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The Dragon of Separation Awakes

Dr. Frankenstein strained against the straps holding his arms and legs in place, but his face turned red and the veins in his neck bulged like over-pressurized garden hoses. “Undo these straps,” he demanded. “Hah,” said...

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The Dragon of Separation Awakes

Dr. Frankenstein strained against the straps holding his arms and legs in place, but his face turned red and the veins in his neck bulged like over-pressurized garden hoses.

“Undo these straps,” he demanded.

“Hah,” said Igor as he paced back and forth. “The great Victor Frankenstein doesn’t look so brilliant now, does he? The scientific genius that was going to reanimate the dead can’t even find a way to get out of a few leather straps. My wife was right. I should have taken the job in the stables. At least the stable master wouldn’t try to cheat me out of my pay.”

Victor Frankenstein, a pale man with the body of a tax collector, the face of an ardent musician, and the haircut of a hedgehog, looked away from his assistant and toward his own bare feet, which stuck out from beneath his trousers like straw sticking out of a scarecrow’s pants.

“I needed another amplifier and more vacuum tubes. I would have paid you eventually…”

Igor rolled his eyes back in his head and stared up toward the ceiling that was lost in the darkness three stories above.

“And another thing,” said Igor, “if you’re such a great electrical genius, why do all of the townspeople have halogen lamps and we’re stuck with these miserable torches?”

Dr. Frankenstein raised his eyebrows so high that they nearly merged with his hairline.

“Electricity costs money,” he said evasively, “but they practically give away oil and pitch.”

excerpted from “Igor’s Rebellion,” by Ferrel D. Moore

********

Andiron moves to one side as the second of my three new friends takes the stage. By this time, five wooden chairs have been put in place so that Ferdinand’s troupe can sit down during the unveiling of the Assembly Line Way. Two of these chairs have higher seats, and you and Ferdinand sit on them like the King and Queen of storytelling. Andiron the Prophet now sits to your right. The other two chairs are empty. Shrift, I think, will sit in one of the empty chairs, and my other friend, the heavy one, will no doubt be the next to speak. I wonder how it is that I met all three of these men and did not recognize them for the great leaders they no doubt are. The dead dragon known as the Dragon of Separation is far from my mind. His sacred lessons, too, are dead, replaced by what Andiron has called the Assembly Line Way.

What strange circumstances I have come upon. In search of the third dragon, I have come instead upon a village of writers gathered around a man who has destroyed it that very same beast. Until now, every writer who has ever sought greatness has gone in search of the Dragons of Creativity to learn. Now, the great Ferdinand has not only slain this dragon, he has surrounded himself with the prophets of a new way and with the woman I love. I am in awe of Ferdinand; he now has everything I ever dreamed of having, including you.

The bald man takes the steps to the platform like a conqueror seizing a kingdom. I see now that he does not lack confidence, and I wonder that I did not notice this before. Was I so wrapped in my own quest for you and our sacred dragons that I lost track of the world and people about me?

“I,” he announces, “am brother Shrift.”

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, we break into spontaneous applause.

“Silence,” he says. “We have not much time. Time, I tell you, is money.”

He surveys us as though expecting a challenge. I would like to challenge him, but I am only an apprentice storyteller. I have come on this journey to learn the art. Reluctantly, I keep silent. When I look past you, I see that you are looking at me from your seat next to the great Ferdinand. Your cheeks flush, and you look away from me. It pleases me that you look away from Ferdinand as well, instead of toward him.

“When Andiron told me his two visions, he and Ferdinand asked how writers of tales could make their way into the City of Writer’s Gold. Let me waste not a second more before I tell you that their are three secret strategies to accomplishing this. The first is “Economy,” the second is what I call the “Cookie Cutter,” and the third is perhaps the most wonderful of them all, which I call “the Same/Differently.”

Shrift spoke quickly, as though trying to stay ahead of the plague. He does not bother to introduce himself, or walk about the stage trying to address his full audience. Indeed, I wonder if he is aware we are here at all. But I put these things aside, for he is, according to Andiron, the master strategist who has shown Ferdinand, the dragonslayer and soon to be the greatest writer of all time, how to make real the Assembly Line Way. The Assembly Line Way, of course, is the way to enter the Writer’s City of Gold.

“What is economy, you ask? I would wait for you to ask, but that would take too long. Economy is the first secret strategy of the Assembly Line Way. Economy is a writing technique without equal. Henceforth no one shall be allowed to question this. To question the value and beauty of economical writing is not the Assembly Line Way. Economy will help you give your readers less than your vision demands so that you can stay within something that will someday be known as ‘word limits.’ Word limits must provide the framework for our writing- never must our stories define our word limits. Word limits are good because they are of the Assembly Line Way. Therefore all readers and writers must be forced to agree that whoever does not believe Economy is the key to good writing must be dropped into the Pit. Extra words represent waste. Every reader’s experience must be based on use of the least possible words and stories must be presented in the least amount of time. Do you all agree?”

I tried to think this through. As I did so, I looked around at some of the other assembled writers, who seemed to be struggling with Shrift’s short statements. An idea occurred to me and I was about to voice it, but I was too late.

“Your time is up, just as is that of your readers. To you, and perhaps to your readers, it might be important to take the time to empathize, perhaps sympathize or grow accustomed to what is going on in your story so that it might become part of your reader’s heart, but the Law of Economy says that we must use only the bare minimum amount of words to tell our story. The least must give the most. Although in the real world we would expect he or she with the most warriors behind their cause to carry the day, the principle of economy turns this idea on its head. The least must be victorious over the most? It is not likely, but we must embrace this idea in all our stories because otherwise we will not be able to write many stories. It is necessary to write many stories to become wealthy. Keep moving. Sell more. Have you any questions?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Too late,” says Shrift. “Less questions are better than more. Don’t you agree?”

“Well,” I begin.

“Too late,” said Shrift. “And you must think this way about your stories. We have the idea now that what seems unnecessary immediately in a story will never resonate or enrich a reader. First glance must be the only glance. Are you with me, all?”

We are hesitant.

“Too late,” says Shrift. “I am in a hurry and wish to use as few words as possible to solicit your empathy, to season your interest and solicit your carings. This is how you must treat your readers, too. Economy is above all else. Why, you ask? Go ahead, all of you, ask me?”

“Why is that, Shrift?” we hurry to put in.

“Because it makes more money! Why waste your words on readers? That would mean spending time with them and caring about their feelings. One size must fit all and it must be the smallest size possible. Do you think I am called Short Shrift for nothing?”

Actually, it is at this moment that I decide to walk away. My readers and listeners are important to me. I want to spend time with them. I want to talk to them. It has never occurred to me that they are thinking “Get to the point and get to it quick.” If this is truly what is good for them, I wonder if I want to talk to them. I wonder if I truly am happy listening to Shrift and Andiron before him. But there is the matter of Andiron’s gold coin. Embarassed at my desire not to be shallow, I decide to pay more attention to Shrift. After all, who can disagree with the fact that he and Andiron encouraged Ferdinand to slay a Sacred Dragon of Writing? And, again, there is the gold.

“I would tell you more about economy,” said Shrift, “but that would take time. Perhaps you would like me to take more time, the way that many readers want a storyteller to love them enough to give them enough words that they, the listener can make decisions. But that is not economical thinking. Economy, economy, economy. Do you agree?”

Without thinking, I make the fool’s mistake of letting the question sink in.

“No,” shouts Shrift. “You must not agree. Don’t think that my use of the word economy three times gives you time to let the idea of economy sink in. That is not economical at all. Once is enough.”

“But-” begins a lady at the back.

“You are wasting time thinking,” says Shrift. “The less words the better. The tighter the description, the better. Forget the reader and their need for your time. Be economical so that you can make more money by doing less work. Some of you might think it is more work to use less words to say more. Why puff yourselves up? What takes more work to build- a small hut or a turreted castle? Castles, of course! Complex castles are works of art and are infinitely harder to construct than economical huts. But we will make more money constructing huts. This is the law of economy.”

We stand silent and cowed, gathered in the center of this writer’s village. To question Shrift in depth would not be economical.

“Be stingy with your words, and you will be able to create more stories. Now, on to the grand strategy of using a Cookie Cutter as our guide to storytelling.”

A woman in the back raises her hand. Shrift looks the other way. She speaks her mind anyway.

“What if heaven,” she says, “created forests in this way? Are there not many trees in the forest, with myriad leaves adorning them when really less trees could be used?”

Shrift snorts. “Has heaven given you more wealth?” he demands.

“Heaven bestows beauty and grand designs on the world to allow all who stand in their presence time to love and appreciate them. Heaven is not miserly. Should we not be grander and more giving in our writing? Is not it better for a writers tales to be known for love and largess that pinched creative pockets?”

“That,” says Shrift, “is why heaven has no money to give you. Leave artistry to heaven and concentrate on Economy.”

“But the reader of our stories might disagree,” says the woman.

“Less is always better,” says Shrift.

“Always?” she asks.

“Always,” says Shrift.

“Perhaps readers are sometimes hungry for more.”

Shrift shakes his bald head.

“You,” he says, “will not enter the City of Writer’s Gold.”

Somewhere in my spirit, I feel a dragon awakening, and it is angry. It is as though my own heart has begun beating again. But the dragon is dead, I know, for Ferdinand and his friends have told me it is so.

The Third Dragon, Part IV

Behold The City of Writer’s Gold! “And who is this?” asked Captain Baker. “This,” answered Professor Essepi, “is Dr. Phineas Lizotte.” “Welcome aboard the U.S.S Vincent, sir,” the Captain said in a strained voice.A persistent wind...

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The Third Dragon, Part IV

Behold The City of Writer’s Gold!

“And who is this?” asked Captain Baker.

“This,” answered Professor Essepi, “is Dr. Phineas Lizotte.”

“Welcome aboard the U.S.S Vincent, sir,” the Captain said in a strained voice.
A persistent wind tossed shredded rags of clouds overhead, billowing them across the sky like a poor man’s laundry. As the pale sun disappeared behind the clouds, the professor pulled his collar tighter.

While the two men looked each other over, Essepi studied their reactions. Dr. Lizotte’s bulging eyes peered at the Captain through silver rimmed spectacles balanced on a nose the width of a chart pencil. With a peculiarly long index finger, Lizotte adjusted their position as though he were studying a specimen through a microscope. The Captain stood proudly, with his feet braced apart and arm’s folded across his broad chest.

“Where may I put my belongings?” asked Lizotte.

“Cherney,” said Captain Baker to a sailor, “take the man’s trunk and show him to his berth.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” said Cherney.

”No one touches my belongings, Baker,” hissed Lizotte.

“That would be Captain Baker to the likes of you,” said Cherney.

Lizotte raised a hand as if to strike the man. “A dog like you will not tell—“

“That will do, doctor,” said Essepi, his wry smile and sharp tone cutting Lizotte short.

Cherney apparently missed the entire transaction; his gaze, instead, transfixed upon an odd-shaped ring on Lizotte’s hand. It possessed a small spark of lightning when it flashed in the sun. Then, as if caught peeking at something he shouldn’t, the sailor quickly turned away, his countenance shaped with an expression Essepi thought bordered on revulsion.

excerpted from “The Bedlamite,” by Ferrel D. Moore

*********

It flashes with reflected sunlight. Andiron, the man who sees the future, displays his gold coin like a talisman before us. The crowd stares at this symbol of wealth that so many of us have heard tell of, but few of us have ever seen. A poor lot are we storytellers and writers, with bellies rarely full and dressed in cloths the poorest farmer would decry.

“Behold, in my vision, I saw gold,” says Andiron.

In my dreams, your eyes are the flash of morning light on blue waters. As Andiron holds his piece of gold, I see a different woman. I am about to decide what type of woman I now see, when the flash of gold light sparks my own eyes, and I feel its power.

Andiron begins to walk back and forth across the platform, energized by his remembered vision.

“Storytellers,”‘ he shouts, “are you not weary of being poor?”

He stops suddenly, pockets his gold coin, and waits expectantly.

“I am,” says one of the men circled around the stage.

“Are you alone?” asks Andiron scornfully.

“I survived for months on end on only bread and vegetables given to me by farmers for hard labor,” yells another.

Another shouts out, “I went for three years without a bed to call my own, and only a ragged cape to keep me warm. “

“I slept in drafty stables in every village I told my stories,” says still another.

I look at this last man carefully, for I think I know him. His face is thin and drawn, with dark hollows under his eyes. A gust of wind lifts his dry-grass hair. I think that he wondered through my home village when I was much younger. He is a poet, a lyricist gifted with the music of life. His spun poetry was of love and valor, but he was not so pale and thin back then.

Andiron’s eyes light with the people’s words. With a sudden movement he begins to stride back and forth across the stage. I feel tension in the air. I feel the power of his vision.

“Must we starve and suffer?” he demands. His voice is stronger, more vibrant and resonates with passion. “Are we brigands? Are not our stories created by us the way a shirt is created by a seamstress? Do we not deserve wages for our efforts?”

“We do,” I shout, and I am amazed at my own words.

“Yes, we do, young lad,” says Andiron. “In my vision I saw the future of writing, and it was beautiful. Magnificent. Empowering.”

“Tell us,” yells a young woman with blond, braided hair and cheeks the color of apples hanging in the nearby trees.

“I tell you, I saw a world where men and women were paid for the stories. I saw a great and shining city of gold where writers had full pockets. They were respected and some wealthy as kings. I saw it, brothers and sisters.”

Andiron spreads his arms wide as though receiving a divine blessing. His face breaks forth into a radiant smile.

“In this enlightened world, writers were merchants crafting their goods and selling them to all who would buy.”

We are so quiet, I can hear the puffs of wind make sounds like rustling skirts. It is strange to hear someone speak of storytelling and gold. A great storyteller who passed through my village once said that our words should share both the divine and the terrible with humanity. She never once spoke of storytellers and writers and their creations as things created to bring wealth and possessions. However, she was not a prophetess, and had not received the powerful vision of Andiron.

“Fellow storytellers, you have not yet asked how it can be possible for us to transform ourselves from men and women who spend a lifetime as penniless wanderers watering a few tales with our spirit, nurturing and feeding them with our heart’s blood into story merchants. But I saw a second vision of still greater power, a vision that showed us how to create our stories so that they will bear golden fruit.”

“Tell us,” I cry.

The crowd takes up my entreaty; first one, then another, and then all call out, “Tell us, Andiron. Tell us your second vision.”

Andiron lowers his eyes, as though searching our sincerity. As though convinced our earnestness, he shares his secret with us on that fateful day. Off to his side, you and Ferdinand, the dragonslayer and soon to be the greatest storyteller in known history, wait as expectantly as we.

“My brothers and sisters,” says Andiron, “my second vision was of something never seen in our own time, and its strange beauty was almost too much for my mind.”

“Tell us,” we cry again in unison.

“What I saw in this vision of the future was the answer to how storytellers may achieve wealth. The mere sight of its complexities rendered me unnable to speak, unable to frame the words to name it. But heaven itself was with me my friends, and a woman from our wonderful future shared its name with me that I might bring it back to you. She spoke to me, I tell you. Whether she was in truth woman or angel I cannot say, but all the same I can still tell you the name she gave it.”

Again, Andiron holds us with the force of his silence. I wonder what word he is about to speak that holds such power that it can bring wealth to us all. What secret word, what strange symbol has he brought back from his vision of the future that can transform the sacred art of storytelling? What method or secret will this word unveil to us?

We, the storytellers and writers gathered in a semi-circle around the rough-planked platform, dare not make a noise, lest Andiron change his mind. The fear that we will not learn the word of power keeps us silent, only dimly aware of the bright sky, the smell of crushed grass, or the distant howlings of wild dogs. We know only that without this word from the prophet that we will be forever doomed to the life of beggars.

Finally, Andiron speaks.

“Here is the name, the symbol, and the way we must learn to transform ourselves from beggars to citizens with stature and power. The word that she gave me for this great mystery that we must emulate with our stories is- the Assembly Line.”

We who have waited turn to each other and begin asking, “What is this Assembly Line? Have you heard of this name?”

“Silence,” says Andiron sternly. He begins again to pace around the stage, waving his hands like a man shaking water from them. “Speak not the name lightly. The Assembly Line will be the way of stories and we must speak it with power, not idle questioning. It is our future. To become merchants of stories, we must make many stories- perhaps two or three a year, perhaps more. The more we write, the more we may sell.”

I nod. The people around me nod. You and the great Ferdinand nod. But neither I nor anyone in the audience seem to know what an Assembly Line is.

“Do not despair,” shouts Andiron, and he stops pacing to look at us kindly. “Now that you know the sacred name, I tell you also that there a three secrets still to be unveiled to you that will explain everything you need to know. Indeed, without understanding these three secrets, you cannot become successful. But before you learn the three secrets, there are three lies you must reject. First, you must forget the holy nature of storytelling- it is a lie. Second, you must forget wrenching from your very souls the complexities of life- it is not of the Assembly Line Way. Third, you must forget devoting a life time to a handful of great tales that will move the hearts and souls of your listeners and readers- that, too, is not the Assembly Line Way.”

A cloud wisped across the face of the sun, and I felt its shadow in my heart. Abandon the sacred within storytelling for something I did not know? I felt a touch of shame blush my cheeks, but then I remembered Andiron’s gold coin.

“What must we do?” one of us pleads.

Andiron smiles benevolently. “You must learn the three secrets from brother Shrift and use them to create your stories. I have told you the three lies you must renounce. Now brother Shrift will tell you of these three secrets.”

Quickly, I turn and stare at the bald man. Can he be brother Shrift?

“But before I step down, I will tell you the name of the first secret. Brother Shrift will unlock for you its mysteries and those of the remaining two. The name of the first secret that you must embrace, the first secret that will turn your stories into simple goods for sale, is called Economy.”

“All hail Economy,” we chanted.

But none of us knew what Economy meant, though I did not like the sound of the word itself.

The Third Dragon, Part III The Prophet of Profit

 “Yeah, I want to know.” “Pardon?” “Yes, Professor Eldridge, I’d like to know. Please.” “Better, much better,” said the Professor. He pulled the briefcase close to his ample stomach, and crossed his hands one over the...

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The Third Dragon, Part III The Prophet of Profit

 “Yeah, I want to know.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes, Professor Eldridge, I’d like to know. Please.”

“Better, much better,” said the Professor.

He pulled the briefcase close to his ample stomach, and crossed his hands one over the other on top of it.

“There is a legend,” he began, “of how the book came to be in the hands of mere mortals. This is not a story passed down through the ranks of my singularly unimaginative family, but rather a tale that I have gleaned from the ranks of what might be called a secret society in more cultured times. The legend- and I cannot divulge to you or anyone else my source- is this: a simple man was working his fields one afternoon. I can imagine the scraping sound of his plow cutting the soil, I can see his sweat drenched forehead, and I can even smell the baked earth smell of his sweat. Perhaps you can imagine it, too. Can you think how his feet must have ached? Can you imagine the rough texture of his hands, this man who toiled over the earth for what little it repaid him in sustenance? It was a day like any other day, the hot air mixed with the smell of dry earth and oxen dung. Can you see it, Mort? Can you smell the dusty smell of arid ground?”

“Sort of,” said Mort.

“Then imagine this,” continued the Professor. “Imagine that overhead, the sky was bright and clear, and nothing protected this pour soul from the sun. He reaches up to wipe the sweat from his neck, feeling tired and wretched, but he stops and then drops his gnarled hand back to the crude plow handle. From somewhere in the heavens, he has heard a great and mysterious rumbling.

“He searches the sky, Mr. Kramer, to see if a sudden storm is grumbling his way. Our nameless friend cocks his head this way and that, wondering if he has perhaps imagined the timpanous sound. Then, suddenly, he hears a retort reverberate through the entire sky, as though a giant boulder from above has crashed through the very vault of heaven.

“He looks skyward again, craning his neck so that he is looking directly overhead, and sees something that no one else has ever seen since.”

Mort sat still as a wax figure. “What did he see?” he asked finally.

The Professor’s eyes seemed to glow as he leaned forward and said, “Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it? According to the legend, he saw the very heavens split open and heard the roar of a mighty battle. Dark clouds ripping with violent bright burning flashes of lightning poured from the gap and our simple farmer heard screams so hideous that he dropped to his knees and covered his ears. The sound of mighty horses filled the air and trumpets blared, and even his calloused laborer’s hands could not stop sounds filled with such conflict and power.

“Can you see it now, Mort? Can you hear and feel the blasts of searing winds that scorched the countryside? Can you hear the angelic choirs singing the glory of God and the demonic cacophony that withered the sturdiest of trees? Can you smell the sweat of our farmer’s fear pouring from his soul? Can you picture him on his knees grinding his face against the dirt to deny the event that he was witness to?”

And, for a moment, the Professor saw in Mort’s face that the man was actually seeing something of the tumultuous portrait he was painting.

“Our farmer turned over and lay on the ground, facing upward toward the spectacle in the sky. He lay still, as though commanded to do so by God himself, and saw a brilliant gold pinpoint of light at the center of the heavenly maelstrom. His mouth was wide open, as though waiting for drops of rain to revive him from a terrible thirst; his eyes did not blink, as though they had been varnished. His heart slowed, afraid to beat too loudly lest he be noticed. The tiny golden light grew larger, floated and spun and seemed to be descending toward the earth where our nameless farmer lay.

“The battle in the heavens grew dim to our man, but the falling golden light grew brighter and brighter til the sight scorched his eyes. The rain fell down upon him, drenching his clothes, washing the dirt from his face through the darkness and the ecstatic flashes of light, through the whirling vortex of good vs. evil that battled above, and still the golden light came closer to him, falling from the heavens. Perhaps, as I suspect, thrown to him and only him by the Archangel Michael. Why he was chosen, I do not know, but chosen he was, Mort, because the book that you just saw, the wondrous proof of the divine that you just witnessed, fell into that poor farmers hands as he lay staring up at the heavenly battlefield.”

“Wow,” said Mort.

The Professor sighed.

“Yes, of course. Wow. What else is there for mortal man to say but ‘wow’?” excerpted from “Burying the Past,” by Ferrel D. Moore

********

I can scarcely restrain myself. You, my very beloved, are standing next to the great Ferdinand, slayer of the Dragon of Separation, gazing at him with adoring eyes. Your long black hair falls about your shoulders, and your beautiful face glows with the soft radiance that is love.

“What is it?” asked the tall man.

“It is nothing,” I say, but it is really everything.

I turn my face away to hide my grief. You do not see me, or at the very least take no notice of me. After all, why would you notice me in the presence of Ferdinand, soon to be the greatest storyteller in all the world?

A tentative wind moves through the air, carrying fine dust that irritates my eyes. I lift my hand to keep them from injury and to hide a wayward tear.

“My fellow writers and storytellers,” begins Ferdinand.

The villagers cease their pushing and shoving for position. The wind quiets down, too, as though in respect for this great hero. I blow my nose.

My tall friend turns to me with a horrified look on his face.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s the dust.”

“Shhhh,” says the crowd.

“Please, please, everyone,” says Ferdinand. His voice is resonant, his face strong chinned, and his eyes flash bright blue as wildflowers. “I am here before you to introduce to you three very special friends of ours.”

It is clear that he speaks of he and you as a couple. The crowd is immersed in the charisma of this hero; they stare at him as though they are raptured. To me, he looks less handsome than before, and has, in fact, a weaker chin than I thought.

“No man stands alone in a great battle,” says the dragonslayer. “I am no exception. Wherefore comes my courage, my vision, my strategy and my tactics? Those of you who know me know the source of my courage, and it is verily true that my very inspiration to be strong comes from this fair maiden standing next to me.”

He turns and lifts his hand toward your face, so that the bedraggled crowd of celebrants can gaze upon your lovely face. I see you smile radiantly as you turn your face to one and then other, ever beneficent, showering them with your beauty. Men, women, and children applaud you enthusiastically. I feel as rooted to where I stand as the apple trees beyond the platform. My heart is frozen and I swear that it begins to beat first faster, then slower, first with hope, then with despair. You finally look at me and my three new friends. You smile at them, but when you see me your eyes widen, but still you smile as though I am not there. Like a woman stepping over table scraps that have fallen to the floor, you no longer notice me. Your eyes now are on the feast- the great Ferdinand.

A youthful wind has come running into the town to play with us. Banners flap and snap with a sound like breaking wood. The sky is still clear, and in a moment of self-pity, I search the skies for vultures, praying they will choose me next when they are done devouring the dragon. As Ferdinand raises his hands palm out for silence, I look at my three friends. One tall, one bald, and the other heavy. I am glad that I think of them only as this now. We storytellers should not look to closely at others. The stories that we conceive should not be formed from those we know, for what we know too well, we become part of. If therefore those persons leave us, part of us, too, is lost.

“You see my inspiration when I look at her. Now, you have the right to ask from whence came my vision. My fellow storytellers and writers, I now invite Andiron to come and stand by my side, the man who sees the future in all its details.”

The crowd begins clapping wildly again. I believe it is time for me to leave. I have heard and seen enough. You are with the great Ferdinand, and I can leave my three friends behind as the strangers that they really are- one tall, one bald, and one heavy.

I am about to turn and walk away, when my tall friend steps forward and straightaway walks across the open space in the middle of the crowd and ascends the steps to the stage.

“Profit, profit, profit,” chants the crowd.

I cannot believe this. Who did I walk into town with? Who did I stand next to?

“Bald one,” I ask. “Why has our tall friend gone up on the stage with the great Ferdinand? Tell me this, please.”

“Ah,” says my bald friend, “I can see that even without the great Ferdinand’s instruction, you are a modern writer.”

“Whatever are you saying?” I demand.

“Clearly, young lad, when you look at those around you, you do not measure or study or see within them. It is enough that one of us is tall, one of us is bald, and the other fat. With this talent, you are ready to understand the sword called Commerce and the lessons of the great Ferdinand, soon to be the greatest writer in the land.”

“I do not understand,” I say, but I know what he means and am afraid he will tell me anyway.

“No writer who sees only size and shape and does not explore the heart of those around him can ever hope to imagine enduring characters. This is a good thing for a modern writer, as Ferdinand will later explain. Such imaginings would take too long, and too much of our hearts and mind to bring forth. Remember, Athena sprang fully grown from the mind of Zeus. So to must a writer give birth to characters. We have no time to paint more than mere brushstrokes. We must only sketch what is easy and quick. Andiron will speak to us about why this is so.”

“But why?” I ask in bewilderment.

“Shhhh,” he says, “Andiron, who had the vision which inspired the great Ferdinand, is about to speak.”

I look for your face to reassure me. Once again, I feel lost. But you do not look at me; your beatific smile has settled instead upon that of Andiron, the man of visions.

“My friends,” says Andiron, “Ferdinand has so kindly asked my most humble self to address you all, to share with you the prophetic vision that transformed him into the writing hero that he is today.”

He takes a breath, and I notice for the first time that his ears are thin and large and veined like a king butterfly’s wings. I see that his face is sharp as a knife, that his chin extends forward beneath the ledge of his nose. His eyes are wide and black, with no white to them at all, like a man who sees visions more clearly than the life around him. Does he, I wonder, see color at all?

“One evening,” he begins, “I found a white petalled flower while walking in the woods. Ah, it was a magnificent day, my friends. I could not help but pick it up to smell and partake of its delicate essence. When I plucked it from its stem and held it to my face, I saw that at the center of its delicate white crown of petals was a circle of gold. I was overcome by the fragrant aroma of this forest jewelry, and I swooned, falling back and dropping to the ground.”

The crowd holds its breath. Andiron’s hands flutter as he speaks, like sparrows looking for a perch. You look at your hero Ferdinand, and then back to Andiron the visionary. Off in the distance, I see a vulture rise, his carrion-flecked beak too small and far away to despise.

“I was carried high into the sky, and when I looked down at the earth, I beheld from that great distance the future of writing.”

Though hurt deeply that you have not once, not even once looked at me, this tall man- cradled in a maroon cloak clasped around his neck by a thin gold chain held together by a blazing red square ruby that I had not once noticed- this tall man held my attention now as a candlelight holds a moth in its bright circle.

“Here is what I saw,” he says with a voice deep as a sacred bell tolling in a mountain pass where its call echoes and bounces and grows faintly quieter yet more powerful with each reverberation. “I saw this.”

For a moment, he shows us nothing, until he looks at me, sure that I am desperate to know his future vision. He smiles when he’s sure, and I see his thin, gray teeth trapped between narrow lips. Then, with the attention of all brought close to him as a whisper breathed into a lover’s ear, he holds up a gold coin for all to see.

The Third Dragon, Part II

“Vampires scare you?” asked Ed as he rolled the big wheels of his wheelchair so that he could get a better look at the girl.The afternoon light lit the girl’s blond hair with an apple colored...

The post The Third Dragon, Part II appeared first on Ferrel D Moore.

The Third Dragon, Part II

“Vampires scare you?” asked Ed as he rolled the big wheels of his wheelchair so that he could get a better look at the girl.
The afternoon light lit the girl’s blond hair with an apple colored light. He thought he saw freckles sprinkled on her cheeks, but it could have been dust on his glasses.
“Yeah,” said Parker, and she shivered, then gave him a quick smile. “Why, don’t vampires scare you? Are you too old to be scared?”
“Vampires are bullshit. Besides, be one jackass of a vampire to suck the blood of an old prune like me. No, vampires don’t scare me. And scary writers aren’t scary at my age. You don’t know what’s really scary until you get old.”
Ed regarded her for a moment, squinting his eyes and tilting his head, and then continued by asking, “How come you cut your hair so short? You got pretty hair; why don’t you keep it long?”
Parker crossed her legs and pulled her leather skirt down an inch. She looked at Ed and saw an old man with a few strands of white hair lying on his greasy bald skull. His eyes were cloudy white-gray and translucent stubble jutted from his face. He was hunched forward so far in his wheelchair that she worried that he would fall over and hit the floor.
“You’re not some kind of perv, are you?” she asked. “You don’t have, like, a hair fetish?”
excerpted from “Aping the King,” by Ferrel D. Moore

After two days of following a road the texture of a lizard’s back, foraging among prickly bushes that left my hands cut and bleeding for a mere mouth full of berries, and drinking dew from fading long grass when I could not find a clear stream, I come to the edge of an uproarious village. Parched and weak, I think it to be a fever vision. The music, the dancing, the smell of roast pork and the waving banners I watch in a shock as I step cautiously closer. A village festival here in the land of the dragons? Whatever could they be celebrating?

This is an illusion, I think. I have seen nothing but magic parading as reality since the day I left my own village with you. How cruel that after two days of loneliness and deprivation to have my heart’s desire for company play out before me when I know that as I grow closer, it will simply turn to air.
As I am thinking this, three men turn and see me. They seem confused as their tangled beards. I am too tired to describe them well for they are all dressed the same in their villager’s clothes, but one of them is tall, the other is bald, and the other is heavier than the others. There is no need to give more details. It is not as though they are characters in a story.

“Old friends,” shouts the tallest one. “I see a new friend. Let’s fetch him.”
I shrink back and am turning to flee when the bald one shouts, “Yes, by the Fates it is another writer. Behold his bewilderment. He seems tired and hungry and as covered with dust as the road itself. We must bring him to the festivities to celebrate with us.”

“Writer,” says the last and heaviest of the three as I turn to back in hesitant amazement, “Welcome. Welcome, lad. Today is a day of great feast and celebration. Today, this great and wonderful day, the Dragon of Separation is vanquished at long last. All hail the Conqueror of Dragons. All hail Ferdinand.”

“Ferdinand?” I ask. I have never heard of this man named Ferdinand. Truly, I did not know there was such a name.

“Yes, Ferdinand,” says the rotund one. “Ferdinand has destroyed the fearsome beast with his magic sword. Because of this magnificent achievement he will now become the world’s greatest writer. It was a fierce battle, for the Dragon of Separation fought with claws and flaming breath. It was a terrible struggle, with the valiant Ferdinand slashing and thrusting with his mighty sword. The roaring of the dragon and Ferdinand’s mighty battle cry could be heard to the ends of the earth.”

I marvel for a moment that I did not hear such terrifying battle cries, but then I say, “Ferdinand must be a man smiled upon by the Fates themselves.”
Suddenly I catch site of tiny black wings flapping in the cloud-laced sky behind the village and its celebrants. Against the hard-blue sky, they look like birds in flight. There are two, and I panic. The air is wavy with heat, and they seem to shiver with portent.

“No, you are too quick with your judgments!” I exclaim, pointing at the sky. “The dragon is not dead—and he has come back with yet another dragon.”
My skin is covered with dust and sweat. My throat is dry as split brown leaves, and my face feels like a sunbaked stone. But as I look at the distant wings, I feel my chest coat with sweat. My legs are suddenly feeble, and I am uncertain whether to flee or stay still. If I run away. Perhaps the approaching dragon will notice me.

“What say you?” asks the tall one. “The Dragon of Separation truly is dead. Ferdinand has said it is so. And for proof, he took from it a claw to display in our village.”

I shoot my hand out again with one finger extended as though it is an arrow. “There,” I shout. “Behind you in the sky.”

The tall one looks over his shoulder, then back again at me. “Not dragons, young lad,” he says and then smiles indulgently. “Those are blessed vultures come to eat the dragon’s flesh. We are all free again. All hail to Ferdinand and his magic sword.”

“Hurray,” they yell once, twice, and thrice again. I am too embarrassed to shout hurray with them. Truly, my only point of comfort is that the great Ferdinand did not hear me confuse vultures with dragons.

“Ferdinand has Excalibur, the great and legendary magic sword?” I ask, trying to appear more worldly and knowing than I am.

The three stare at each other, then burst into laughter. Behind them, young maids dance in flowered circles, while another plays the flute. I see villagers clapping and hear them singing. What a glorious day this is for them. A hero has slain the dragon. What legends will be told of this moment and passed down through the generations. And will be one of those storytellers first passing down the tale. I think of you for a moment, then quickly push the thought aside.

My bald friend leans towards me and says, “Excalibur? Ferdinand brings a mightier sword than Excalibur. He carries with him the mightiest sword of all, with a blade that can slice through and destroy even the Dragon of Separation.”

“And what is the name of this magical sword that is greater than even Excalibur? How came he by it?” I am eager to learn anything that I can.
Behind us, I hear a village crier interrupt the music and dancing and then shout out, “Come one and all. The dragon slayer himself will regale us with the story of his victory. Come to the platform and cheer for him. Applaud him. He has set us all free to be great storytellers.”

“What is this?” I ask my three new acquaintances. “Are the men and women of this village all storytellers?”

The tall one shakes his head in amusement. “Young lad, are you blind? We are all storytellers like yourself, gathered to celebrate our hero who has killed this one Dragon. Perhaps with the luck of heaven behind him, he will kill them all. Come, let us go sit at his feet and listen. He is as powerful a teacher as he is a slayer of dragons.”

They begin to walk away, but I shout, “I have it. I know the name of his sword. Is it Dragonslayer?”

Once again, as a mocking wind tickles the grass, I hear them laugh.

“What?” I demand, running after them. “Is that not the name of the enchanted sword that Ferdinand used to defeat this Writing Dragon? If not, then tell me its name so that I might not lose my mind in worry.”
All three men stop, and turn patiently to stare at me, as though they are really one person. But it is the tall man who tells me, “Ferdinand’s enchanted sword is indeed magical, lad. But perhaps you are not yet ready to know its name.”

“And why not?” I demand. “Why should you know it and not I?”

In unison they say, “Come join the festivities, imbibe our ale, dance with our women, and sit at the feet of he who slays Writing Dragons. There, if you are ready, you may learn the name of the enchanted sword and much more from the great hero who wields it.”

By this time, I am tired and hungry, and eager to eat and drink and be merry. The sky is still cloudless, the ground is dry, and I am hungry and thirsty for food and drink and knowledge and teaching. And besides, I have never before met a great hero, much less a dragonslayer with a magical sword that will allow him to destroy a Writing Dragon and, because of this, will become the greatest storyteller ever.

“I will join you,” I say.

There is no better choice for me. My new friends offer me water and a biscuit as we walk together. Although it may not seem like a great deal to have some water, some food, and some friends to walk with—it is indeed better than being left behind, lost and hungry.

As we approach the village, little girls smile shyly at us, and a juggler walks by without a word as though the six copper rings he is keeps revolving in front of him with his so busy hands are more interesting that the four of us… I see beautiful women and sturdy men crowding around a lone figure in the middle of a gathering circle of admirers. The smell of bread and cooked meat fills the air. I have found a place to rest and meet the great hero. Perhaps I must reconsider my quest to challenge the Writing Dragons. This village is a much safer haven than the space in front of a dragon, and, besides, I will learn from a true hero.

“And I wish,” I say to the bald one as the thought comes to me, “to meet the Great Ferdinand, slayer of Writing Dragons with his mighty sword. Will you not introduce me?”

No sooner have I uttered the words, then right before me, moving through the midst of the adoring crowd, I see the man himself, tall and powerfully built, wearing fine clothes with a hint or royalty about him, and carrying a sword that shines bright with heaven’s light. I marvel at its beauty and the confident stride of the yellow-haired man who carries it with such assurance. He has the true bearing of a victorious knight. This is the way I would hope to appear to you if I ever find you again.

“Hurry, before he begins,” urges the bald man. “If you wish to learn how he wields his might sword to destroy the Writing Dragons, we must draw closer.”

I quicken my pace. If only I could get close enough to the great Ferdinand himself to learn how he took possession of his magical weapon. But he disappears behind what looks to be a family of the tallest writers anywhere to be found on this earth. The four of us push forward to catch a glimpse.
The tallest of my new friends says, “His lady is with him. She is the most beautiful lass in the land. Do they not make a royal couple?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “The family in front of us is too tall.”

“Well I can,” he says, “and I tell you that both he and she are so lucky to be with each other.”

For a brief moment, I again think of you, but push the remembrance aside. You left me behind, and though I look for you, I will not pursue you. It is sometimes easier to lie to myself than to tell stories. I wonder if this is so for all writers.

We finally move past the family of giants, and I look about. In the circle’s midst of all the storytellers gathered, amid this riotous moment in a village festooned with colorful banners and children tussling in between their parents’ legs, there stands in the center of the circle a small platform of roughly hewn planks. I see the face of Ferdinand again, moving up the steps with a broad smile on his face. With one hand he waves to his admirers, and he offers an assist to his lady. A young maid plays the flute to honor their ascent.

“Prepare to learn about writing,” the bald man says close to my ear so that might hear him over the excited crowd. “And since you have come this far, I will now tell you that Ferdinand’s enchanted sword is named Commerce.”

“What kind of name is that for a dragonslayer’s sword?” I ask.

“Ahh,” puts in my rotund friend, “you forget that these are Writing Dragons. What better name for the sword that slays them?”

I am about to discuss this further with him, when he nudges me with his elbow and says, “Look, they are on the stage. It is Ferdinand himself and his most lovely lady. Is this not a wonderful day?”

When I look toward the stage, I see the handsome Ferdinand, the hero of the hour and soon be the greatest storyteller in the land. A boy is coming up the stage to present him with the sword named Commerce. It is a grand, festive event. Then, when Ferdinand steps to the side to accept the sword called Commerce, I see something even more important to me.

I see that it is you standing beside him on the stage.

A Tai Chi Journey

I finally finished a Tai Chi Journey, the story of how I recovered from my stroke through a belief in God and my pursuit of Tai Chi. It was a compulsory book for me to do,...

The post A Tai Chi Journey appeared first on Ferrel D Moore.

A Tai Chi Journey

I finally finished a Tai Chi Journey, the story of how I recovered from my stroke through a belief in God and my pursuit of Tai Chi. It was a compulsory book for me to do, to tell the story in simplest terms of what I went through in my recovery. Without Tai Chi, I doubt if I could walk normally today.

I still have aphasia, and whereas I used to talk at a rapid-fire pace, I know have to content myself with speaking slowly, deliberately, but I can talk.

The book is an interesting read, though, detailing my trials and tribulations, but anyway it is in available at A Tai Chi Journey. Get it today, I think you’ll be glad you did.