“Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

“Surprises”

“The palace? Me?” A mix of skepticism, excitement, and utter disbelief flooded Yolanda’s mind. She had not been in the city longer than a few hours and suddenly she was being invited to the world’s palace? She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and gave the pointy-nosed man called Dygon a doubtful look.

The thinnest of smiles appeared on his face. “You’re more than you seem,” he said.

“I’ve been known to surprise people,” Yolanda responded with more edge than she intended.

That earned a laugh from Dygon. “Indeed,” he said. “But the invitation does stand.” He looked over his shoulder at the tall temple doors. “I promised I’d join him today.”

Yolanda thought she heard him sigh, but it could have been the wind or just her imagination.

Dygon’s gaze lingered a bit longer on the temple doors before turning back to her. “But the invitation stands, I assure you,” he said. “I cannot say for certain how long his majesty will wish to take; however, if you wish to return in an hour…”

Yolanda winced. The man’s words shoved her back into reality. There she stood, in the greatest city in all the world – alone. Jaykim had disappeared again, and Yolanda had no traveler’s pack or even a copper coin for a meal, let alone a place to stay.

“I’ve nowhere to go, solid truth,” she said, averting her gaze. She was certain Dygon would laugh at her, or worse, cry for a constable or guard to have her arrested.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said.

Yolanda raised her head to give him a confounded expression. “What does that mean?” she said.

“It’s just…” But he trailed off. With a wave of a hand, he brushed it away. “Never mind,” he said. “My apologies. If you do not have rooms somewhere, or anywhere to go, I suppose I could vouch for you in there.” He nodded at the temple.

Yolanda pressed her lips together, something she did when she was confused. Vouch? What does he mean?

As though reading her mind, Dygon answered her. “One cannot simply enter the Maker’s Temple,” he said. “One must have a certain…clout, or reputation with the Philosophers.”

Yolanda shook her head, still confused. “What of feast and high holy days?” she asked.

“Child, this is the Maker’s own Temple,” Dygon said, sounding affronted. “Not some consecrated sanctuary or church for the rabble.”

Child? Rabble? Yolanda bristled at the man’s words. Without stopping to think, Yolanda reached out and slapped Dygon firmly across the face. Dygon was so gobsmacked that Yolanda couldn’t help but grin; she hardly contained a bubble of laughter that threatened to get out. Then, the gravity of what she had done sunk into her and Yolanda’s own eyes went wide as saucers and her knees began to buckle.

“Oh my gods! Sir, please — I am sorry! Maker’s mercy!” Yolanda practically threw herself to the ground, waiting for whatever punishment was forthcoming.

After several seconds, Yolanda dropped her hands from her face to look up at Dygon. The man stared down at her, but rather than in contempt or with a scowl on his face, he eyed her with an expression that could only be described as awe.

He reached out a hand, and out of reflex, Yolanda winced. Quickly she realized he was offering to help her stand. Grimacing slightly because she still had no idea what to make of any of this, Yolanda graciously clasped Dygon’s hand and returned to her feet.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, rubbing the cheek she had slapped.

“You called me child,” Yolanda said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus, you referred to folk as rabble. We don’t much care for that.”

As if Yolanda weren’t confused already, Dygon began laughing. This was not the restrained half chuckles she had heard earlier, either. Rather, this was a full-bellied bout of feel-good laughter. The kind that cuts through tension and puts at ease anyone who hears it.

“You are certainly more than you seem,” Dygon said when he’d regained some composure. He looked at her and for the first time, Yolanda saw a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

Yolanda grinned. “I’ve been known to surprise people.”

“Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

“Signs of life”

When she’d said her name, Yolanda saw the king’s face brighten.

“Yolanda,” he repeated, trying it on, twisting it over on his tongue. “It suits you.”

Her cheeks burned red at that last. Opening her mouth to say something, Yolanda’s attempt failed and her lips formed a wide, girlish grin. She averted her eyes when she realized what she was doing. How was one to react to such attention from the king?

Next thing she knew, a hand touched her chin and gently brought her face to face with the king again. “Why do you always look away?” he asked, his green eyes taking her in. “You deprive me of your beauty.”

That really set Yolanda’s cheeks ablaze. “You’re kind, your majesty,” she managed to say through her growing embarrassment. Again, her incessant uncertainty and embarrassment forced her to avert her eyes.

“I speak only the truth,” he said. “Seeing you is like awaking from a long, laborious slumber.”

A funny thing to say, Yolanda thought. Pushing through her embarrassment, her eyes flicked back to gaze at him. He was truly handsome, and not simply because he was the king. She thought she saw what he meant by his comment. He had a pronounced, chiseled face – any woman with eyes to see would agree the king was bloody handsome – but his face was sad and tired. His dark green eyes possessed an intensity that likely worked in bending people to the king’s will. However, as Yolanda looked at the man, that intensity seemed also tired, almost dormant.

His other strong feature was his confident chin. At least, it had the potential to be. At that moment it looked as though it had not employed its confidence in a long while. Based on its smoothness – along with that of the adjacent cheeks – his majesty the king had recently shaven.

The longer her gaze lingered on the man, the more comfortable Yolanda grew, or at least less embarrassed. While stories of kings always portrayed them as some kind of other, larger-than-life monarchs who ruled their realms from on high, one step below the Maker and the under-gods, Yolanda saw in this king who stood before her something the stories and legends never emphasized or mentioned: He may be king, but he was just a man.

Suddenly, a clearing throat cut through the air like a knife through bread. In unison, both Yolanda and the king’s faces turned to see the monarch’s companion, the pointy-nosed man called Dygon, with an intense and – to Yolanda, it seemed – perturbed expression on his face.

“Your majesty, they will not wait much longer,” he said. Raising a hand, Dygon extended his index finger to point toward the looming entry doors of the Maker’s Temple. “As Xanis said, the Speakers have prepared the chapel. It has…” Dygon trailed off as his eyes flicked between Yolanda and the king. He did not finish.

“Yes, yes, Dygon,” the king said, brushing aside the man’s obvious impatience with the wave of a hand. “It has been a long year.”

Saying those words altered something in the king, Yolanda saw. During their flirtatious exchanges, the man’s eyes twinkled, and his dormant confidence looked ready to roar to life like a man stretching after a long sleep. But the bubble of life in him deflated, forcing that energy to retreat.

The heavy, haunting gong of the temple’s bells shattered Yolanda’s thoughts.

“They will begin to gather for the midday service soon,” Dygon said. “Please, Paeter, let us go inside.”

The king released a heavy sigh, but nodded his agreement. He glanced one final time at Yolanda. “I thank you, Yolanda Thatcher,” he said. “You have been a ray of sun to my most cloudy of souls. Our chance encounter today has lessened the weight on my all-too-heavy heart. May the Maker’s blessing be upon you.” He reached for her hand and pulled it to his lips. “And may we meet again.” He laid a soft kiss upon her hand. Fresh crimson appeared on Yolanda’s cheeks and it took all her wherewithal not to swoon.

With a nod of farewell, the king walked past Yolanda toward the temple doors. Dygon watched the king thoughtfully before turning a curious expression on Yolanda. Unlike the king’s gaze, this man’s made Yolanda feel exposed, as though he were examining her, sizing her up and down, inside and outside. He considered her a brief moment longer before speaking.

“Who are you?” His voice was not accusatory; rather simply curious.

Unsure what he meant by such a question, Yolanda fidgeted, avoiding eye contact. She turned to watch the king walk the rest of the way to the temple door, looking away only after the man vanished inside. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t…I’m just a village girl a long way from home. Please.”

She chanced a glance at Dygon, arching an uncertain eyebrow. The man cocked his head. “A village girl,” he repeated. “Which village?”

“Dresden,” she said, feeling her stomach slowly begin to tie itself in knots.

The man’s eyebrows shot upward. “You are a long way from home,” he said.

“I am,” Yolanda said, nodding. She took a deep breath, anticipating the next question. She knew it had to come. But how could she explain?

“Do you know what today is?” Dygon said.

Yolanda blinked. The question caught her off guard. The ever-tightening knot in her stomach loosened, more out of confusion than relief. “I…”

The man waved away her non-answer. “I mean for the king,” he said. “What today is for the king.”

Yolanda bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. Clearly, she had run into the king on his way to the temple for…something. But she knew not what. After a few moments thought, she could not hazard a guess.

“He has been dreading this day for many weeks,” Dygon said. “And as he steps out of the carriage, he sees you, standing up here, wide-eyed and awestruck. He smiles and laughs for the first time in a year.” He paused. “A year. A year mired in melancholy, and a girl from a backwater of the realm draws up signs of life from within him, at least for a few moments.” Dygon shook his head.

Yolanda eyed the pointy-nosed man. She did not understand. True, the king had obviously been melancholy – she had seen it clearly in his eyes, face; it clung to him like a darkness, a sickness – but a year without smiling or laughing? Such a notion sounded so foolish, so ridiculous! Yet, she had seen the man.

“Will you?” Dygon said.

Lost in her own thoughts, it took Yolanda a moment to understand the man had asked a question that she had missed. “I’m sorry?” she said.

Arching a curious eyebrow, Dygon considered Yolanda briefly before repeating his question. Clearing his throat, he asked, “I’ve no doubt the king will wish to see you again. Will you come dine with us at the palace?”

image by Snugg LePup (creative commons)

Welcome to the daily gallen! I’ve hit the road today. I have the privilege of guest posting for my good friend, Chad Jones. You can read my post, Angry With Myself, at his Randomly Chad blog.

If you’re visiting from Randomly Chad, thanks for stoppin’ by! My name’s tim and I’m a writer. I muse on life, writing, faith, and other oddball things here at the daily gallen. I even share some fiction.

Here’s a smattering of posts to get to know me better:

Perfection, rewriting, and killing your darlings

God is unfair

Whimsy and awe

The Handsome Young Man

A letter to my unborn child

“Air Conditioner”

In the heat of the night
the cool wind blows
warming the outside air.

“Haiku Block”

Words hard to come by
just out of reach. Writing
haiku ain’t easy.

“Doctor Haiku”

Mad man in a box
traveling through space and time
Who else could it be?

Even with this amalgam of dreams and desires floating about in our heads, most times we’ve – OK, I’ve – felt like we’ve been treading water. Like our car’s stalled, stuck in the mud, and no matter how hard we press on the gas we’re just kicking up mud and spraying it everywhere.

(OK, that makes it sound like we’re in a terrible place, which we’re not. But I digress.)

So, after talking about it together this past weekend, we managed to reaffirm our mutual desire and direction for our life together.

Over beer – cheers! – we wrote down the steps for our next move forward.

In case you don’t know, there’s a funny thing that happens when you actually put into writing something you long to do.

Shit gets real. Real fast.

Unlike that drug-like euphoria that hits you at the early stage of dream-chasing, when you feel invincible and you believe nothing will get in your way, when dreams get real something else happens.

When dreams really get real, there’s this mixture of trepidation and excitement that manifests inside of you. Trepidation because resistance rears its ugly head, calling into question everything you just wrote down. Excitement because, by putting pen to paper and writing out the plan in black and white, you’re choosing not to listen to that resistance.

Most people lead lives of quiet desperation – or so Henry David Thoreau observed – following the conventional path that society has laid out for them. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this path. Many through the generations have accomplished much while walking it.

But what we fail to remember or even realize is that the conventional path is not the only path. By believing otherwise robs us of the possibility of an even greater life. Far too often, I believe, it completely robs us of the life we’re truly meant to live.

As for my wife and me? Well, we know what’s next. Or, at least, what we must do next to make it one step closer. Sure, we could choose to not do it, to simply continue doing what we’ve been doing. (Hey, our lives are pretty sweet, to be honest.) But knowing deep in our marrow and even further down still into the depths of our hearts the life we dream of living, we must keep moving counter to the conventional.

What about you?

“Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

“A name given”

Yolanda watched the blue-robed man until he disappeared inside the temple. When he vanished, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders she didn’t even know had been weighing on her.

“It is time, your majesty.” Turning at the voice, Yolanda saw the point-nosed man standing next to the king, a hand resting on the monarch’s shoulder. The king seemed not to notice or give any indication he had heard his companion speak. Rather, his eyes were focused on the temple door. But even that wasn’t right, Yolanda saw. In truth, while the king looked in the direction of the entrance, he didn’t appear to be there at all. His physical body stood there, but his eyes looked as though they saw something beyond, something Yolanda could not see except in the king himself. A deep sadness.

Out of instinct or something else, Yolanda reached out a hand and grabbed the king’s hand. “I know not why you are sad, your majesty, but I am sorry.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Yolanda realized what she was doing and immediately retracted her hand. “Oh gods! I’m so sorry!” she cried, feeling the rush of red in her cheeks. “I–I’m — forgive me.” Knowing not what else to do, Yolanda knelt again and averted her eyes. Fool, fool girl! she berated herself.

What came next was one of the most pleasant sounds Yolanda had ever heard. A full belly laugh that sounded like music to her ears. “Up, girl! Up!” the king said. Two hands pressed firmly on Yolanda’s shoulders. Raising her head, she met the king’s face: the melancholy gone, or at least held at bay, replaced with a wide grin on his handsome face. The king’s green eyes were bright and alert, unlike the dull, glazed over sheen that covered them a moment ago.

Yolanda’s own green eyes met the king’s. Time either seemed to stop or increase in speed; Yolanda was unsure which. Regardless, she wished for the moment to never end.

If anything were to ruin the moment, it would be the pointy-nosed man. When he cleared his throat, Yolanda felt like a thousand tiny knives stabbed her. Having her shared look with the king interrupted, Yolanda glared at the other man. His eyes met hers, but he registered her glare with no reaction.

“It is time, your majesty,” the main said.

“Yes, yes,” the king said. With their moment broken, Yolanda saw that the king’s melancholy returned. His face, full of life a moment before, became sallow and long. “You are right, Dygon.” The king offered a weak smile at Yolanda, which she could not help but return with one of warmth and wonder.

“Come along, your majesty,” the man named Dygon said. He began striding toward the temple door. But the king did not follow. Instead, he eyed Yolanda with a curiosity most women saw from men on occasion. A curious look that hesitated at asking something more.

“Philosopher Xanis said the Speakers of the Dead…” The man named Dygon trailed off when he realized the king did not follow him. “Your majesty?”

But the king did not hear him. Nor, by the looks of it, did he care to. At that moment, he had eyes only for Yolanda, and she for him. The two stood on the landing at the top of the great staircase at the Maker’s Temple, the early spring sun shining down on them, oblivious to their surroundings.

“What is your name?” the king asked with more than just his voice. The way he gazed at her, his whole body – from his stubble to his feet shook with the question. “Please, I must know.”

That last elicited a sly smile from Yolanda. “You must, must you?” She cocked her head to the side, tapping her finger repeatedly against her lip as if giving serious consideration to the man’s request.

“Yolanda,” she said finally. “My name is Yolanda Thatcher.”

Friend,
I sit with you,
unsure of what to say
or do. I’m sorry.
Any words I speak
sound hollow and false,
regardless of truths within them.

Friend,
I hear you laugh,
share a tale between us
that goes no deeper
than the surface.
Much farther down
is already full.

“Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

“The man in the blue robe”

Aghast, Yolanda knew not what to say.

“King–?”

A wave of anxiety washed over her and Yolanda’s heart beat faster. She averted her eyes, unsure of what to say or do. Her mind raced as she tried to remember lessons she’d learned, protocols for dealing with nobility. She grimaced. Fool girl, this is the king himself, not some soft-skinned lord!

Oddly enough, something she remembered from a story popped into her head: kneel. In the stories she’d heard as a child, common folk always fell to their knees when meeting or seeing a king or queen. So, with no better alternative, she knelt, there outside the Maker’s Temple. Her knees screamed at the hard stone of the landing at the top of the stairs. Clenching her jaw through the pain, Yolanda glanced briefly at the king, but reddened in embarrassment. She lowered her head.

Her action elicited a big belly laugh, which took Yolanda by surprise. Forgetting her confusion and self-consciousness, she raised her eyes to look at the laughing king.

“Up with you, girl,” he said, a grin splitting his handsome face. “No need for any of that.”

He strode toward her, soon standing over her. From her knees, the king seemed such a large man. He held his hands behind his back, which set off his broad shoulders. He cut quite a formidable – and handsome – figure.

Realizing that she was gaping, Yolanda felt warmth reach her cheeks. Despite the clear sky, she knew her cheeks burned from embarrassment rather than the sun. Knowing nothing else to do, Yolanda closed her eyes.

“Your Majesty, please,” the other man said, exasperation evident in his voice. “Leave this fool girl alone. You’ve come–”

“I know why I’ve come, Dygon,” the king said. With her eyes closed, Yolanda’s hearing became more attuned to the king’s pleasant baritone. It sounded like a gentle spring breeze Yolanda wished would never cease. “But perhaps…” The king trailed off then. After a brief silence, he asked,  “Are you going to keep your eyes closed all afternoon?”

Still unsure of what to make of her predicament, Yolanda decided it probably didn’t hurt anything to open her eyes. The king was handsome, after all. He hadn’t arrested her or demanded she kiss a ring.

Taking a deep breath, Yolanda slowly opened her eyes. As she did, she was surprised to see the red-haired man down on one knee, level with her.

“Don’t mind Dygon,” the king said, his green eyes twinkling at her. “He’s been on me for weeks to get out of the palace, fully aware of what dangers may lie beyond the gates.”

Yolanda could not help herself. She laughed at that last. What a funny thing to say, she thought. Then she realized she was laughing at the king of the world and did her best to stifle it.

“It’s all right to laugh,” he said. “I meant it as a joke.”

As if by magik, Yolanda managed to finally work up enough moisture in her mouth to clear her throat. “Well,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips, “Your man may not be far off. I’ve been told I can be quite dangerous.” She tilted her head and looked up at the king with a flirtatious glint in her eye. It took a moment for her words to replay in her mind. Oh gods!

The horror she felt inside must have leaked into her expression because the king chuckled again. “Beautiful and dangerous?” he said. “What’s your name?”

Before she answered, Yolanda heard a loud yawning sound behind her, like metal rubbing across polished stone. Sure enough, over her shoulder Yolanda saw that one of the tall doors to the temple had opened. A man stood in the open door. Bald with a somber expression upon his countenance, he wore a royal blue robe that glittered in the sun.

A sharp pain shot through Yolanda’s knees, reminding her she remained on her knees. Silently cursing to herself, she scrambled to her feet.

“Your Majesty,” the blue-robed man said in a voice that sounded distant, ethereal. The man approached Yolanda but failed to acknowledge her. Rather, he walked right by her to address the king. Following the bald man’s movement, Yolanda saw that the king had stood and a hardened look had replaced the warm expression he had shown her. The blue-robed man bobbed a quick bow before the king, more perfunctory than anything.

“Philosopher Xanis,” the king said. His voice was no longer a spring breeze, Yolanda noted; rather, it had become a winter chill. But the blue-robed man made no reaction.

“Your Majesty has recovered?” the Philosopher asked.

“It has been a year,” the king said, the ice melting from his voice, but only slightly. “You know why I have come.”

The blue-robed man lifted his hands in front of him and steepled his fingers. “Of course,” he said, angling his head to the left. The man, though looking right at the king, could just as well be a hundred miles away, Yolanda thought. More than meet the king’s own eyes, the Philosopher’s opal eyes gazed through the king. Yolanda shivered.

“And who might this be?” the Philosopher turned his otherworldly gaze on Yolanda, which gave her the feeling of wanting to jump in the nearest river to bathe. The Philosopher examined her, his eyes moving up and down slowly. After a thorough look, the blue-robed man returned to the king and frowned at him.

The king ignored the question and the man’s disapproving look. “Is all ready, Philosopher?” Yolanda noticed the chill had returned to his voice.

Philosopher Xanis blinked once. His haunting eyes closing and opening slowly, methodically. He gazed at the king a few seconds more, allowed the resulting silence to linger a while longer. The whole situation made Yolanda even more uneasy. She looked from the king to the blue-robed man. Though in uncharted territory, she was not naive to fully grasp the situation. She knew a stand-off when she saw one. The king and Philosopher — two alpha dogs circling each other snarling and baring their teeth. Pissing contests, her father used to call them.

“The Speakers have prepared the chapel for you,” the Philosopher said in his ethereal voice. The rolls of his fat face curled up into the most hideous of smiles that Yolanda was glad to see vanish quickly. Without another word, the blue-robed man turned about and walked back toward the open doorway of the temple.

Up until last year, I most certainly was simply existing. Rather, more like floating, through my life. Depression weighed heavily on me, and I felt directionless.

I finally reached a point where enough was enough. I began to make different choices. I began to make changes. I began to take seriously what had been buried deep inside of me for far too long.

In “Are You Living or Existing?” Kimanzi Constable lays out the framework for the many who, just like I was, are stuck, those who currently exist rather than truly live. (Hint – the same old, same old ain’t gonna cut it anymore!)

Constable lays out a nine-step plan of action for changing your life. Each step builds on the ones before, laying the groundwork to prepare you to not only change your life but maintain and sustain those life changes.

In the past two years, I’ve read many personal development and self-help books. Nearly all of them provide specific plans, delving deep into the details of the process. But Kimanzi takes a different approach. While he shares snippets of his personal story, he does not burrow too deeply in each step. Rather, he provides the surface framework and allows the reader to fill in their blanks. After all, everybody’s different.

But while the book is a quick read – roughly 90 pages or so – the principles Kimanzi shares are not as quickly implemented. All throughout he reminds the reader that each step takes time and requires significant action and sacrifice to accomplish. If changing one’s life were easy, everyone would do it.

But it is not impossible.

I had the privilege of being a part of Kimanzi’s launch team for the book. As part of the launch, Kimanzi’s giving away about $100 worth of goodies for those early buyers of the book. If you purchase the book now through May 19 and email the receipt to sales@talesofwork.com you’ll get all the cool stuff outlined here on Kimanzi’s website.

As an added bonus, I’ve got a copy of the book to give away. I’m going to keep it really simple to enter: Leave a comment on this review below AND share this review via Facebook or Twitter. Pretty easy, right? I’ll keep entries going until 11:59 p.m. Pacific time Sunday, May 5. Then I will choose a winner at random on Monday and let you know via email or social media.

What’re you waiting for?

What poetry means to me

A decluttered mind.
Focused thoughts
and slanted rhyme.

A lover’s quarrel,
unforgivable words and
doors slammed shut.

Memories of long forgotten life
forever imprinted on the page,

a reminder that we were young
and in love,

and at one time
thought the world might change
just because we’re in it.

Making it through the day
that repeats,
just like the ones before.

Structure and stanzas.
Songs and lyrics, too.

The melody and rhythm
of a life lived,
well or otherwise.

…

If you’re interested in more poetry, I did help edit a free ebook of poetry that was released this month called Love Poems Deconstructed. It features 19 poems by some amazing poets who are part of a fantastically encouraging writers group I’m a part of. My fellow editors even let me sneak in a poem of my own. You can download it for free from Gabriel Gadfly’s website. Did I mention that it’s FREE?