Although I was one of the greatest warriors of the Sapo Order, my name did not resonate through the worlds the same as Master Greer's. Surely, others within the Order, and the circles immediately around me, knew of my existence, but for all intents and purposes, I am an unknown quantity.
That being said, I was a great warrior and one of the greatest assets of the Sapo Order, until the day Reeve murdered me. I was the last line of defense against his ascendency on Zala. I was also Ulysses' mentor, and so it might be said that I found redemption. At least that's what I like to think.
The truth is, I was done in by hubris. It was pride, pure and simple. I trusted, perhaps more than Greer himself, in the solidity of the Order, in our ability to counteract every threat, not just on Zala but throughout the galaxy. We had stood so long unopposed...
I see now where we went wrong. We had become benevolent despots. That is to say, our time had come. This was an ending that would have come inevitably to us, as all things end. We were caught by surprise, was all, me most of all, I think. Greer was wise. He was perhaps cynical. He knew how to survive this, better than me, anyway. I always knew he was better, it was just a matter of learning just how much, and how I was to learn it. Painfully, at the end of a blade, as it turned out.
I take solace, in having been the champion of Ulysses, whom Greer did not believe in, who molded him into the warrior Zala so desperately needed, what the Order could no longer provide on its own. I wonder now, if I still failed Ulysses, failed Zala, failed the Order, knowing what happened after. Had I lived...Had it been me instead of Greer who survived...I know Greer's reputation remains untarnished, and that even the suggestion of a weakness on his part would be shocking to his continuing legions of supporters...But did I, in the end, painfully, earn what he lacked? Could I have done something more, prevented what happened next?
I wish I knew...Now I am a ghost. I haunt. I advise. I warn. But I cannot teach. There are limits to everything. Perhaps there is a wisdom in that. Perhaps a solace...
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
A to Z Lies in Space - Kindly
Ah. Good day. I see I now have your undivided attention, and that it has taken some time to do so. You're probably anxious to learn more about me. That, I'm afraid, I won't be able to do for you. That will be someone else's story.
For you, today, I have a different story, one about a man named Marty. Marty lived hundreds of years ago. He had a story, too, one he didn't know what to do with. For some time he had attempted to tell it, but no one listened to him. Even those who humored him ignored him. Marty became despondent. He gave up. History forgot him. I remember him.
That's it. That's the story. Is it an allegory? Assuredly. If you have been following along to this point, it should be obvious enough. I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend you, it's just that there are some stories that require this sort of subterfuge, for they contain dangerous truths. You would think that truth that stands to edify cannot be dangerous, but a truth that truly edifies is truly dangerous, and thus is subject to the worst burial possible. Even if it is widely distributed it will never be understood, and that is the worst fate of a story imaginable, even one that continues to be spread, because it continues to be ignored. A story is not a story merely to amuse. If it is, then it is worthless. And a story misunderstood is a wasted story indeed.
So, I bid you good day, again. I promise, if you stick with this story, you will not have wasted your time.
For you, today, I have a different story, one about a man named Marty. Marty lived hundreds of years ago. He had a story, too, one he didn't know what to do with. For some time he had attempted to tell it, but no one listened to him. Even those who humored him ignored him. Marty became despondent. He gave up. History forgot him. I remember him.
That's it. That's the story. Is it an allegory? Assuredly. If you have been following along to this point, it should be obvious enough. I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend you, it's just that there are some stories that require this sort of subterfuge, for they contain dangerous truths. You would think that truth that stands to edify cannot be dangerous, but a truth that truly edifies is truly dangerous, and thus is subject to the worst burial possible. Even if it is widely distributed it will never be understood, and that is the worst fate of a story imaginable, even one that continues to be spread, because it continues to be ignored. A story is not a story merely to amuse. If it is, then it is worthless. And a story misunderstood is a wasted story indeed.
So, I bid you good day, again. I promise, if you stick with this story, you will not have wasted your time.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
A to Z Lies in Space - June
He's my father.
I've told myself all my life, he's my father. I have to believe it. I have to. My mother, that's what she told me, and I believe her. I have to. My mother, the great Queen Alexus. And my father, Ulysses.
I know it's crazy. I know what they say about him, about his great devotion to his human wife, who for all intents and purposes was as much fiction to us here on Zala as anything I believe about myself, something he told himself, the way I do it, too. So, in a way, I do share something meaningful with him. Right?
I know, it's crazy. I try not to think about it, I really do. It's not healthy. I've been trying to distance myself from my mother for years. It's not easy. It's not easy for anyone, but just try it when your mother isn't just famous, but the queen of the world. It's virtually impossible. But I'm trying.
A few years back, I kicked my rebellion into overdrive. Rebellion becomes a form of life for someone like me, an instinct, a survival instinct. I hopped off-planet with the first transport I could find. That's how I met Drexel. A few years back, he came across a robot that claimed it knew the truth about Ulysses. I was terrified. I told him to get rid of it. He did. He wanted nothing more than to follow that mystery to its end, but I convinced him otherwise.
Am I being selfish? Or am I surviving? What else can I do? I just don't know. But Drexel loves me. I know he does. We'll make it. We have to. What other choice do we have? What other choice does a crazy mixed-up universe like this give us? We have to take what we can get. It's the only way. The only thing we can tell ourselves, to...make the pain go away. Because the truth really does hurt. Sometimes even worse than the fictions we have to tell ourselves...just to survive...
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
I've told myself all my life, he's my father. I have to believe it. I have to. My mother, that's what she told me, and I believe her. I have to. My mother, the great Queen Alexus. And my father, Ulysses.
I know it's crazy. I know what they say about him, about his great devotion to his human wife, who for all intents and purposes was as much fiction to us here on Zala as anything I believe about myself, something he told himself, the way I do it, too. So, in a way, I do share something meaningful with him. Right?
I know, it's crazy. I try not to think about it, I really do. It's not healthy. I've been trying to distance myself from my mother for years. It's not easy. It's not easy for anyone, but just try it when your mother isn't just famous, but the queen of the world. It's virtually impossible. But I'm trying.
A few years back, I kicked my rebellion into overdrive. Rebellion becomes a form of life for someone like me, an instinct, a survival instinct. I hopped off-planet with the first transport I could find. That's how I met Drexel. A few years back, he came across a robot that claimed it knew the truth about Ulysses. I was terrified. I told him to get rid of it. He did. He wanted nothing more than to follow that mystery to its end, but I convinced him otherwise.
Am I being selfish? Or am I surviving? What else can I do? I just don't know. But Drexel loves me. I know he does. We'll make it. We have to. What other choice do we have? What other choice does a crazy mixed-up universe like this give us? We have to take what we can get. It's the only way. The only thing we can tell ourselves, to...make the pain go away. Because the truth really does hurt. Sometimes even worse than the fictions we have to tell ourselves...just to survive...
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
Monday, April 11, 2016
A to Z Lies in Space - Iris
A writer's life is a lonely one. I suppose that goes for artists in general, but for a writer, for a writer, whose work is far harder to interpret, to appreciate...
Let's talk about art for a moment, shall we? I watched an ancient piece of video entertainment, something called The Agony and the Ecstasy, about an artist named Michelangelo, commissioned to paint the ceiling of a building called the Sistine Chapel. Now, if it had been as simple as that, and all you needed to know, you'd think it was just an art job someone did, and leave it at that. Except I remind you what the video entertainment was called. It seems Michelangelo's patron was something of a tyrant. History even now remembers Michelangelo as one of the great artists. There are reproductions of his Sistine Chapel on countless worlds. Art lovers know great art. What they don't think about, what you don't think about, is the intense labor involved in creating it. It's just assumed that a genius artist like Michelangelo shows up, does the work, and walks away. In that sense, Michelangelo scarcely needs to be real at all, does he?
Except he was real. And the work involved was real work. It nearly destroyed him. There are plenty of cultures where working on art is not relevant to the culture at all, because they can't afford it. This is not to say that the work isn't still done, but that the artist can't make a living out of it, no one ever learns it was even made, and so for all intents and purposes, it wasn't, history scarcely remembers that culture at all, and life as we know it is diminished. Nature is art. Nature produces it by the bucketful. The only way intelligent life can be considered intelligent at all is if it can add to the tapestry of what nature creates as a matter of course. Thus, artists are essential, the only elements of society contributing anything of real worth to the culture. Yet we can hardly be bothered acknowledge them. We're really good at noticing the ones a lot of other people have, but that's the same as saying we've all noticed that the world has a lot of nature around us. Art is about discovery, is the basis of everything else we know.
Yet our artists suffer. Michelangelo suffered. It seems irrational to think, that a man of such genius was hounded the entire time he was producing a masterpiece. But that's the way it always is. I'm not asking you for sympathy, but that's the kind of life I lead, too. What can I say? I'm a writer.
I've dedicated my life to producing work that reveals truths about life that I see unrecorded elsewhere. It seems incredible that such a thing is possible, with there having been so many people before and concurrent with me, and yet I have, time and time again, come to the unmistakable conclusion that this is absolutely the case. I live in a vacuum. I am alone. I am not isolated merely by choice, but because that is my curse, the reward for having a perspective that finds no friends, no peers. Sympathizers? Acquaintances? Oh, yes. I've had my share. But they are not enough. Never enough. Enough for madness, certainly. For life? For love? My companions have always resided in books.
I wrote a book. I wrote a book about a woman named Zuri. I alone realized what the truth of her story was. No one would believe me. So I consigned what I knew to the pages of a book, a book no one read. They say people read, but I have never been convinced of that. They collect stories the way they collect friends. To pass the time. They waste my time. Liars.
I have grown old. Recently, I was visited by a pair of strange individuals. One of them was a robot, and the other a curious young man named Vaughn. I gave them my book. I hope...I hope they can make use of it.
That's all a writer ever dreams of. That's why they write. If they tell you otherwise, they're lying. That's why a writer is so lonely. Their only solace is in the pages of book. Otherwise, they are forsaken. That's the sad truth. I believe in that woman. That woman was me. No, not literally. But she might as well have been. How could I betray her? I don't believe I did. I believe I set her free.
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
Let's talk about art for a moment, shall we? I watched an ancient piece of video entertainment, something called The Agony and the Ecstasy, about an artist named Michelangelo, commissioned to paint the ceiling of a building called the Sistine Chapel. Now, if it had been as simple as that, and all you needed to know, you'd think it was just an art job someone did, and leave it at that. Except I remind you what the video entertainment was called. It seems Michelangelo's patron was something of a tyrant. History even now remembers Michelangelo as one of the great artists. There are reproductions of his Sistine Chapel on countless worlds. Art lovers know great art. What they don't think about, what you don't think about, is the intense labor involved in creating it. It's just assumed that a genius artist like Michelangelo shows up, does the work, and walks away. In that sense, Michelangelo scarcely needs to be real at all, does he?
Except he was real. And the work involved was real work. It nearly destroyed him. There are plenty of cultures where working on art is not relevant to the culture at all, because they can't afford it. This is not to say that the work isn't still done, but that the artist can't make a living out of it, no one ever learns it was even made, and so for all intents and purposes, it wasn't, history scarcely remembers that culture at all, and life as we know it is diminished. Nature is art. Nature produces it by the bucketful. The only way intelligent life can be considered intelligent at all is if it can add to the tapestry of what nature creates as a matter of course. Thus, artists are essential, the only elements of society contributing anything of real worth to the culture. Yet we can hardly be bothered acknowledge them. We're really good at noticing the ones a lot of other people have, but that's the same as saying we've all noticed that the world has a lot of nature around us. Art is about discovery, is the basis of everything else we know.
Yet our artists suffer. Michelangelo suffered. It seems irrational to think, that a man of such genius was hounded the entire time he was producing a masterpiece. But that's the way it always is. I'm not asking you for sympathy, but that's the kind of life I lead, too. What can I say? I'm a writer.
I've dedicated my life to producing work that reveals truths about life that I see unrecorded elsewhere. It seems incredible that such a thing is possible, with there having been so many people before and concurrent with me, and yet I have, time and time again, come to the unmistakable conclusion that this is absolutely the case. I live in a vacuum. I am alone. I am not isolated merely by choice, but because that is my curse, the reward for having a perspective that finds no friends, no peers. Sympathizers? Acquaintances? Oh, yes. I've had my share. But they are not enough. Never enough. Enough for madness, certainly. For life? For love? My companions have always resided in books.
I wrote a book. I wrote a book about a woman named Zuri. I alone realized what the truth of her story was. No one would believe me. So I consigned what I knew to the pages of a book, a book no one read. They say people read, but I have never been convinced of that. They collect stories the way they collect friends. To pass the time. They waste my time. Liars.
I have grown old. Recently, I was visited by a pair of strange individuals. One of them was a robot, and the other a curious young man named Vaughn. I gave them my book. I hope...I hope they can make use of it.
That's all a writer ever dreams of. That's why they write. If they tell you otherwise, they're lying. That's why a writer is so lonely. Their only solace is in the pages of book. Otherwise, they are forsaken. That's the sad truth. I believe in that woman. That woman was me. No, not literally. But she might as well have been. How could I betray her? I don't believe I did. I believe I set her free.
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
Saturday, April 9, 2016
A to Z Lies in Space - Harlow
I had everything. I had the whole world in my hands. Everyone else was just waiting to catch up.
All that sounds presumptuous, but I think it's a waste of time to be modest. I learned that the hard way. When I was young, I learned my abilities were far beyond the average, yet I didn't want to stand out. My brother looked up to me, and I didn't want to betray his trust. "Ephraim," I'd reassure him, "you can trust me." I said this so many times even I got tired of hearing it. Maybe he doesn't even remember, now. I didn't want to scare him. The problem was, I scared myself.
The worst thing imaginable, at least as far as I'm concerned, is expectations. When people find out about what you can do, they instantly develop expectations. It's far easier to avoid such things, or so I imagine. Maybe it's actually more difficult. I don't know. I spend too much of my time in torment as it is.
Worst of all are my own expectations. As I grew older, I couldn't help it. We all develop goals. We all want to succeed, to be understood, to be accepted. When you're capable of great things, you expect to achieve great things. The problem is, people don't like other people achieving great things. They develop expectations so that you'll fail. And you develop expectations knowing you will. To be someone who is clearly above the average abilities of others is a curse. It is, truly, an excruciating torment. It never leaves you alone.
Somewhere along the way, I alienated my brother. I couldn't even begin to guess, now, how I did it, but I know it happened, because, or at least it seemed to me, we drifted apart, so that we became strangers to each other. The more I attempted, at any rate, the more I achieved, and the more people expected things from me. It was, at first, a wonderful position to be in.
Then it became hard. Then it became a matter of the impossible. A situation developed, globally, and the pressure became so intense I could hardly stand it. The older I got, you see, the harder it was to hide. I tried, oh I tried. But I couldn't. The more exposed I got, the more impossible it became. Then the truly incredible occurred. Someone else entered the picture, solved the problem, saved the day. The weight was lifted from me just like that.
Yet it was still there. I couldn't escape it, certainly not anymore, despite circumstances changing. Like anyone else of extraordinary ability, I had developed a kind of following, of sycophants who wouldn't leave me alone. Yet more...expectations. They demanded of me a response. It became known to me that they weren't happy, that I would have to do something about this usurper, that I didn't have a choice in the matter.
"Of course there's always a choice," you say. You can say that, because you don't have the responsibility. You can afford to be modest. I can't. I don't get to play a passive role. Sooner or later, my role was going to be the aggressor, the agitator. The villain.
Fortunately, my brother didn't wait to see how things would play out. If I had seen him even one more time, I would have repeated, "Ephraim, you can trust me." But now it was too late. The great Ulysses beat down my door. Now I was nothing but a threat.
In a way, I feel honored to have played this role. In the absence of another threat, someone had to fill the void. It had to be me. Of course it did. Finally, the rest of the world, the rest of the galaxy, caught up with me. I had nowhere to go but down, to fall, to meet my fate at last. Not exactly, granted, what I expected, but there you go. Expectations are always wrong. Always. It's best that you don't bother with them. If you take away nothing else from my sorry life, please heed that lesson. One day, it could save you a lot of trouble...
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
All that sounds presumptuous, but I think it's a waste of time to be modest. I learned that the hard way. When I was young, I learned my abilities were far beyond the average, yet I didn't want to stand out. My brother looked up to me, and I didn't want to betray his trust. "Ephraim," I'd reassure him, "you can trust me." I said this so many times even I got tired of hearing it. Maybe he doesn't even remember, now. I didn't want to scare him. The problem was, I scared myself.
The worst thing imaginable, at least as far as I'm concerned, is expectations. When people find out about what you can do, they instantly develop expectations. It's far easier to avoid such things, or so I imagine. Maybe it's actually more difficult. I don't know. I spend too much of my time in torment as it is.
Worst of all are my own expectations. As I grew older, I couldn't help it. We all develop goals. We all want to succeed, to be understood, to be accepted. When you're capable of great things, you expect to achieve great things. The problem is, people don't like other people achieving great things. They develop expectations so that you'll fail. And you develop expectations knowing you will. To be someone who is clearly above the average abilities of others is a curse. It is, truly, an excruciating torment. It never leaves you alone.
Somewhere along the way, I alienated my brother. I couldn't even begin to guess, now, how I did it, but I know it happened, because, or at least it seemed to me, we drifted apart, so that we became strangers to each other. The more I attempted, at any rate, the more I achieved, and the more people expected things from me. It was, at first, a wonderful position to be in.
Then it became hard. Then it became a matter of the impossible. A situation developed, globally, and the pressure became so intense I could hardly stand it. The older I got, you see, the harder it was to hide. I tried, oh I tried. But I couldn't. The more exposed I got, the more impossible it became. Then the truly incredible occurred. Someone else entered the picture, solved the problem, saved the day. The weight was lifted from me just like that.
Yet it was still there. I couldn't escape it, certainly not anymore, despite circumstances changing. Like anyone else of extraordinary ability, I had developed a kind of following, of sycophants who wouldn't leave me alone. Yet more...expectations. They demanded of me a response. It became known to me that they weren't happy, that I would have to do something about this usurper, that I didn't have a choice in the matter.
"Of course there's always a choice," you say. You can say that, because you don't have the responsibility. You can afford to be modest. I can't. I don't get to play a passive role. Sooner or later, my role was going to be the aggressor, the agitator. The villain.
Fortunately, my brother didn't wait to see how things would play out. If I had seen him even one more time, I would have repeated, "Ephraim, you can trust me." But now it was too late. The great Ulysses beat down my door. Now I was nothing but a threat.
In a way, I feel honored to have played this role. In the absence of another threat, someone had to fill the void. It had to be me. Of course it did. Finally, the rest of the world, the rest of the galaxy, caught up with me. I had nowhere to go but down, to fall, to meet my fate at last. Not exactly, granted, what I expected, but there you go. Expectations are always wrong. Always. It's best that you don't bother with them. If you take away nothing else from my sorry life, please heed that lesson. One day, it could save you a lot of trouble...
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
Friday, April 8, 2016
A to Z Lies in Space - Greer
I have seen much of this galaxy. I know most of its secrets. But there is one thing I'll never understand, and that's how everything I know collapsed around me.
The Sapo Order was one of the few things older than me. It's true, I am very old. I count my days in centuries. The Sapo were guardians of order. They ministered to the needs of a thousand worlds, and were the most respected institution anyone knew. Then one day, Reeve defected from the Order, and set himself up as tyrant of Zala. After that day, the road to ruin was assured.
On another day, Ulysses appeared. He was an outsider, who didn't belong in the Sapo Order, and yet he was admitted into our number despite my objections. At first, he seemed to be the greatest of us, or at least had the potential to be. It's true that he defeated Reeve, ended what appeared to be the most grave threat our galaxy had ever known, but then things spiraled out of control. The Order began to disintegrate, and with it, the order of the galaxy itself, so that we descended into anarchy. We lost the great gift of civilization, or the semblance of it that some of us had spent all our lives cultivating.
Perhaps all this is a matter of my own hubris. I could very well be imposing an interpretation of these events favorable to my ego. I lost what was most precious to me, and so I retreated away from galactic affairs. That I can't dispute, that is the very least anyone could say about me, now, in my exile. For all anyone knows, I am dead. I might as well be. I weep for what was lost, even as I struggle to define what it was. My worldview? My delusions? Or perhaps, the best thing the galaxy ever had.
I could very well be the galaxy's biggest fool. I think I was meant to die with my secrets...
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
The Sapo Order was one of the few things older than me. It's true, I am very old. I count my days in centuries. The Sapo were guardians of order. They ministered to the needs of a thousand worlds, and were the most respected institution anyone knew. Then one day, Reeve defected from the Order, and set himself up as tyrant of Zala. After that day, the road to ruin was assured.
On another day, Ulysses appeared. He was an outsider, who didn't belong in the Sapo Order, and yet he was admitted into our number despite my objections. At first, he seemed to be the greatest of us, or at least had the potential to be. It's true that he defeated Reeve, ended what appeared to be the most grave threat our galaxy had ever known, but then things spiraled out of control. The Order began to disintegrate, and with it, the order of the galaxy itself, so that we descended into anarchy. We lost the great gift of civilization, or the semblance of it that some of us had spent all our lives cultivating.
Perhaps all this is a matter of my own hubris. I could very well be imposing an interpretation of these events favorable to my ego. I lost what was most precious to me, and so I retreated away from galactic affairs. That I can't dispute, that is the very least anyone could say about me, now, in my exile. For all anyone knows, I am dead. I might as well be. I weep for what was lost, even as I struggle to define what it was. My worldview? My delusions? Or perhaps, the best thing the galaxy ever had.
I could very well be the galaxy's biggest fool. I think I was meant to die with my secrets...
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
A to Z Lies in Space - Flynn
My dad isn't like other dads.
He tells us lots of stories. Ophelia believes them, but I think that's because she's too young to know better. They're supposed to be about his personal experiences, but I know they're impossible. He says he spent time in space, fighting monsters and defeating alien despots. I'm not even sure I know what a despot is, but that's besides the point. Clearly he didn't do any of those things. Clearly he's just another guy. Well, not just another guy. I think he's crazy. What other explanation can there be?
Mom says we should be patient with him. She says she was patient for years, and there's no reason we can't be, too. He disappeared before Ophelia was born. For most of my life, he wasn't even here, and when he came back, he was a complete stranger to me. Mom had to assure me over and over again that the man who knelt down in front of me and kissed me on the forehead was the same guy in all the framed pictures around the house. He didn't even look the same. I don't know how to describe it. I know that people age, obviously, that Mom used to be my age at some point (I have no idea how old she is, so don't ask), but getting older doesn't explain why he looks different. I know, because even Mom was taken aback when she first saw him again. She couldn't hide it. We were having a picnic in the backyard, and Ophelia and me both saw her reaction. He just strolled into the yard, from where I don't even want to guess, and acted so happy to see us. Mom was happy. Ophelia was happy. I was...
So that's why I call my dad Ulysses. I know it's common in some families to use your parents' real names when you talk to them, or talk to other people about them, like other kids at school. In my family? Not even a chance. I call Mom, Mom, and...I call Dad, Dad, or I used to, when we'd talk about him, when he was missing, when we spent so much time waiting for him to return.
Which I guess was a mistake. "Be careful what you wish for." I think that's a phrase people use for that sort of thing. I learned it in school. It's weird. For the first time in my life, I actually think of school as the normal piece of my life. I used to hate it. Now I don't.
I don't tell any of my friends about him. I don't want them to think I'm weird, because I know what I think of him, and it's extremely unlikely that any of them would think differently, even Teddy, who reads the weirdest stuff I've ever seen. But he doesn't believe any of that science fiction nonsense. Who would?
But my dad keeps telling us his stories. I have to pretend I don't hate him, because that would be mean, but I think he still understands, and I guess it probably hurts him, but I can't help it. I don't believe him, and I don't understand why he would tell us such ridiculous lies. When I get older...hopefully it'll be easier to put it all behind me. I don't see any other way.
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
He tells us lots of stories. Ophelia believes them, but I think that's because she's too young to know better. They're supposed to be about his personal experiences, but I know they're impossible. He says he spent time in space, fighting monsters and defeating alien despots. I'm not even sure I know what a despot is, but that's besides the point. Clearly he didn't do any of those things. Clearly he's just another guy. Well, not just another guy. I think he's crazy. What other explanation can there be?
Mom says we should be patient with him. She says she was patient for years, and there's no reason we can't be, too. He disappeared before Ophelia was born. For most of my life, he wasn't even here, and when he came back, he was a complete stranger to me. Mom had to assure me over and over again that the man who knelt down in front of me and kissed me on the forehead was the same guy in all the framed pictures around the house. He didn't even look the same. I don't know how to describe it. I know that people age, obviously, that Mom used to be my age at some point (I have no idea how old she is, so don't ask), but getting older doesn't explain why he looks different. I know, because even Mom was taken aback when she first saw him again. She couldn't hide it. We were having a picnic in the backyard, and Ophelia and me both saw her reaction. He just strolled into the yard, from where I don't even want to guess, and acted so happy to see us. Mom was happy. Ophelia was happy. I was...
So that's why I call my dad Ulysses. I know it's common in some families to use your parents' real names when you talk to them, or talk to other people about them, like other kids at school. In my family? Not even a chance. I call Mom, Mom, and...I call Dad, Dad, or I used to, when we'd talk about him, when he was missing, when we spent so much time waiting for him to return.
Which I guess was a mistake. "Be careful what you wish for." I think that's a phrase people use for that sort of thing. I learned it in school. It's weird. For the first time in my life, I actually think of school as the normal piece of my life. I used to hate it. Now I don't.
I don't tell any of my friends about him. I don't want them to think I'm weird, because I know what I think of him, and it's extremely unlikely that any of them would think differently, even Teddy, who reads the weirdest stuff I've ever seen. But he doesn't believe any of that science fiction nonsense. Who would?
But my dad keeps telling us his stories. I have to pretend I don't hate him, because that would be mean, but I think he still understands, and I guess it probably hurts him, but I can't help it. I don't believe him, and I don't understand why he would tell us such ridiculous lies. When I get older...hopefully it'll be easier to put it all behind me. I don't see any other way.
"But this is not the story," says Kindly.
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