The Halls of the Borgen Manor

The marble pillars of the Borgen Manor still stand proudly along the side of the street, just beyond the Folly Theater. They are what little of the original home exists. Some have said that the Borgen family has occupied the land for over three hundred years. Some even date it back to the founding of the Folly Theater, or even that the Borgen's were the first family to arrive in what would come to be known as The City of Poets. It's opulence, splendor, decadence, and beauty, however, have never been called into question. The Borgen family has been wealthy longer than any record to tell, and each generation has only added to it. Yet despite all this, it was not until the birth of Helena Borgen that the manor home came to be known to all of the world.

Amateur musicians themselves, the parents of Helena declared as they presented their daughter, that the halls of their music would be forever filled with song as long as their daughter lived. And so Borgen family, with their massive wealth, commissioned an army of musicians and singers to perform in the grand hall, at all hours of the day, all the days of the year. Initially, the songs performed and sung were traditional and classical, but as the days and months and years went by and musicians came and went, the songs began more and more to reflect the time of day, the season, the mood of the family, the mood of The City of Poets, and the mood of the world. The public would gather outside the pillars of the Manor to listen to the especially talented singers and musicians, and soon to have been asked to play in the Halls of the Borgen Manor was one of the greatest honors an artist could have bestowed upon them.

Often, at night, the halls willed be filled by only a single voice or a single performer, and equally as often during gatherings and events, entire orchestras would fill the rooms with song. And what some would consider the most magnificent achievement of the Manor musicians was that after all the years of music, the songs that were played by individuals became a single song only, flowing from one voice and one instrument to the next and to the next and so on, always different, but always the same, never with a beginning or with an end, save for once.

It had been over a hundred years since the birth of Helena, nearly a hundred years of continuous song, when a great fire erupted in the Borgen Manor. A young violinist named Elorias Green, unknown by all, had just seated and begun to play when the first of the smoke filled the room, and all within the house frantically searched for the exit. But Green played on, his eyes closed, unaware or uncaring of what was unfolding around him. He was screamed at and grabbed at as the house took flight, but he played on still, as the flames took to the room, surrounded him, and consumed him.

All else in the Manor were uninjured, but all who heard Green play would swear to this day that a more beautiful, tragic, moving piece of music they had never heard, and would never hear again.

As soon as the flames had died and the town had gathered around the rubble in shock, a young woman waded into the ash, to where the corpse of Elias Green lay, and picked up his violin. It had not been touched by flame. She looked at first to the crowd, and then to the sky, and then to the ruins around her before she sat down and began to play. And so, the song resumed, and even as the house was being built, they played, as walls and floors and ceilings were built around those who would continue the concert that the Borgen family had brought into the world.

The song continues today. Some claim even that the ghost of Elias Green, now fifty years dead, haunts the hallways, adding his song to the chorus. And those who claim it would swear to this day that a more beautiful, tragic, and moving piece of music they had never heard before, and would never hear again.

The title is as long as the story, and about as interesting.

It wasn't a very long trial, but she wasn't a very good mother.

Em

There's not a lot of imagination in this.

This is mostly true.

They found her in her apartment because she the rent was two weeks past due. No one noticed the smell, because there wasn't much of one to speak of. Her body was simply there, waiting to be found.

There was no note.

She had hung her self with a tightly wound string from the black grand piano that was one of the few furnishings in her apartment. It hadn't quite broken her neck though, and it didn't quite strangle her, and it didn't even really slit her throat. The official report stated that she died simple from “trauma”. One of the mortician interns guessed that she had spent perhaps hours hanging there. The intern's mentor made no effort to correct this thought, but new that it would have been several days, at least.

She carried no identification.

She knew no one.

She had donated her eggs at a fertility clinic weeks before.

Her daughter would grow up to become beautiful, and a poet, and very very happy.

Outro music to our heroes story

He rises up, out of the impossible, when all hope is gone, and often there is dialogue, but some times, there is no speech at all. Some times there is just a gaze, or a crash, or a call from a loved one. Some times there is only silence.

He should not be here. “I’m only a boy!” he once cried out, and he was right. But he was also so much more, to us, and to our cause. He was hope. He was possibility. He was our Hero.

And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen. And then he pressed on further still, through pains unknown and trials unbearable, of loves gained and lost, friendships won and friends who would fall behind, or worse. We would pray for him. He would carry us, his cross, his sword, his heart. He was all of us, and yet, ultimately, he was alone in the fight.

The crow calls. The dawn breaks. The bells sound. He is in a wasteland. He is atop a hill. He stands at the highest level of the tower, or in the deepest level of the dungeon. His eyes are blue, or green, or brown, or golden, and they are filled with righteousness, and he cannot fail. Or can he?

So many before him have fallen, and even now, with victory so near, everything is balanced on the smallest of pinheads. There is doubt. There is always the doubt. What if?

What if?

And we hold our breath and we pray, because he is us, or we are him. With heroes it can be hard to tell.

So then they battle, as they must, and we are silent. And maybe they are too. But maybe they are not. Maybe everything is coming out now. He is his father. She has betrayed him when they were born. They were envious. Jealous. Reckless. Evil. Good. Misguided. Vengeful. So sad. So alone. So lost. So right. How could he not be right? How could she not have known? How could we not have seen it? How could it come to this? The lights dim. We feel out hearts, somewhere, not just inside us, somewhere else, somewhere, waiting to see what will happen next. The music swells.

And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen.

And perhaps, he too, though victorious, also falls. Or perhaps he finds peace. Or love. Or sadness. Immortality, or death, or sometimes even both. In the end, though, the Hero will triumph. And we will all know that there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.

There are many ways to define a hero. Some will tell you that it’s in his strength, or his will, or his cunning. Some will say his style, his panache, his wit and his love. Some will tell you that it’s those he chooses as friends, or even those he chooses as foes. Or even his clothing, his artifacts, his smile.

Some will say it is not a choice. Some will say its fate. Some will argue stronger that it is destiny. And maybe more will even ascribe it to sheer dumb luck.

All of the above are true, but what truly, truly makes a Hero, is that, if given a choice, a Hero will choose not to have to be a Hero at all. And if he has no choice, he will never, ever give up.

And then the credits will roll, and we will smile, and we will stand, together, and know that in this world there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.

purgatory

"I don't want to be here," Alice said peevishly, cocking her head to the side. "The world I came from is above me. It is dark here but still worse below. I have been falling for quite some time, and I'd really like to climb out."

The rabbit twitched his nose and wisely said, "If you should land, you would certainly be doomed. But you would grow accustomed to it in time, the strangeness, the cruelty, the fear, they would soon become old friends. Your fate would intertwine with theirs. You would have your own tree, with a bowed branch, to rest your head upon. You would rename the constellations, and learn to defy gravity. You would swim for hours without drowning. Your companions, no longer unsavory, would console you."

Alice brightened up a bit at this prospect. "I could swim for hours without drowning?"

"You could, and you would. Your skin would bit by bit wear away, and a new skin would take its place, and then you would truly belong."

Alice began to weep softly. "I like my skin, Rabbit. How do I stop falling? I want to go home."

Rabbit sighed, glancing at his watch. "I suppose you'll have to climb."

she was painting her toenails when she got the news. struggling with the lid of the nail polish, she answered on the fourth ring.

before it sank in fully, she had already dropped the phone.

the color drained from the room, ebbing from the lamp shades and the curtains, dulling the upholstery and the carpet to a muted glow. suffocation squeezed her heart like a myriad of tiny tightening ribbons punctuated by an adder's persistent sting. mutely she stared at the nail polish in its bottle, glossy red droplets dripping down the side from the hastily replaced brush. a litany ran through her head like a series of commandments. i will not eat. i will not sleep. i will not talk. i will not breathe.

she marvelled at the puppeteer controlling her body as it stood up and briefly wondered if it was god.

a soft, warm sponge gently wiped her mind clean. the objects she encountered no longer had definition in form or function. dazedly she stepped outside and tried to recollect what the object in her driveway was before dismissing the effort. she sat on the bench, tracing her finger along the chipped paint of its hard wooden surface, watching a small drop of blood pool up where a sliver of wood had entered, she tilted the finger back and forth, watching the sun play with the dark red surface. she sat there some time. she shifted on the bench; it felt hard, real, uncomfortable.

quietly the forms around her regained their outlines and again had substance, suffused with painfully over-bright hues, overtaking her consciousness like wind over blades of grass, gently bending each thought, leaving brief impressions that hardened into wooden memories. her mind now raced with the quiet din of what had come to pass.

a new litany began. i loved. i was loved. i love still.

a beginning and an end

Once upon a time a child was born whose parents loved him very much.

...

That night the boy went to sleep and dreamt that everything was perfect and no one was ever sad.