Completely Pointless Adventures in Urbana part I

Sometimes it's funny how the smallest of adventures can brighten up an otherwise crappy day. It's also a bit funny how catching the wrong bus can result in one of the above mentioned adventures.

So, today I got a pink slip and kicked out of work. I wasn't fired, per se, but I did get a written warning for the Sunday when I "forgot" to come into work. That wasn't why I got kicked out though. Apparently my penchant for not taking breaks and pulling overtime has gotten me in trouble with the higher-ups so between today and tomorrow I can only work five more hours to keep my regular 40 hour full-time schedule. The sad thing is, I was really behind on work despite working overtime.

Instead of getting off at 6pm (or 9pm as of late), I got off around 2pm. I treated myself to a nice dragon roll from Sushi County (surprisingly good affordable sushi place on campus) and dropped my paycheck (which had a large chunk of it taken out in taxes) off at the bank (so I can pay rent/various debts).

I walked halfway down Green Street when I realized I wasn't wearing the hoodie I had put on to keep away the early late-august morning chill. I would have been all right with leaving it at the bookstore and picking it up later if it wasn't for the fact I had left my apartment keys in the pockets.

By the time I got out of the bookstore, my black and red saddled Chuck Taylor-clad feet were feeling as raw as the tuna roll I saw someone eating at Sushi County. Not knowing the bus schedule, I figured I'd just catch the next bus and hope it ended up somewhere near my apartment.

After riding around parts of Urbana I never knew existed, I ended up in the familiar territory of downtown Urbana. Since the used bookstore there had been closed when my parents and I were there to eat at the Thai place on weekends, I decided to get off the bus before it took me even further away from my apartment. There, I found a copy of Little Red Riding Hood in the Red Light District by Manlio Argueta and You Will Know Our Velocity! by David Eggers (as recommended by Alex).

I also decided to drop by Mirabelle, the local bakery, to pick up yet another treat. The tiramisu was quite good...mascapone be damned for its 90% fat content. My heart may hate me for it later, but it was completely worth it.

I had a conversation with the guy who was working there. Come to think of it, I should have caught his name or at least his major since he's a student here. He seemed to know quite a bit about Latin American history since I mentioned that Little Red Riding Hood in the Red Light District took place in El Salvador sometime around some political upheaval. He basically started an intermittent conversation with me by asking about my books. I mentioned liking some Russian authors after he mentioned that one of the jobs for the CIA from the Cold War he had heard about was to read Russian novels to see if there were any code words to trigger cells into action and such. He asked me if I had read any Tolstoy (which I haven't). Naturally we were interrupted by other patrons and by me taking a seat outside and enjoying a tiramisu and coffee while reading the Argueta book. I vaguely touched on the Freudian interpretation when he mentioned the sociopolitical innuendo of the original story.

When I went inside again to dispose of my plastic container, fork and paper coffee cup, the guy offered me another cup of coffee since he was just going to dump out the container before closing. I accepted despite knowing my lack of tolerence for large amounts of caffeine. I got a bit twitchety, but all I really wanted was an excuse to continue the conversation. The store owner came out and we ended up talking about making it in this country. Apparently, he started the bakery with $2500 he borrowed from his aunt and six months leave from his old job.

That made me think about things on my walk home. If I really want to write, what's stopping me? There were many books in that used book shop by authors I had never heard of, and yet they were probably getting by. I also remembered what the guy (first guy I met) said about how usually great writers usually have something extraordinary happen in their lives which can make them a bit antisocial or eccentric (this was after I mentioned Gogol in the Russian author part of the conversation). So, what's to stop me from making something extraordinary happen in my life?

Maybe it's me.

Then again, I can't help but think about how if I didn't log too much overtime at work or how if I didn't catch the wrong bus, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have the two books. I wouldn't have had that conversation with the guy who works at Mirabelle, nor would I have learned the partial history of the bakery's owner.

The vague thought that I could be happy here (amended with the addition of the phrase "for a year") occurred to me as I was walking home from work earlier this week. I know I'll have to leave, and with that, have a plan. But for now, I think I could be happy.

To the Person Whose Phone Number is Now My Land Line

Hey,

I know, as a college student with no money and a little-appreciated and low-paying job (Seriously, I work at the textbook store...even I hate it when I won't give someone any money for their beer-damaged, out-of-date textbook that they most likely stole from under their roommate's mattress so they could get more money with which to buy more beer to spill/vomit on their roommate's textbooks.), it's easy to get into serious debt from credit cards. They're made of shiny plastic and fit in your wallet better than a huge ass wad of cash...not that I've ever seen a huge ass wad of cash, but it's not bloody likely that you have either. Perhaps since it's so small, you don't feel like you're spending as much money as you are. In that case, I suggest that you start carrying around cash and paying for things in cash, preferrably in the smallest denominations as possible so it feels like you have more money than you actually do. However, if you should attempt to buy books at the place I work paying only in pennies, I shall be forced to shove said beer-soaked textbooks through your "exit only" door.

Anyway, that's the problem. As much as I relate to your financial misfortune, I tire of your creditors leaving a bajillion (it's such a ridiculously high number that I had to call Merriam Webster to add it into the dictionary) messages on my answering machine, not to mention calling me when I'm either a) eating dinner, b) having sex, or c) eating dinner while having sex. It seems that no matter how hard I try to explain that I am not the person whom they are looking for nor does anybody of that name even live with me, they still call back. I just hope that I didn't manage to tranfer your massive amount of debt to my name when I signed up for this phone line. I know I just spent $120 on pants this weekend...but they fit so well!

But that's beside the point. I'm doing fine racking up my own obscenely exorbitant amount of debt all by myself. I don't need to be reminded of that by those who are trying to get you to pay off yours.

And another thing, for some reason, I keep getting calls from so-called charity pledge drives. They've never mentioned your name, but I certainly hope that you have nothing to do with this. I know that charity begins at home, but did you perhaps think for a moment that all your donations to the Police Officer's Guild #97 and what-have-you could be a potential cause for all of your financial problems?

At any rate, for my sake (and the sake of the guy I'm currently boning), please pay off your shit. I'm tired of my afternoon quickie being interrupted by hearing an unsettling mechanical voice booming from my answering machine or cordless phone receiver. Because of this whole debacle, I'm about ready to scrap the land line and finally cave in and get a cell phone (I already have the cell, but am debating on eliminating the land line). Undoubtably, said cell phone rates will plunge me into debt as well.

Sincerely,
The person who currently has your old phone number

Anyone care to make a suggestion?

I usually try to keep this blog just as a "work only" space, without involving my life, but all will make sense in a moment, I promise.

I spent about eighteen years of my life in Springfield, Illinois. For the past three or so years, give or take holidays and breaks when I went back to see my parents, I've been living in Urbana, Illinois to go to school at the University of Illinois. At most, these two "cities" are an hour and a half apart driving distance from each other.

In other words, I spent a great deal of my life in the Midwest. Needless to say, I want out.

The last time I left the country was my junior year of high school. My high school Latin Club went to Italy and Greece over a span of 18 days. It was the first time I felt free of my parents, of the general feeling that I was just a stranger who didn't fit in since all of us were tourists. Before that, my mother took me to the Philippines when I was two years old. I recall little of this trip.

So, here I am now, 21 years old and freshly graduated from college. In all truth, I could have done study abroad. Hell, even now there's the possibility of applying for a Fulbright Fellowship which would allow me to study in any country and write on any topic, perhaps even leading my own writing workshop. Yet something is holding me back. For some reason, I completely neglected to complete a draft of my application and ask for letters of recommendation from instructors/employers who undoubtably would have provided them for me. The same thing happened in all my applications for grad school (although my instructors recommended that I "see the world" and "experience life" first before re-selling my soul to academia) and Teach for America (although some people I've known in the program hate it).

At any rate, something is holding me back. All my life, it seems like someone's been there to hold my hand through everything. My parents insisted on escorting me by train all the way up to Chicago, taking the L to O'Hare and waiting for my plane with me when I went to Italy. Even when I was there, tour guides and chaperones regulated my movements in the country. I have never really been anywhere outside of Central Illinois on my own terms.

Granted, there was always the random invite to places a bit closer to home than Italy or the Philippines. Tom invited me to visit him in North Carolina before he moved to Amsterdam. Paul tried to get me to come up to Chicago just for sexual purposes. Yet it never occurred to me to just buy the ticket, pack a bag and make a long weekend excursion of it.

This is where the writing thing comes in. I mentioned earlier that my professors recommended that I "see the world" first. This is definitely a good idea since I've been in a rut writing-wise for awhile now. Nothing here inspires me anymore. I used to be able to just walk across the quad, smile at a stranger and want to write a poem about it. Now it seems like I really am just going through the motions.

Yet I still feel like something's holding me back. I wish I could understand what it was so I could break free of it, and thus, this place. I don't ever want to be one of those people who grows to love their prison, or depend on it to the point where they can't leave. I'm so afraid that I'll never really be able to do anything on my own, that I'll never grow up just like the girl in the "fairy tale" I wrote.

Maybe because once I leave, I know I have no intention of ever coming back. Maybe it's because I want to make sure everyone I could possibly miss will be gone or otherwise distant from me. I always tried to keep people at a distance with the justification that it would make it easier for me to leave.

But I'm still here.

So yeah, if there's anyone who'd like to see me, I'd be glad to keep you company until I figure out where I really want to go. Sorry about all the angst, but this really has been bothering me lately.

An Autobiographical Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She was raised to believe that she was a princess, and her father was a great king. For her own protection, he locked her in a high tower and wouldn't allow her to leave or do much else until she grew up. Unfortunately, the girl never did. She was always too young to leave. The only company she kept were the characters in the books she read. She thought, as her father did, that reading would prepare her for the dangers outside, but she never was ready, never did grow up. One day, her father left her. Somehow, with the help from someone outside, the girl was able to leave the tower. She did grow up, at least in appearance, but all who met her remarked on how distant she seemed, as if she wasn't really there, wasn't really real.

For you see, the moral of the story is that she needed to leave on her own to truly grow up. Her father had kept her there for so long that even though she was finally able to leave, part of her would always remain locked in that room.

Confessions of a Student Film Production Assistant

Ok, since I suck at revising, I've just been trying to write things a chapter at a time and then I'll go back and revise (mostly to cut out shit I'll most likely repeat). So yeah, here's the second chapter of my current project. Note: I changed the name of the lead actor from Phil (which sort of distressed the guy I based him off of) to the more obviously Jewish David.

“David, the Lead Actor: Take Two”

Midterms suck, that’s all there is to it. I didn’t even want to bother going to class that week, let alone go to filming at night, especially since after the weather got colder, the outdoor shoots had long stopped being fun. Still, in between writing papers for my English classes and studying for my intro to East Asian Culture midterm, I was out there in the cold along with the other disgruntled cast and crew members. What is even more amusing about the weather situation is that the entire movie is supposed to take place over two days at the end of summer. Cameron even had to write in some bullshit dialogue for the “zombie expert” addressing the leaves changing color and eventually completely falling off the trees.

EXT. MAIN QUAD—NIGHT

SAMANTHA

(rubbing arms)

Brr. It’s cold out here. There must be some evil in the atmosphere.

SAMANTHA claps her hands rhythmically and does a high kick as ZOMBIE EXPERT and CARL stare at her in disbelief.

CARL

So anyway, yeah, what’s the deal with that?

ZOMBIE EXPERT

(in painfully obvious fake British accent)

I’ll explain, but I don’t think you’re going to like it…

Cut to shot of ZOMBIE HORDE lurking through trees with people throwing MASSIVE AMOUNTS of LEAVES and STUFFED ANIMALS at them from off camera.

ZOMBIE EXPERT (cont’d v.o.)

Samantha, you’re not entirely wrong in your deduction, as banal as it may seem. In order to harness their undead strength to the fullest potential, zombies must drain the life of everything around them, including plants, small squirrels, and other landscape features.

Cut back to SAMANTHA, CARL, and ZOMBIE EXPERT on QUAD.

SAMANTHA

(shudders in horror, clinging to CARL)

Oh God! Those poor squirrels!

“And cut! Perfect!” Cameron gave a thumbs-up and switched off the camera.

“Finally.” Lisa muttered as I threw the flannel blanket over her shoulders. “David, where’s your flask?”

“No drinking!” Cameron shouted and then pointed at me. “You. Make sure she doesn’t drink at all tonight. I want her clear and coherent for the kidnapping scene.”

“Aye-aye captain.” I rolled my eyes and gave him the one-finger salute. Sometimes I wondered if I didn’t sleep with him later that year, would Cameron have ever even remembered my name? I reached in Carl’s jacket pocket and took the vodka. “Give me that damn flask.”

After I took a swig of the vile liquid (David was a cheap bastard), I handed it to Lisa. “Take it easy though. Just drink enough to keep you warm…or at least trick you into thinking you’re warm.”

“Thanks Mom.” She wryly smiled and took a swig before giving it back to David.

“You fucking bitches drank the last of my vodka.” Maybe David had a right to be indignant, but he was the only member of the cast allowed to wear a coat, just to maintain his “anti-heroic” image, I suppose.

I usually didn’t bother with a coat since when I’d run around getting or setting up things, I’d get so hot that a coat would just be one more thing to carry. However, during the downtime in filming, as another production assistant put it, it was “so cold my nipples are going to fall off.” If anybody notices the shadows or light wavering in the background while watching the film, that would be because I was shaking from the cold despite the heat radiating off of the cheap lighting rigs.

During the day, however, I played the part of the mild-mannered college student: going to class and trying to stay awake in large lecture halls with the heater either broken or on overdrive, choking down prison-grade cafeteria food and typing at my computer. More often than not, I was typing at somebody via AIM as opposed to typing a paper.

David [2:42 p.m.]: I’m horny

Me: and this is my problem because?

David: wanna fuck?

I had to give the guy credit for being forward. It certainly beat having a guy pretend like he was interested in a relationship with me when in all truth, he just wanted a reliable fuck. Then again, I had class in almost fifteen minutes. After either sleeping through or skipping most of the lectures, I couldn’t really afford missing out on class right before the next paper assignment.

Me: I’ve got class.

David [2:44 p.m.]: quit being such an apple polisher and just come the fuck over. I’ll be here until 4.

I slammed my laptop shut before grabbing my bookbag and running out the door. The next fifty minutes sitting in class were horrible. I had forgotten to put my American Literature anthology book in my bag, so I had to look at the passages from the book of the guy next to me. The plus side was that it gave me an excuse to lean in closer to him since I had had a crush on him since the first class I had with him a year ago. The downside was that this was probably the fifth time I had asked the same favor that semester. There was also the matter of that voice in my head. You know, the evil one who tells you to do all the things you know you shouldn’t even want to do, let alone actually go through with doing. I like to call her Vivian.

“Come on, he does have a point about you being a goody-goody. What did you get on your last paper? An A?” I could practically see her there in a bright scarlet, tight-fitted dress with a slit all the way up to the thigh sitting beside me with one arm around my shoulders.

“An A-.” I gritted my teeth as I “thought” my seething rage at her.

“Well, there you go. You’ll most likely do better on this paper since you’ve been particularly enthusiastic in discussion section lately.” She cooed slightly while making her insinuation of my growing attraction to the guy sitting next to me, an attraction which had resulted in an unusual interest in Hawthorne’s idea of sin in discussion the week before. “So why don’t you just sneak on out of class and head over to David’s…you have been getting antsy lately, right? Midterm week grinding down on you, pushing those urges to the surface after too many coffee-filled nights alone; just you and the laptop and Whitman…although I don’t think old Walt could do that thing with his tongue that David could…”

“Stop.” I blinked, and she was gone. “Fine. I’ll go after class.”

For the fifteen minutes remaining in that class period, instead of falling asleep as usual, I found myself fidgeting in my seat, constantly shifting which way my legs were crossed. I was tweaking like the one time I drank about seven cups of coffee to give me the push I needed to write a twelve page paper on the Gothic double in Poe’s short stories the semester before.

If I actually bought into the theories of that coke-headed quack Freud said about the id, ego and superego, then I was convinced that Vivian was my id. She was awfully hungry and horny a lot of the time. If she was my id, then whatever was constantly yelling “what are you doing?” in my head while the wind beat my face with ice pellets was probably my superego. Still, like my roommate Beth, my own good sense and conscience wasn’t exactly the best at keeping me at bay.

“Yo.” David gave me a nonchalant head-nod as he let me in. Sometimes I wondered if he used the “yo” or “’sup” purely out of postmodern irony or if he really was that skeezy.

“Hey.” I dropped my backpack on the floor. Before the door closed behind him, he pushed me onto the bed.

Maybe it was my midterm-week antsyness or maybe it was just the fact that I was still wearing my black wool pea coat with his heater turned up, but I was burning. Either that, or it was the intensity (whether imagined or not) of the situation. Literally, it wasn’t a case of “he had my clothes off without so much as a ‘hello’” since there was the obligatory “yo.” However, I never experienced anything like that before. In all truth, I think I felt even hotter with each article of clothing removed. Fortunately, despite my befuddled state, David wasn’t wearing his usual suit, but a more laid back t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. As soon as I undid the drawstring and pushed the pants past his ankles, he seemed to “spring into action,” as it were. In other words, he didn’t seem to like wearing underwear when he was just chilling in his room listening to music. I think that afternoon, he had Absolution by Muse on his computer playlist. We got started right around the second track, “Time is Running Out,” which seemed oddly appropriate for the situation.

Once again, I was lying on his bed naked, with David pinning my arms above my head. He was naked save for the t-shirt I couldn’t get off. It seemed that his patience had completely worn once he stripped me. Even though it was a winter afternoon, there was still a substantial amount of gray light streaming in through his blinds. I felt even more vulnerable than I had that night about a month ago, perhaps because I didn’t have the shield of inebriation to protect me. I felt his weight bearing down, mostly on my wrists, but also where our hips met. David forced my legs apart with his knees, and without so much as a kiss, he rammed his cock in completely. No foreplay=no natural lubrication=fucking ouch.

I couldn’t look anywhere except into those intense hazel eyes of his as he pounded me into the bed. He was a non-blinking fuck machine. I’ll never be able to explain exactly why I was so drawn to him. Maybe it was that look. He gave me the same looks when we were on set before and after the first encounter. It wasn’t a look of longing or any particular fondness. At first, I was convinced that he hated me for being an incompetent production assistant, despite my knowing that that was a completely unfounded insecurity. After awhile, I realized that he was sizing me up the same way I eventually did to him. I used to look at him wondering if he liked it better on top (which he did) and which of his buttons I would have to push for optimal effect (the spot behind his ear and the small of his back).

After awhile, I couldn’t even look at David when we were on set together. I had the naïve notion that I could turn invisible at will, that if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. I was also paranoid that someone else would notice the way he and I looked at each other and draw a fitting conclusion. The looks he gave me said so much despite the fact he never said more than two words to me on set. His eyes would scan, lingering on occasion in a couple of places as if the layers of fall clothing I had were completely nonexistent. When we made eye contact, it felt like he was asking me if I wanted to sneak off to another room to fool around while the others could set up lighting, the job I usually did. I would usually return the glare in challenge, as if I didn’t believe he would actually have the balls to do it. Sometimes hunter, sometimes prey, but either way, I did not want to be the topic of discussion as soon as I walked back to my dorm for the night after filming. At first, I attempted to only go to filming on nights when I knew Cameron was shooting scenes which didn’t need David, which were few and far between. I got a bit guilty after reading his away messages which often begged and pleaded for anybody who was “even available just for an hour” to come to filming. So, I usually went, and tried to be as quiet and invisible as possible, creeping around door frames during indoor shoots and around trees during outdoor shoots when I wasn’t setting up the light box or putting gore makeup on the zombie extras. Fortunately, it worked since David and Cameron spent most of the time talking to each other. After all, we were working on a film. I don’t think anybody knew about any of my indiscretions unless I had mentioned it off hand much later.

However, when David and I actually were alone together, as was the case here in his room, I could afford to take a little more liberties in playing my part. After a little bit more of David staking his position in the seemingly unending power play between us, I decided that I wanted to shift things and be on top, but of course, I could hardly do anything about it in my position. He even pinned me down further by moving my arms down at my side and bearing his full weight on top of me. At this point, he had been fucking me at a maniacal speed and I could feel the heat of his chest searing his sweat-soaked t-shirt to my skin. It felt like the more I struggled, the more he pushed against me. Two could play at this game. I locked my legs around his, thrusting my hips upward, riding him in reverse. This did two things: 1) it caused even further penetration along with the right alignment to simultaneously hit my clitoris, and thus resulted in my first actual orgasm by his hand, or cock, more accurately; and 2) caught him off guard enough so I could roll him onto his back and get on top.

“You fucking bitch…” I heard him mutter under his breath.

“Come on, you were losing steam anyway.” I smirked, pinning his arms over his head. “Let’s see how you like it.”

“Just shut up and ride me already.” He wrenched loose and grasped my hips with his hands.

I sat up and leaned back, undulating my hips to match his guidance. Since I generally don’t like people telling me what to do, I started slowing down the faster he wanted me to go. I could tell he was about to come because he had stopped looking at me, but I wasn’t about to let him off that easy. His hands wandered from my hips up the sides of my body to cup my breasts. His left hand continued wandering to grasp my neck. For that moment before his hand started moving again, I was terrified, but somewhat exhilarated at the idea that he was one of those guys who got off by strangling girls during sex. I felt his fingers grasp through my hair before tracing my cheek. David ran his thumb along my lips before slipping it inside. As I bit his thumb, I could feel my own climax building. The stretch in my legs stung, but it was worth it to get his cock as far inside me as possible. I could have gone for the quick explosive orgasm, but that most likely would have set him off as well. Instead, I went for the slow, aching burn. I started to moan despite myself, considering I don’t really want guys to know if I orgasm or not. Let them sweat out their own sense of inadequacy.

At this point, David had had enough of my teasing. He took my wrists, sat up and bent me backwards on the bed. Gasping, I knew I wasn’t going to have the slow burn I wanted, or much of anything but the old in-and-out routine until he got off. When I opened my eyes, I saw his lips curved wickedly, eyes gleaming in the fading afternoon light from the blinds. He pressed against me again, pinning my arms to the bed as he kissed me.

David bit my earlobe and growled, “I’m gonna come” before releasing my wrists to support himself on his arms. I already came once, but I still wanted more from him. It didn’t look like I was going to get anything more from him that day. For one thing, I don’t care what you’ve read, but the simultaneous orgasm just doesn’t happen. D.H. Lawrence lied. Maybe this occurs in some wonderful parallel universe where women always have orgasms and men can experience multiple orgasms in one sexual encounter without stopping for the refractory period. In this universe, the simultaneous orgasm doesn’t exist, at least not for me. If the guy was at least mildly courteous, he’d wait for me to get off before finding his own release. If the guy was fantastic beyond all reason (which was rare), then he’d see how many times he could get me to come before getting off. In David’s case, as in most general cases in my life, I had to take what I wanted from him before letting him finish up. I generally didn’t like it when guys would come inside me so I’d either insist on condoms or suck them off, but David caught me by surprise.

David emitted something halfway between a sigh and a grunt, perhaps to try to maintain some sort of masculine composure. I have to admit, I prefer it when the guy makes some sort of sound during sex. Otherwise I have no idea if he’s done yet. Even with the wrinkling of the forehead, tightly shut eyes, creasing of the brow and drop of the jaw, sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s there or just almost there. When he collapsed on top of me, I could feel his heart racing, the sweat still hot on his t-shirt. By this point, I had already cooled off, so I pushed him off of me, grabbed a handful of tissues from his bedstand and cleaned myself off before dressing.

Still naked from the waist down, David took a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Parliaments on his bedstand and lit it as it stood at attention between his lips. He said nothing as I walked out the door. I don’t think he even looked at me.

Another delightful quickie...

So at work today, I randomly got high off of the fumes from sealing book packages in plastic shrink wrap and thought it would be hilarious to come up with double entendres which really aren't double entendres at all. Needless to say, about everyone near me at the counter decided that shelving books was much less painful than being around me for another second longer.

It doesn't have the same effect without the :wink wink nudge nudge: tone of voice, but here goes:

I'd like to run a troubleshooter on that program.
I'd like to put some mustard on that sandwich.
You would like to put a sticker on that book.
I'd like to tie that shoelace.
I'd like to dust that shelf.
I wouldn't mind taking a bite out of that sandwich.


Shit...I can't remember any more than that.

Confessions of a PA Take One

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

An oldie, but a goodie...from back in the day (in other words, high school crap I wrote)

Jubilee 2003, Otherwise Known As "Catholicstock '03"

Why Catholicstock? Perhaps it reflected the free-spirited openness of the original Woodstock, but only in Catholic form. Or maybe it captured the revival of the importance of youth, whether in pop culture, or in this case, the Catholic faith. Or possibly, it was something that sounded like a good idea, but only resulted in rampant consumerism, overpricing, burnings, rapes, and pillaging.

If you answered the latter, then you were probably close to what Jubilee 2003 was like.

Well, not entirely. I don't remember any burning, rapes, or pillaging, but then again, I left after communion. Hey, who could blame me? Many Catholics tend to sneak out of mass right after communion. You pay your tithing, you get your wafer/Cracker/body o' Christ and sip of wine/grape juice/blood of Christ, and then you get the hell out of there before the insane people try to get you to buy baked goods from whatever youth group is going on a mission trip, or buy tickets for the 50/50 raffle to raise money for the local parochial high school. Or at least, you try to get out of there before the mass mob of people floods the parking lot. Still, didn't Jesus, the man himself, get uber-pissed when he saw trade being conducted within the sacred confines of the church walls? I'm no theologian, but I can vaguely remember that basic story from Sunday school.

This is beside the point. What I'm trying to get at is that although a gathering of the faithful sounds like a good idea, doing it in the Midwest is an entirely bad idea. Granted, it doesn't have to be as nice as Vatican City, but the fact that it took place at the fairgrounds, a place originally built to house livestock and encourage trading and commerce amongst farmers in the state, is just plain absurd.

As soon as I walked in with my mother, for if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have even thought about staying in town that weekend, I saw a flock of seemingly unsupervised children running for the carnival rides. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gang of priests walking across the street. All right, it would be in poor taste for me to even think about making some sort of joke about this, but hell, I know that whoever is reading this right now is thinking the same thing. So, I won't even say anything more. I'll just leave you horrible, filthy, sinners with your minds in the gutter.

All right, I apologize. After a day of brainwashing...er, exposure to so many faithful Catholics, I tend to lose control over my mouth to a more pious, holier-than-thou, force bigger than myself. Keep in mind, this was after one day. Now imagine if I had gone to bible camp when I was a kid...or if I went to a private school. The horror...the horror...

Back to the celebration! And what exactly are we celebrating? The 150th anniversary of the founding of the local diocese. I always thought it was funny that the word "diocese" looked a lot like the word "disease." Maybe that's just a coincidence.

Near the entrance was a little kiosk which was actually handing out bottled water. "Handing out water?" you ask, "Surely, this is preposterous! You can't get anything for free these days! Especially water, at $10 a bottle at various music festivals!" Sure enough, I got free water, two bottles in fact.

Still, nobody ever gives away anything without thinking of their own best interests. I read the bottle, which had the words "Get a life in Christ" printed in large letters on the bottle. Beneath it was the web address for information about vocation, basically, becoming a priest or a nun or some such person of faith who can't have sex.

After reading that, I was a bit hesitant to drink it. For all I knew, they put mind altering drugs in it so that you would end up spending the rest of your life believing that your calling in life was to preach to starving children in some third world country and not have sex.

Once more, I revisit the whole concept of celibacy in the church. At one point in time, priests were allowed to be married and have children. Then, I think that was about the time when God saw all the corruption in the church and decided that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to let these people breed. Thus, he declared that members of the clergy were to be celibate. Some corruption remained, but at least hopefully, they can't pass it down to future generations.

So, I drank the water, which was surprisingly refreshing. Perhaps it was holy water. Then again, holy water is just tap water that was blessed by a priest. I thought it was funny how much they charge for most other bottled waters, which have often been found to be simple tap water with a fancy label, yet holy water is free. After thinking about this, I had the funniest image of a truckload of priests in a water bottling facility waving around rosary beads and chanting blessings in Latin. The way I see it, if they did charge for the water and donate the money to charities, they could sell tons of this stuff. If figure if I'm paying so much for bottled water anyway, I might as well go to heaven for drinking it, right?

At the same kiosk as the holy bottled water were entry forms for some sort of raffle. I've always been a sucker for anything where you write down your name, phone number, and address in order to hopefully win something, so I entered. Strangely enough, the lady told me that the entry forms were supposed to go at the "Vocations" kiosk in the Expo building. She then asked me if I could enter her name in the raffle as well, and with me being a good Catholic girl, I couldn't help but oblige.

So, my mom and I went to the Expo building, which is usually used during the state fair by people selling their wares like cleaning liquids, impossibly sharp knives, and massaging chairs. The irony wasn't completely lost on me since the first table there was selling various items from around the world in order to raise money for, you guessed it, missions. My mother looked at a few "handmade" wallets from Guatemala or something and I looked at the novelty musical instruments. I ended up buying a flute, supposedly from India, for $10. For all I knew, if I just peeled off the "Made in India" sticker, it would have read "Made in China" or Japan or some other heavily industrial nation which isn't India. All right, so I fell for the oldest trick in the book. Still, I collect musical instruments anyway, and I did have a bit of fun playing around with it while I was waiting for my mom to go to the bathroom.

Throughout the Expo building were other kiosks of people selling their wares such as oil paintings of Mary or "handmade" bracelets. There were also booths where people were busily recruiting for parochial schools and private colleges. It sort of reminded me of the college fair I had to cover for newspaper this year, except for the fact I would have never been caught dead on their mailing list, let alone on any of their campuses. I know, I sound like a public school snob, but when you can get the humiliation and pressure at a fraction of the price, I'd rather pocket the money to spend it on something important, like saving the endangered habitat of the pygmy marmoset or something.

At any rate, as if the "Catholic Career Fair/Bazaar" wasn't weird enough, there were corn dog stands and funnel cake stands after that. Since my mother told me that we were going to the 4:00 mass later that day, at the Grandstand (which is the same place where they hold horse races and rock/country concerts, "On SUNDAY, SUNDAY SUNDAY!"), I had the strangest image in my head of some fat guy with beer and nachos watching the mass. Perhaps we'd all be doing the wave when the Bishop took the stage. At the rate we were going, I wouldn't have been surprised about anything.

Don't get me wrong, if I sound like a jaded, cynical columnist...Well, I am, but that's beside the point. There were some useful things there. For instance, people could get their cholesterol and blood pressure checked at the senior center. If anyone cares, my blood pressure was 104/56 and my cholesterol was 188 mg/dL. I'm still not sure what that means, but I'm laying off the donuts for awhile just in case.

Also, for some reason, there was a group of skateboarders demonstrating their physical prowess in the food-o-rama enclosure. I saw a couple of people that I knew who I would have never expected in a million years to be Catholic, but still, I think it proves my point that there is nothing good to do in this town. I mean, if the skateboarders are hanging out at a Catholic function, what will happen next? Are they going to open a tattoo parlor in the church rectory? Still, I think it's a refreshing change from the old Catholicism. It's not as cool as the Buddy Christ from "Dogma," but I think the Catholic Church would get a bigger draw if they had bowling ball balancers, yo-yo artists, and skateboarders in the church. I figure if they do this sort of thing at Jubilee, they should do it on a weekly, or even a daily basis.

At any rate, after my mother conversed with a few of her friends that she had just met at the Central Illinois Philipine-American Society picnic (which is an entirely different story) last week, we made our way to mass. It was sort of scary how everyone was converging to the grandstand at once. I felt like I was an extra in "Night of the Living Dead" or something, except for the fact that there were statues of Peter and Paul everywhere.

For those of you who are Catholically impaired, Peter was the founder of the Catholic Church, and Paul was formerly Saul, a Jewish guy who used to persecute Christians until he had some sort of epiphany while walking down the road. This weekend was their feast day. I mean, I could be wrong here, especially since I usually nod in and out of consciousness during mass. Still, next to someone like the fat guy over there with the nachos and beer hat, I'm a freakin' theologian.

In the line, we passed yet another tent promoting something or other. My mom was handed a pencil and a pamphlet. I didn't read it, but I saw a headline in there that said something about the "spreading pagan plague" and a "new world order...a call to war." Needless to say, I took offense to that, saying out loud that most of the pagan people I knew were much nicer than some of the Christians I knew. Of course, I received many a dirty look from the bible-thumpers of the Midwest. After that, I held my tongue. If I wasn't too careful, I would probably end up being burned for heresy. Then again, years later, I would probably be pardoned and canonized as a saint, so it wouldn't be a total loss. The funny thing was, as I passed by numerous garbage bins, I saw a lot of copies of those same pamphlets. So, I guess this "pagan plague" has spread further than these people had imagined. Perhaps we should just hold off on this war between the righteous and the sinful until hopefully never.

We finally made our way up the bleachers, and on the way, I was met with another surprise. A guy randomly grabbed my arm and said "Cowboy Bebop is cool," referring to the button of Spike (which was made by my friend Amy) that I keep on my purse. Ah yes, anime, the universal icebreaker. Unlike religion, you can't really offend too many people whenever you talk about anime.

I wish I could say that being surrounded by so many faithful people inspired me and renewed my own faith. However, my sense of spiritual wonder was squashed when I heard everyone reciting the Apostles' Creed with the same fervor that I heard in myself and my classmates whenever we recited the Pledge of Allegiance.

Yet once again, my point is not so much that religion and patriotism is a bad thing. I feel quite the opposite. However, when it gets to such fanatic levels as when people are saying "Fuck Iraq" and "Kill all Muslims," yes, I believe that it is a bad thing. I know that not all people think that the war is a good thing, but they shouldn't have to hide in the dark in order to express their feelings. They shouldn't be considered un-American because they don't necessarily agree with the so-called Conservative right.

I didn't mean to get up on my soapbox about this, but I've found that lately, it is rather difficult to avoid the rest of the world and retreat into my own little idyllic existence. If people actually thought about these things more instead of ignoring them, they might finally come to a logical answer for their problems.

So, as I left the Jubilee, I overheard people commenting on how many people left during communion, and how disgusted they were by it. I found it to be a rather difficult task to hold my tongue, but I knew that like myself, these people would have a hard time being convinced about an opinion outside of their own scope of thought. They can believe in their piety and faithfulness. I just don't appreciate somebody other than myself questioning my own faith, sort of how I seethed a little bit when my mother labeled me as an "Atheist" to some of her friends earlier. In all truth, I'm most likely a Universalist or an Agnostic. I believe in things, but I just question whether or not I should throw so much of myself into it. Sometimes faith can be a dangerous thing.

In the end, the Jubilee experience left me feeling slightly nauseated despite its sweet exterior. If I wanted that, I may as well have just eaten a donut. Then again, I wouldn't have gotten the neat bottled holy water and the "handmade" flute. Instead, my cholesterol would have gone up. So, overall, Jubilee was a lot like religion (and donuts) in general. In moderation, it can be an enjoyable experience, but a full day of it is just nauseating.

Quickie

Random away message I came up with (I might expand later, but in all truth, I've been too lazy/unmotivated/uninspired/:insert equally lame excuse here: to write much of anything lately:):

"The Morning-After Monologue"

"G'Morning sexy. What do you want for breakfast? ... Oh, ok, I understand, you're busy...so busy that you have time for sex but not enough to have your girlfriend make breakfast for you, or to take your girlfriend out for dinner (possibly followed by a movie), or to meet her parents, or to find a real job...I understand. However, I just discovered that I'm going to be too busy to have sex with you...ever again."

For Paul/Mike, not boyfriends, but still sources of amusement.

Supervillain's Girlfriend Monologue, or For Good Girls Who Love Bad Boys
(read with "proper" British accent)

I don't believe this. Here we go again. That jackass is pontificating and explaining his evil plan for world domination when he should really just off Mr. Hero while he's in a state of suspended weakness. Meanwhile, I'm standing here holding a gun to his beloved sweetheart's head.

God. What does he even see in her? Silly bint doesn't even know how good she has it. I'm wasting my life as a groupie in this ridiculous skintight leather getup and she has the perfect boyfriend. I bet he's even super in bed too.

That jackass still hasn't shut up yet. I need a fucking cigarette, but that would require me to put down the damn gun. Things weren't always like this you know. I got my degree in English at Harvard, followed by Law School at Cambridge, specializing in International Law. I could have worked for the UN. I mean, Angelina Jolie has nothing on me. But no, I'm holding the All-American girl-next-door hostage at the bidding of that jackass.

He wasn't always like this, you know? In fact, that was why I fell in love with him in the first place. We met at a peace rally after he had given a speech on the importance of renewable energy. He was in Environmental Law, I was in International. Together, we were supposed to save the world, not destroy it. Hell. I guess some people really do change.

Damnit. He's still going on...and on...and on. You know, we used to denounce nuclear arms and biological weapons, not use them to throw our weight around. I guess it's true what they say about how it's impossible to tear down the master's house with the master's tools.

Yeah. Just as I thought, our hero has sescaped and is now handing my boyfriend's ass to him. Jesus. He's still just my boyfriend? My mom keeps calling me, asking "When are you going to get married? When are you going to get married? You're not young anymore and you have gained some weight...and I expect to see my grandchildren before I'm dead." Yeah. Like that will ever happen...

And now he's in a coma.

Shit. Mr. Wonderful's on his way over here. Time to drop the gun and let the lady go with some obligatory line like "Oh, he'd never do that for me!" or "Why is it that good girls go for such bad guys?" Then I'll sigh as he gives me a platonic hug in those masculine arms of his and he'll laugh and fly her off to safety as shit starts getting blown all to hell around here.

So, you're probably wondering what I'm still doing with this jerk, dragging him to the escape pod and such. What can I say? I'm a sucker for impossible romance.

A foray into shifting third-person...although I suck at that sort of thing.

Obligatory Art Museum Piece

Elena continued wandering. For a college art museum, the gallery rotated their collection frequently enough to keep her interest piqued each month. Yet like an old lover, there was one piece she always returned to each time she paid a visit. Although it was a reproduction of the one she had seen in the Palazzo Rosso in Genoa, she still felt herself drawn to the painting. She stood within reasonable distance, shifting weight on one foot, settling in for the long haul.

“I see you’re examining St. Sebastian.”

Shaken from her reverie, Elena frowned as she turned her head to face the stranger. He was a young man, presumably a student like herself. What could have possessed him to use such a word choice as “examining?” Perhaps he was pre-med. She could not help the slight hint of distaste in her mouth at such a clinical term upon it rolling into her ears.

Choosing not to reply, she faced the painting once more. Granted, the male figure was in the full bloom of youth: hair in short curls, beardless and almost nude, his loins barely draped by a strategically placed cloth. The painter, Guido Reni, had even given life to the wrinkles in the cloth, as if the viewer could hear the faint rustle of the cloth unfurling from the juncture of the hip, ready to drop down Sebastian’s lithe legs. His arms were tied above his head to a tree. His back arched, skin taut on the frame of his torso Yet the agony on his face was not from the strain on his back muscles, but the arrows penetrating his ribcage and breast. His eyes rolled up to heaven, full lips parted with a faint flush on his cheek.

“He looks quite alive, considering the fact he’s about to be shot to death with arrows, doesn’t he?”

Elena turned from Sebastian again to face the strange young man next to her. “He wasn’t shot to death. This is the miracle of St. Sebastian. The emperor Diocletian had him tied to a tree, shot full of arrows and left for dead because hew as a Christian. Sebastian walked all the way home to preach again, only to be beaten to death later.”

“Oh.”

Hoping he would be satisfied enough with that explanation to leave, Elena turned once more to the eternally frozen scene.

“So, are you religious?”

Elena took in a deep breath. She had been raised a Catholic, but after leaving home, her only fascination with the religion was with saint iconography, particularly that of St. Sebastian. However, she did not feel like it was any of this stranger’s business what she believed. It seemed like she would not gain enough peace to fully appreciate the painting unless she answered her unwanted companion’s banal questions. However, he did recognize St. Sebastian. Perhaps he had seen the piece before or just read the plaque by the painting.

“Not really. I just find this painting fascinating.” She took pains to sound casual in her answer.

“I can tell.” The stranger said, leaning to whisper into her ear. “You’ve been looking at that painting longer than any of the other pieces in the art museum.”

Elena took a step back. “How would you know that.”

“I’ve been watching you since the Greco-Roman period.”

Her mind raced back. The Greco-Roman gallery was somewhere near the entrance of the museum. This meant that this young man had been following her for quite awhile. Perplexed, she stood frozen. Realizing she had not formed a reply to his statement, Elena opened her mouth to speak.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just felt drawn to you–struck, as it were.” He laughed sheepishly at his own pun.

Elena laughed as well, more at his pitiable sense of humor than the joke itself. She noticed for the first time that others were milling about the museum besides them. For a moment, she pictured herself the way he may have seen her, taking small slow steps through each gallery, coat folded on one arm, the other hand occasionally tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She could not quite understand this young man’s fascination with her. She certainly was not doing anything particularly exciting in the museum.

“Be careful.” She warned. “Arrows of love are still arrows.”

“I take it that I’ve been shot down, then?”

A delighted smile crossed Elena’s face. Some men just did not know when to give up, yet his insistence at playing upon words charmed her. “Not exactly.”

The two sat down on a bench further away, yet still facing the painting.

“You know, I’ve seen so many interpretations of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian: 14th century frescos, Renaissance oils, even modern photography.” Elena grasped her wrist behind her back and stretched, popping her shoulder.

“So why the Reni? Why do you like this one so much?”

“I don’t know. Considering how many painters used different styles and mediums to convey the martyrdom, there are many key similarities.” Elena’s eyes met his intensely as she explained her attraction. “For one thing, St. Sebastian is almost always nearly nude. His hands are either tied from behind or above. Yet the difference, at least for the Reni, has to be in the face.”

“The face?”

“Oh yes. Especially the eyes and the mouth. Sebastian has such an expression of rapture of his face, as if–” Elena looked away for a moment.

“As if what?” The young man took her chin in his hands, pulling her to face him.

“Promise you won’t laugh, or think I’m weird. Please.”

“What?” A grin spread, stretching his cheeks.

“Promise.” She pulled away from him. “I’m being perfectly serious.”

“Ok, so am I. Now will you tell me what you mean. I’m not an art major so I don’t get these things.”

“The expression on Sebastian’s face in the painting, it’s so exquisite in its pain . . . almost erotic.”

He was silent.

“You’re freaked out, aren’t you?” Elena stood up to leave. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No. It’s not that.” He took her wrist, holding her back.

She turned around to look down at him sitting on the bench. “What is it then?”

“I didn’t think anybody else thought that way, saw the painting the way I did.” His eyes widened as he looked up at her.

She smiled and sat down next to him, moving closer to the center than she had been earlier. “You know, you never told me how you knew about the painting.”

“St. Sebastian was the patron saint of the parish near where I grew up. They had a large mosaic of the martyrdom in the vestibule of the cathedral. It had nowhere near the lavish detail of the Reni painting, but it made me curious enough to actually crack open a book and do research outside of school.” He chuckled, continuing to hold Elena’s hand.

“And this is how you discovered the Reni piece?”

“Yes. Although I didn’t like the other painting of St. Sebastian he did. In that one, Sebastian is kneeling with his hands tied behind his back.” He grimaced. “He has too much of a look of supplication than ecstasy, the wrong sort of surrender. Also, the background is too dark without the beautiful detail of the tree. Too somber. Too funereal.”

“I couldn’t agree more. It was obvious that the Italian artists were making a shift from the brilliant lit works of the Renaissance to the darker Baroque period.” She leaned closer to him. “But in the one at our museum, or at least the reproduction of the one at the Palazzo Rosso, doesn’t it look like Sebastian has a look of anticipation as well?”

“Yes, like he’s asking himself ‘Is this next arrow going to be the one that will kill me?’”

“I can’t believe this. This is far too incredible.”

“What?”

“That I’ve met someone who actually sees these things the way I do.”

Deciding that carrying on a potentially distracting conversation in the quiet museum would not be the best idea if they ever wanted to enter again, the pair decided to leave. The young man collected his backpack at the coat room before reaching the entrance.

“What about the other renditions?” He gestured, causing Elena to look down the hall into one of the other galleries.

“For the most part, I believe that the Italian Renaissance painters perfected their representations of Sebastian, especially since the Reni is the most flawless one I’ve seen.”

“Why Italian? The Germans painted the same subject matter in that time period.”

“I don’t know. Many of the German painters rendered Sebastian with a beard.” She explained. “For some reason, that always bothered me.”

“Too manly or too old?” A guttural growl escaped his throat at uttering the word “manly.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t think Saint Sebastian wore a beard.”

The tolling of bells in the distance drew the young man’s attention away from his conversation. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to get to class. I certainly wasn’t planning on having such enchanting company.”

Elena smirked. “Sure you weren’t.”

“I’m serious.” He removed his bag and withdrew a pen and a pad. “Would you like to have lunch with me sometime and continue this conversation? Perhaps tomorrow? I could call you, or I could give you my number and expect to never hear from you again.”

She laughed. “I would most definitely like to continue this conversation. There’s a place I like to go that’s not far from here.”

She took the pen and pad from his hands. “You may call me, but I never answer my phone. Leave your number, and I’ll call back.”

“Thank you so much.” In a quick, fluid motion, he took her in his arms and spun her around before taking off running toward the sound of the bells.

Just as Elena processed what had just happened and realized that she had never even caught the stranger’s name, he was gone.

* * *

Elena proved true to her word, right down to her quirky habit of letting her machine pick up messages followed by immediately calling the person back as soon as they had hung up. The next afternoon, they met in a café near the art museum.

“Granted, Botticelli was a master of displaying the beauty of the human figure.” He shook his turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich at her as if it would aid in proving his point. “Yet his Sebastian just looks bored, like he’s waiting for a bus.”

Elena laughed. “I never thought of it that way, but I know precisely what you mean. That seems to be the problem with a lot of painters. They’ll paint Sebastian’s body flawlessly, as if he was some sort of homoerotic pin up figure, but they don’t pay enough attention to his face.”

“Sort of off topic, but a friend of mine once sent me a link to a website with video clips of people having orgasms.”

“Yes, I would have to agree with you.” She took a sip from her coffee. “That is off topic.”

“Well, the thing about the videos was that they were shot from the neck up, so all you could see was the face.”

“Are you comparing a high state of religious rapture with the silly faces people make during sex?”

“I wouldn’t call it silly. You even said that you found the Reni painting of St. Sebastian to be erotic.”

“Yes, well that is different.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know–”

“I don’t believe it.” His eyes widened as he smiled.

“Believe what?” Elena shot him a sideways glance.

“You’ve never had sex, have you?”

“I have.” She insisted. “I just don’t think that it’s exactly up to par with the sublime.”

“Then you’ve been with the wrong people.”

“And you’re telling me that you’re the right man for the job.”

“No. I was just saying–”

“Right. I believe this lunch is finished.” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin and moved her seat back from the table.

“Wait, please don’t leave.”

“I’m serious.” She smiled. “Look at the table. I’m done with my salad, and your sandwich is gone as well.”

“All right. I see your point but–”

“Do you have anywhere else to be later?”

“No, not really.” He paused. “My last class finished before I came here.”

“Good. My car is parked a block from here.”

“Where are we going?” He asked, dropping a couple of dollars on the table for the waitress.

Elena took his hand and pulled him to the exit. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

* * *

If there were any rhyme or reason in how Elena’s car followed the faded yellow lines painted on the cracked concrete, they were not readily apparent. At the occasional stop light, Elena glanced at her companion. She had a feeling that this day would be special. All she could do was hope that he felt the same way, considering how she noticed the way he watched with no small amount of concern their college town disappearing from the passenger side window. Yet she knew there was nothing to worry about, seeing as he stopped asking her where they were going as soon as he got into the car.

The gravel road she inevitably pulled into was a path she had gone down many times before, more often than not, alone. The landscape transformed from ripe, autumn fields of corn into the mellow muted earth tones of dying leaves. These were not the flashy crimson and gold of the maple, but the browns and tans of oak trees. On either side of the road, trees with dark, thick trunks rose from the earth, towering over the small car and its passengers as if to remind them that they were merely trespassing in the domain of a force greater than they could ever comprehend. Even the gravel road they drove on acted as another reminder of the temporary encroachment of humankind, as it stopped at a dead end, fading into a small grassy clearing.

The pair stepped out of the car. Other than the sound of the doors closing, little else disrupted the air of the clearing. The tall grass had faded from green to a pale gold. An occasional twig snapped amidst the rustling of feet against the grass. Elena had nearly made it to the other edge of the clearing when she sat down, almost hidden by the grass. She watched the young man wander cautiously, looking around to find where she had gone while he had been distracted by his surroundings.

When it was obvious he would not find her again, she called out to him. “Over here!”

“Oh.” He smiled, waved, and walked toward her. “Why have you brought me out here?”

“Isn’t it beautiful here? No sounds of traffic, people talking obnoxiously on cell phones or pompous professors who delight in proving you wrong.” She hugged her knees, long pleated skirt rising high enough to reveal her ankles.

“What’s in the bag?”

Elena slid the strap off her shoulder and unzipped one compartment of a long duffle bag. She pulled out a bottle of wine, and a corkscrew but no glasses.

“It’s probably not five o’clock in the afternoon yet, but what the hell? You only live once, right?” The cork came out with a loud pop.

“Agreed.” He took the bottle after she had taken a drink from it.

The two continued drinking and talking about nothing in particular for awhile, occasional lulls in the conversation filled by the near silence of the forest around them. At times, they would exchange glances, somewhat tinged by the blood red wine.

“Last drink. It’s yours.” She passed the nearly empty bottle to him.

“Are you sure?”

“I insist.”

As he downed the last drops of wine, he felt a bit dizzy. He wasn’t exactly a heavy drinker, but he knew that it would take more than just a half bottle of wine to take him under.

“Wow. This is really good stuff.”

“Definitely beats cheap beer from kegs, eh?” She stood up and took his hand.

“Yeah, I guess.” He stood up, legs wobbling, nearly falling into her. As he leaned in, their lips met. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She asked, wide eyes looking up at him.

“If I’ve been too forward.”

“Don’t be. If you were, you would know it.” She kissed him again, stepping toward him.

Elena could hardly believe it. This afternoon was going better than she had anticipated. She was certain that he had been a little more than surprised as well. He ran his fingers through her hair, tucking errant strands back behind her ear so they would not interfere in the meeting of lips again. The soft point of his tongue traced her upper lip, followed by her bottom lip before penetrating her mouth, soaked in the sanguine wine. Elena took a few more steps forward, then pushed him against a tree.

“Oh, well then. I had no idea you were that sort of girl.” The words slowly slurred off of his lips from the back of his throat.

“What sort of girl is that?” She purred, undoing the buttons of his shirt before pulling it from his shoulders down his arms.

“The sort of girl I like.” He watched her kissing him all over, traveling down his chest and stomach before she hit the buckle of his pants.

Elena smiled up at him, almost fairy-like with the mischievous gleam in her eyes. As if in a flash, the belt buckle was in her hands and his pants around his ankles. She was so beautiful, or would be if she didn’t go blurry so much.

“Wait a minute, what’s going on?” He murmured as she raised his hands above his head.

“Don’t worry about that.” She kissed him again and knelt before him once more.

“I can’t move my arms.”

“You won’t need to.” She carefully took his erection out of his boxers, cradled it in her hands for a moment before caressing it in her fingertips. “I must warn you. I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing. I’ve never done this before, but I’ve always wanted to.”

Elena pictured the tableau she had placed herself in. This was not a pieta like that of Michaelangelo, with Mary cradling the dying Christ in her arms. This was different. She wondered what this was meant to be: she the quiver to his arrow shaft. No more hesitation, she had to take this shot.

“All right.” His head lolled back and forth, peaceful and content as he felt her mouth engulf him in smooth heat. As much as he wanted to enjoy the free ride, he had difficulty keeping his eyes open. Eventually, they closed entirely.

* * *

The young man was not quite sure what woke him first, the sudden breeze against his bare flesh, or the searing pain which stabbed throughout him after that. He never imagined that it would take all of his strength just to lift the weight of his eyelids. Looking down, he could not believe what he saw. Elena was no longer kneeling before him. Instead, he saw an arrow piercing through the right side of his ribcage. Dully lifting his head, his eyes met with Elena’s some distance away.

“You know, I wasn’t lying to you when I said I’ve never done this before.” Elena keenly locked one narrowed eye at him as she drew the bowstring once more. “At least I’ve never done this before in broad daylight. Most of the time I could never get young men to come out here willingly, let alone during the day. Although, there is something to be said the way a nearly nude young man looks beneath the moonlight.”

He parted his lips in an attempt to speak, only resulting in a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.

“I’d go to bars, you know. Go through the whole rigamarole of small talk and ‘let’s go back to my place’ after pretending to be drunk.” She laughed as if shrugging the whole thing off like a funny joke she heard a long time ago. “In all truth, I had drugged them the same way I drugged you.”

She put down the bow and arrow and walked over to him, as if a change of heart came upon her. Elena kissed him, licking the stray blood from his face. “We can’t have that now. It wasn’t in the painting.”

His eyes widened more as he tensed, bare back pressing against the rough bark of the tree. The arrow shifted slightly in his side, causing his jaw to drop in a scream, or at least an attempt to scream. His eyes swam, rolling upwards, nothing but the whites visible.

“Now where was I?” Elena took up the bow and arrow once more, but frowned upon turning around to view her subject. “I swear. Young men these days have no fortitude or physical constitution.”

His body relaxed again, neck drooped, head slumped with his chin to his chest. He slowly lifted his head to glare up at her, snarling, yet still silent.

“That’s entirely the wrong sort of look.” She sighed, breathing slowly, finally releasing the arrow between heartbeats. “Oh well.”

Knowing what was to come, he barely had time to close his eyes before the arrow hit its mark on his left pectoral muscle above the nipple. Gasping, he looked down for a moment at the shaft, along its length to its flight path back to the one who had sent it to him. She smiled warmly at him the same way she had over lunch and coffee earlier that day.

“Oh God. That’s it, right there. Perfect. You’re so beautiful.”

Elena pulled a camera out of her bag and started snapping pictures. Each click and whir of the mechanism hit him in the ears as her arrows had struck him in the chest before. His mind told him that each photograph taken was a mere second, yet the rest of his body wondered how much longer it would be until the end. To his horror, he looked down and realized that his erection had not yet subsided. All he could do was watch as Elena knelt before him, but not in supplication. He felt her hands running up his thighs to his boxers. The cotton slid down his legs around his ankles.

“In a way, I almost envy you.” She said, running her fingertips down the shaft of his erection to the head before kissing it. “You get to experience le grande mort.”

He closed his eyes, knowing it would not change what he was about to feel. In a way, he had always been curious, but he did not think he would meet death like this. Despite the pain of the arrows imbedded into his body, he was still able to feel the warmth envelop him, her lips softly wrapping around, followed by her tongue. Was it possible that this felt better than when she had been doing it before? The idea was monstrous, yet it still lingered. He felt additional moisture on his body, most likely the blood draining out of his wounds down his chest and legs. Eventually the warmth fully spread throughout him. Wracked with convulsions, he attempted to open his eyes to meet those of his executioner for the last time, only to meet with his own, reflected in the cold glass of the camera lens.