was little wonder why Guinness developed such a natural dislike for certain phrases. Phrases like “I’ve caught you” topped her list; it ranked almost as high as “Get them” in Guinness’ things-that-are-not-good-to-hear.

Guinness turned to face what she assumed would be the start of another long chase sequence. She readied to face the usual cliché bounty hunter clad in dark leather, or some noble swordsman who had come to avenge his family. There hadn’t been many of those in awhile. Instead, Guinness laid eyes on something very new. She was blonde, tall, and hunched over as gasped for breath.

“I…,” the exasperated woman began, “finally caught up to you! You’re Guinness, right? I’m Dominique, Dominique LaChance.”

Guinness blinked.

At first glance, she could tell Dominique was a knight of Scintillia. The crescent and sword on her tabard were unmistakable, but there was something terribly amiss about her. Dominique’s armor was old and in disrepair, like it had gotten into a fight with a rust monster and lost—twice. Her cloak and tabard were in no better condition; they were torn, tattered, and might not have seen a wash since before Guinness was born. If she was sent by Scintilla, Guinness thought, then maybe they weren’t as big and powerful as everyone said. Or, at least, not as rich.

“If you’re here for Alaric, you’ll… have… to go through me first!” Guinness blurted defiantly, and then questioned why she even said that.

“You mean… he’s here? Alaric’s in this town? Right now?” Dominique screamed feverishly in reply. The beggarly knight dropped an even more tattered sack onto the ground and enthusiastically dug through its contents. All the while she muttered, “Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh.”

Guinness blinked, thought of something to say, and then decided that silence implied everything that she felt.

Dominique rose to her feet with a small book in her dirt-stained gauntlets. Guinness examined the book’s cover. It was blue, or at least could have been in a former life, and had a picture of a cow-bear jumping over something. Maybe the moon, Guinness wondered.

“What,” Guinness stopped and thought a bit on how to approach the situation. There hadn’t been many times when an exchange with a new face didn’t lead to a fight or screaming. This was a bit offsetting. She decided to just wing it and continued, “do you want?”

“I’msosorryIdidn’teventellyouwhyI’mhereI’mjustexcitedthatAlaricishere,” Dominique said uninterrupted and without pausing for breath, “ohmygoshAlaricishereAlaricishereAlaricishere!”

Guinness coughed.

Dominique continued to bounce energetically, but calmed down enough to finally starting breathing again. Her wide smile beamed and her eyes sparkled in star struck awe, while Guinness just stared a bit befuddled. Dominique looked down at her book with the moon jumping cow-bear, and opened it to a well folded page.

“I know this may sound strange, but please listen to this story. My village has passed it down from grandmother to granddaughter for generations, and it will explain why I’m here…”

Guinness couldn’t help but wonder if she had any say in the matter.
Dominique plopped down onto the grass, which was followed by a cloud of dust escaping from her incredibly aged attire, then began to read aloud.

Listen now to a story old
Of time that Dread Mt’zen did lurk
When Mundo knew but dark and cold
And good would flee from evil work
Until the day a hero came
A face of angel, hair black as coal
From him, they say, justice rained
His power great from purest soul
As night arrived with blackest moon
The players came and on stage did met
Tentacled death faced wielder of boom
While hope hung in wait, air filled with fret

Dominique continued to recite the poetic reasoning behind her arrival, when there was a sudden stop. The intermission had arrived right in time for Guinness, who had nodded off somewhere around the thirtieth stanza. Dominique laid the book on the ground and cautiously rose to her feet. Her eyes widened, as she stared with her mouth hung agape. Guinness peeked behind to see what had caught the knight’s attention. There standing in all his exaggerated glory was the man Dominique had searched for her entire life, Alaric Godking.

Dominique placed her hands over her flushed cheeks and squealed. “It’s just like the story books. Mighty Alaric, the righteous protector of the weak. Defender of God’s Will, Slayer of Mt’zen, Savior of a Thousand. I can’t believe it, it’s just like the story books. As powerful as he is handsome…”

As Dominique droned on about Alaric’s many titles and qualities, Guinness waved to her mentor and travelling companion. She noticed, however, that Dominique wasn’t the only new face in their presence. A tiny brown puppy had wandered over to Alaric and yelped to gain his attention.

Alaric peered down at the miniscule fur ball licking his boot. The animal looked playfully into Alaric’s blue eyes. Its wide infant gaze begged for love and affection.

Alaric replied, at first with a scowl, and then pulled back his heavy boot with devious intent. “You’re in my way.”

The puppy flew far into the afternoon sky, as Alaric’s foot came down as a rather heavy kick. Guinness sighed and left the “Hero of Ages” to admire the distance of his punt, while his new number one fan continued to stare in complete amazement.

Stop and look at how great I am

          With my stocky build and wide design

          Unmovable by men even twice my height

Stop and look at how no buffet or ice cream truck brings my defeat

          While thinner people must crawl away for relief

          And only tiny Japanese men can boast the same

Stop and look at how easily I block the doors and halls

          And see that I control who stays and goes

Stop and look at what I can do that tiny men cannot

          Play on seesaws with uneven groups

          Hold down Thanksgiving Day Balloons

          Save cities from raging rivers

          And give you more to love

Stop and look at how great I am

          With my wide design and stocky frame

          While I sit in victory on top of the likes of Jennie and Jarrod

A made some changes to “Somewhere”. I think it tightened the story up more. Check it out and leave a comment if you’re awesome.

Kimi planted the rusted steel shovel into the dusty, dry earth and pulled back her blue hair into a ponytail. Kimi looked down and stared blankly at the two mounds of dirt she had labored on through the day; the very thought of what they were brought tears to her eyes. She breathed deep to compose herself, and wiped the long sleeves of her shirt against the sweat and dirt stained surface of her face. She sat down silently between the graves of her mother and brother, and looked across to a brown satchel that lay innocently before her.

“You were supposed to lead us to some place better,” she said flatly and kicked the ordinary looking bag over. The bag rolled to its side, its flap unhinged, and it yawned lazily open. The sweet smell of grass spilled out from the maw of the brown container. Kimi clutched her fists tightly and pounded them furiously on the bag as tears streamed down her face.

Kimi was not born in the desert wasteland where her family now rested. She was born and raised amongst the endless green fields of the countryside, where livestock outnumbered people and the concerns of the civilized world seemed far away. Kimiko Wells lived with her mother and younger brother in a small, meager cottage just outside the view of the town proper. Their possessions were few, such that things like clothes and food were rare, and fancy luxuries were even more foreign to them. However, in spite of their limited belongings they had each other, and that was always enough.

Kimiko’s father was rarely at home. He was a merchant of sorts, and traveled the country peddling artifacts of varying uselessness to clients of varying naivety. On birthdays and odd numbered holidays he would return home, and stare wistfully out at the world beyond the cottage until he departed on another business venture. On one of his many endeavors, he came across a strange man with a most rare of item. It was a rather plain looking satchel, not any bigger than other bags of its type, but Kimi’s father was assured it would lead him away to somewhere more exotic than he’d have ever been.

Before he returned home he had peeked into the bag many times. Each glance into the endless depths of its opening revealed a vision different from the one before. With every gaze he saw wondrous worlds that were full of such color and shape he had never dreamed. He knew that a better world could be found in the mysterious bag, and urged his family to journey with him into a perfect new world.

Kimiko had her doubts about his idea. How did he know these worlds were safe? What kind of monsters roamed in lands they nothing about? How would they survive? What would they eat?

“Kimi,” he explained with a look on his face that belonged on children during Christmas morning, “this bag can lead us far away from here! We’ll find an even better place to call home, somewhere perfect, and when we do, we can live happily ever after - just like in the stories.”

She put aside her concerns and watched as her father lifted the flap of the bag, then pried wide the opening of its gullet. Kimi saw her father stand with his feet inside the bag, and then sink as if swallowed into the endless dark within. Slowly, each of them followed her father and sank into the depths of the bag’s interior.

They awoke beneath the purple sky in a land that was confusing and strange; filled with creatures of explainable shapes and dimensions. Kimiko’s father laughed in sheer delight.

“Look at this place! It’s paradise! It has to be!” He screamed and ran smiling towards the closest beast he could find. He threw his arms around it and hugged its soft green fur.

“Daddy, don’t!” Kimiko protested in a muted tone. The creature was strange to her, almost frightening. Though it seemed like nothing more than a humongous stuff animal, she knew it wasn’t wise to pet a strange animal in a even stranger world.

The giant beast raised its fuzzy head; its long floppy ears drooped down onto the ground, and looked to the father. Its fang bared and in an instant its massive jaws snapped around the father, swallowing him in a single bite. In horror they ran. They ran and ran and ran. They ran for days, until days became months, and months became years. They ran until they could run no more, and in the end only Kimi remained.

Kimiko stood above the satchel, and placed her feet within it. Wherever it would bring her, she thought, it had to be better than here.

Hey Jude
I want to hold your hand
And keep you by my side
in our Yellow Submarine

If there’s anything you want
I’ll get you anything my friend
give us a chance
You know I love you

look at all the lonely people
taking the easy way out
Only time will tell if I am right
All you need is love

Grinding gears signal the day
As chimneys cough and belch
From steel horses dragged away
To depths of New Commen

Underneath they toil and work
Miles below northern sky
Where ash and coal exhale murk
And the captured wait to die

Duran had taken notice of all the derisive talk about his profession while in the bars he’d frequent for a new gig. He smirked and got another beer whenever he heard them. He was called all sorts of names, none of which were accurate – burglar, grave robber, and bandit. Duran was not a common thief; he was a treasure hunter and was darned adamant about the distinction. Comparing him to some petty scoundrel or robber was insulting. He’d been a treasure hunter for 15 years and never once had he ever taken something that belonged to someone else. That would be stealing. A treasure hunter, a professional one at least, never stole anything. To be a treasure hunter was to be part of an honorable and fascinating profession. They rediscovered artifacts that were lost and forgotten, and hence were devoid of ownership.

Treasure hunters were explorers of lost ages and mysterious histories, and Duran believed that was proven in the locations his occupation took him. His search for gold-laden artifacts and large wooden goodie boxes had taken Duran to far-off locations; from the birthplace of humanity to the ruins of unknown civilizations. Every job brought him to one maze of underground tunnels after another, where the dank halls always reeked of history and decay.

Duran would often wonder how anyone could confuse this with thievery. Certainly it couldn’t be from the goal of his adventures. The jewels and relics he procured were often scattered and unguarded. If someone had intended to keep these precious commodities, they would’ve put more thought into their safekeeping. Most of these ancient tombs had, at best, a flimsy lock on the front gate that Duran could open with a rusty lock-pick and a few moments of concentration. A simple lock on the entrance didn’t prove they desired to keep anyone out, Duran thought. In fact, those very locks might have been setup to prevent the entrance of vermin. The same could be said about the poison darts that shot out from the walls, or the floors that collapsed to reveal deep pits with spikes at the bottom, or even the occasionally enchanted statue that awoke to crush whoever was unlucky enough to be around. None of those fixtures could definitely suggest that these riches were not meant to be found, and they were never good enough to actually prevent him from doing his job. Logically, they must been designed for another purpose then. These primeval holes in the ground were rife with so many problems that their designers were probably attempting to prevent any number of future hazards – zombie infestations, scavenger hordes, or rats. Any half-intelligent person could avoid the occasional trapped hallway with a slowly lowering roof, but a zombie would just shamble about and be dealt with. That rat might do a bit better though.

If the dead really thought that treasure hunters were trespassing on their property and preferred for people of Duran’s profession to not leave with their left behind shiny heirlooms, they shouldn’t be so ambiguous about it. He always felt that a letter would be the best way to do it. Duran had never cheated in cards, didn’t hit someone who didn’t deserve it, and usually followed the rules if they made sense. If he encountered a politely written note hung at the entrance of his current workplace that asked him not to enter, is wishes would be respected to the letter.

That would be the civil thing.

Day break had come for the endless blue grass fields of northern Cerauno as the golden sun rose brilliantly over the horizon. The rain, which had poured ceaselessly for days, had finally lifted and drifted away from the western plains. As the warm rays of the new rising sun met with the wet foliage, every drop of water and each bubble of dew awoke and transformed the countryside into a shimmering field of blazing crystal and light.

From the nearby ranches came the local herd of dairy cows, who feasted every morning on the fresh grass. Like each morning before it, the cows slowly made their way to a lonely rock on the far side of pasture. Every morning they would find her; a young woman who would sit quietly and wax philosophical with whomever she could. Her name was Ponis; she was a young knight that had been stationed nearby to protect the border from invaders in the north. To the cows, she was fabulous company.

“Look at you,” she said as she chewed on a long blade of grass. “I come here every morning to make sure the bunch of you are safe, and not once have I ever heard even a word of gratitude.”

The cow, whom Ponis had been named Mooesha, continued to chew her cud respectfully as not to give the impression of being rude.

“If not for me, you’d be speaking Victorian right now,” Ponis exclaimed. “The least you could do is say thanks -- ungrateful cow.”

Mooesha, who still chewed diligently on her cud, watched young Ponis stand and stare at the northern border. The sky over the north was unlike anything she had seen before. It was darkened by pillars of black cloud that spewed from monsters of steel and fire. Ponis’s green eyes were wide and darted from side to side as she surveyed the vast territory that encompassed the northern border.

“It isn’t… your fault, you know.”

Mooesha raised her head.

“It’s not your fault that you’re helpless,” she said and rubbed the back of her hand against her eyes. “Someone… I’m… I’ll protect you.”

Ponis grew quiet and looked away from blackened clouds to the north. Cows were not known for saying the correct things in situations like these, in fact cows were never known for anything in the realm of conversation. However, even with that said Mooesha stepped towards the young knight and rested her head gently on Ponis. Ponis looked down to Mooesha, took a quick deep breath, and then rubbed the cow’s head lovingly.

“I know you’re scared,” Ponis explained, “but you don’t have to be. Not while I’m here. I’ll make sure they never step off on this land. I’ll make sure each and every one of you is safe.”

They always talking about that it ain’t fair. No, it ain’t fair, but better in here than out there. We all trapped in this plastic prison, and all huddled and cramped together, wondering when the end is gonna come. That’s the life though. These other Q-Tips, the ones that holler and complain all day, they don’t know what they asking for. I hear them, they pray to both Johnson and Johnson to get them of their prison - to free them.

Free them? Oh, yeah, they’ll be out soon.

One day, the hand will come on down and pick of one them. It’ll raise them high on up, too far for anyone of us to see. Then it’ll dig that fool straight into some weird hole my grandpappy call an ear. You know what happens in one of them places? I’ll tell you - cause I know. That hand, it twists you round and sticks you in deep, so it can dig out the most disgusting yellow stuff you’ll ever see. That hand, it hates Q-Tips, cause it always makes sure to cover you from swab to swab in that gunk. Then when you all choking from it, covered so bad you can’t even see; the hand leaves you on top of the sink to lay there. You just waiting to die, while those damn toothbrushes just stare at you and laugh. If you lucky, the hand takes mercy on you and drops you into the porcelain throne filled water. They say when the water drains it sends you to Heaven.

Sometimes you get real lucky, and the hand never comes. Heard of this one Q-Tip that stayed in his box for a whole year. One day, was sent to Heaven without ever being used. I’ve sat in this box prison for Johnson knows how long, but I don’t think I’ll be that lucky. The hand comes for everybody. Course, it could be worse. I look at them toothbrushes, standing tall at the top of the sink. I hate to be one of them. They stand there all proud, but after the hand chooses me to scrape and clean that yellow gunk out of an ear I’ll be done. Then I’ll get sent to Heaven, or wherever that porcelain throne goes. Wherever it goes, I know it’ll be better than here. One and done, yes sir. Not like those toothbrushes, they gotta pay their dues over and over.

Thank Johnson and Johnson I ain’t one of them fools.

"You'll never believe what I just read!" Drake shouted thunderously as he entered Dunkbuck's Coffee Shack and Doughnutry. He marched with a crumbled newspaper clinched in his greasy hand towards the front counter at the far end of the shop, shoving aside customers that stood between him and his destination.

"God, not now Drake. Can't you see I'm busy?" Noelle said while she handed a hot mocha latté to an older, clearly irate man.

"This is important!" he roared, which caused the elderly woman behind him to leap back in shock. Noelle glared at Drake, a vein visible in her neck. She stared long and hard at Drake. He was filthy and smelled of alcohol or urine. Maybe both. Drake slammed his hands hard onto the counter top, and spread the crumpled newspaper across for Noelle to see.

"The Knicks lost again? So what else is new?"

"No! Not that," Drake said and pointed his grimy finger, which sorely needed a good nail clipping, towards the headline. "Can you believe this?"

Noelle avoided staring too long at his filthy fingernail. She stepped away to pour a cup of coffee for another customer, and slowly recited the headline aloud.

"City approves bill to give jobs and financial support to underprivileged families."

"Can you believe this horse manure? I don't think I've ever read a worse thing in the paper!"

"Isn't this a good thing?" she asked, and then stared at the clock. It was 9:50; her break was in 10 minutes.

"If they want to give handouts and jobs to every damn minority in this city, whose pocket do you think it'll come out of? These people?" Drake screamed and pointed to the patrons who stared in bemusement while guzzling their morning coffee. Noelle eyed the clock again. It was 9:52.

She ducked below the counter to rearrange cups and supplies that were never moved, and only poked her head back above to stare at the wall clock. Drake continued on about the government's theft from the working rich to give to the undeserving and lazy poor, getting louder with every passing minute. His tirade reminded Noelle to check her bank account, to make sure it hadn't been overdrawn.

"9:59,"she said and her glum morning expression gave way to almost a smile.

"Huh?" Drake said confused. He pushed back the sleeve of his stained denim jacket, and stared at the gold Rolex wrapped around his hairy wrist.

"It's break time," Noelle exclaimed, already halfway out the front door.

"Oh, fine go ahead take your break. You got a half hour," Drake said as he reached for the name-tag stashed in his jacket pocket. He fumbled with the pin and attached the tag onto his shirt. He polished it with thumb, so the printed text could show clearly - Drake Dunkbuck, Owner.

So you want to hear about my life now, do you? Well obviously, you would, for mine is such a tale of grandeur that I have no doubt that scribes will detail my life like the heroes of old. Now how to embark upon this tale? I suppose the beginning is the best place to start. It's always best to always show the humble origins of the hero first to give his journey more resonance. Yes, let's begin there.

My childhood was not like yours, as you can surely imagine. No, while yours was most likely a life of wasted potential and simple beginnings; mine was one destined for greatness from its outset. Even at an early age, I was unrivalled in affairs concerning mental faculties and pursuits of the mind. Indeed, the idea that a mark lower than an "A" was even achievable seemed inconceivable. Well, of course, inconceivable for someone like myself. I do not boast or exaggerate this truth; you see I was blessed with a capacity to learn at a rate you are unfamiliar with. My photographic memory allowed me to excel like no other in academics, even the brightest of my peers (if you could call them such) were outclassed by me with little effort.

Certainly, the educational system was no obstacle. The tests and rigors of my early scholastic environment never fazed me or served to provide any challenge. As my formative years continued, I realized that there was little or no resistance to my talents in sight. In every hall of learning I attended, administrators were always concerned of my wasting my talents in their hands, and those talents undoubtedly were. For many years, they would exhaust my time hoping to find ways to confront the depths of my intelligence.

What was it now? Four, Five grades they needed to advance me before they ended their futile attempts?

It was clear that ordinary institutions were not to the standard I was entitled to. After much wasted exertion by my parents on my behalf, I arrived at an establishment they believed was worthy of my effort. However, even here I was a diamond in the rough, a beckon of wisdom in the darkness of the educational establishment. How this pained me. To know I was far more capable than even my so called teachers. It was an insult and a problem I faced daily well into my adolescent years. If it were a crime to confine someone to conditions unbefitting of their mind, then my life was rife with criminals.

You look at me, and the jealousy you harbor for my talents and God-given gifts is apparent. If only you knew what a nuisance it was to be so gifted, perhaps you would not envy me so. Your mind is simple and free of the tragic pain that comes from possessing such a vast acumen. You will never know my torment, and my deepest of shames. It is I, who envy you. You, who will never know the burden of being the bearer of such a great mind.