Meant for More

Why do we stand
In the middle of the stream?
Why don't we take
A chance and lead the team?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

Don't just stand there,
Live out loud, dream it up.
You'll never know
Until you take the plunge.

Do you want to live
Your life in stagnation
Or do you want to feel
The breeze caress your face?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

We are meant to be human.

copyright 2008 H.J. Hanauer

Don't

Kiss the rain
Sing to the skies
Don't bother with drying
The tears I see in your eyes

I'm there for you
When life carries
You away in a deluge
Of fear, of pride, of failure
We all make mistakes

Don't hide away
Don't lower your eyes
I want to see you
I'll help you learn how to fly

Mine?

Given breath, given life,
Given sorrow, given strife,
Knowledge learned
Through work and life,
Is anything truly mine?

Father's eyes, mother's chin,
Sister's laugh and brother's grin,
Face defined
By blood and bone,
Is it even mine?

My own mind, my own sin,
My own voice, and my own skin,
What good are they
In my life
When nothing's truly mine?

Lessons learned and put to heart,
Even though it's torn apart,
These things are mine
And mine alone.

And none shall take them from me.

Rain: A snapshot of reunion.

It was raining. Again.

Sarah McKinley hated the rain. The sky became gray and dreary, the moisture falling from the sky was frigid, it soaked you to the skin almost instantly, and it made everything muddy and slick. The only thing she liked about the occasional desert rainstorm was the smell: cool and clean, drifting up from the pavement and whispering in her ear about far off places and scattered dreams.

In Arizona, rain was rare, and she didn't believe in dreams anymore.

She shuffled over to the couch to grab a pair of slippers. She needed to check the mail, and there was no way she wanted to get her feet wet. When she opened the door, moist air and musty fragrance flooded the living room. Her cat looked up briefly from his nap on the recliner, vaguely curious, but too lazy to investigate the change in the air.

Sarah walked out to the driveway, shoulders hunched against the cold wet spatter that still fell from the sky. She heard someone down the street belting out an off-key rendition of "Singin' in the Rain," and decided that they needed to be shot. But not by her. She was too cold and wet and miserable. I should have been born as a cat, she thought.

When she turned, mail in hand, to go back inside, she screamed. No! That couldn't be...

"Sarah?" The ghost by her front door smiled wanly.

Even though she knew it wasn't possible, she let the whisper fall from her lips. "Brian?"

His vague smile turned into a full-blown grin. "What can I say, 'lil sis?" He chuckled, "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

In the next instant, the mail lay forgotten on the soaked concrete driveway, and Sarah McKinley was sobbing in the arms of her assumed-dead brother.

It was still raining. Large drops of cold water fell from the sky onto the siblings, and Sarah decided something in that moment: She loved the rain.

Pen & Paper

Here I am again,
Alone with my thoughts
Wandering the depths
Of my mind.

Two candles are lit
By the window.
The flames sputter and twist,
Giving me light and warmth.

Pen touches paper,
Glides on a black streak
Through a boundless sea
Of white perfection.

Symbols soon form.
Letters convey thoughts,
Not blemishing the
Inimitable page,
But enhancing purpose.

From these simple words,
A story unfolds
Telling of beauty and pain
Of sorrow and joy.

A catharsis of thought
From a pen
And a page
And a candle-lit room.

This is peace.
This is perfection.
This is purpose.

copyright 2008, H.J. Hanauer

On the Shores of Shattered Dreams

Far away
On the shores of Shattered Dreams
A small, lone traveler
Learns that nothing is as it seems

Promises fade
Love is buried
The only constant things
Are death and decay

On the shores of Shattered Dreams
That one small traveler
Knows that no one can hear him
Even when he screams

He wanders on the shore
Made of sharp, jagged, unforgiving stone
The waves beat an angry rhythm
On that cold black stone

The sky is dark with stormclouds
Lightning cracks across the sky
Causing our young traveler
To look up and scream to the sky
"Who am I?"

"Am I just another face
You see as you walk down the street?
Am I someone you've met face-to-face
Or is that just another illusion from my tormented mind?"

The wind does not answer him
Nor do the waves
The sky still crackles with bright fire
They do not listen to his cries

The wind carries his words away
To be lost in the storm
As if they had never been spoken

And the traveler
Weary and lost
Sinks to his knees
On the shores
Of Shattered Dreams

copyright 2005 H.J. Hanauer

A Vision of Students Today

Not my vid, but still very thought-provoking.

"A Vision of Students Today"

Warrior in the Dark

Inspired by the picture to the left. I saw and it simply begged for a story; who was I to refuse?

--------------------------

Nothing would ever be the same.

He stooped toward the ground, delicately lifting a shredded scrap of cloth that had been trodden into the forest floor. Clutching it in his fist, he began to shake with rage and sorrow. Then, slowly—reverently—he tied the silver scrap to the hilt of his sword. Her memory would live on solely with him. The leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his fists.

He sheathed his sword, knowing that he must move quickly before they came again. He raised his eyes to the dark castle in the distance and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to howl at the sky in rage. She was gone, and he must continue his journey alone. He began to walk, the sound of his heavy black boots stifled by the still night air of the forest. He pulled his glove onto his hand for a more snug fit.

The only sounds were the distant cries of the werewolves howling at the full moon.

He never halted in his steps again as he made his way through the forest, his dark high-collared cloak making him nearly invisible. He was not afraid, merely angry and sad: She had been his reason, his one hope in a dying world, the only thing that had kept him from going back to his old ways of life as a mercenary, and now the only thing that was left was a scrap of the scarf she had worn in her hair every day since he had bought it for her.

His gloved hands clenched into solid fists again. They would pay. Maybe not today, maybe not anytime soon.

But they would pay.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself, bracing against the chilly wind that suddenly whipped through the forest air. Was it his imagination, or did he hear laughter? He dismissed the notion as childish, the wind could not laugh.

Could it?

He went forward into the night, facing what may come with his head held high. He would not crumble.

He wanted revenge.

copyright 2006 H.J. Hanauer

Stirrings in the Night: A Halloween Short Story

A stiff, bitingly cold wind rushed through the streets, rustling the dead leaves and searing exposed skin like fire. The moon was full, but hidden behind clouds of deepest black.

On the corner of a street filled with ramshackle houses and gnarled trees stood the figure of a man. Tall and sharp-featured, any who dared to glance at him were soon scurrying away, suspicious of the stranger with the coal-black eyes and long black hair held with a simple silver clasp. He didn't mind. He preferred to be alone.

His silk-lined velvet cape, also black, and held with a bright silver chain, was warm. He pulled it closer around him, allowing the high collar to shield his face from the cold. He gazed up and down the street, his head turning slowly, his dark eyes taking in every detail. He shuffled his feet, startling a cat from a hedge next to him. He watched as it bolted across the street.

He didn't blame the cat for being apprehensive. Even the animals seemed to know that something terrible was about to happen. Something no one could prevent.

His lips curled into something like a smile. Soon, he thought, very soon.

He checked again that his sword was strapped securely to his hip. It would not do to be unprepared tonight.

"Greetings, Ivan,"

The deep voice behind him made him turn, weapon drawn. A thin, sallow-faced, grey-haired man stood before him, looking completely at ease in the tense night air. "What do you want, André?" he sighed.

The old man, André, sneered. "Put that sword away, Ivan. I'm making the rounds. He wants to make sure everything is in place before he strikes."

Reluctantly, Ivan sheathed his sword. He kept a hand on the hilt, however. No point in pretending to trust André, after all. "I don't have anything to report," He said, "The villagers keep to themselves: they don't trust strangers."

"And who can blame them?" said André rhetorically. "It's not every day that four men are found dead in the village square." He made a harsh hacking sound, and it took Ivan a moment to realize that it was laughter.

"That was you?" He hissed, "You killed those men? Why? It could have tipped our hand! You know better than that, old man!"

André's cackling stopped so suddenly, Ivan looked around for what had startled him. Straining his eyes to peer into the darkness, he shivered as he asked, "What is it?"

André held up a hand for silence as he, too, tried to see something in the blackness of the night. At that moment, the black cloud that had obscured the moon shifted to the side, slowly bathing the street in an unearthly glow.

It was then, with the cold moonlight casting everything into sharp shadows, that the two men heard a piercing, spine-chilling howl. Ivan knew that sound.

"Werewolves!" André was looking distinctly nervous, now.

Ivan chuckled. "Come now, old man!" he taunted. "Surely a couple of men cursed by the full moon aren't enough to scare André, the 'Great Assassin?'"

His companion gave a neutral sounding snort. "You would be nervous, too, boy, if you'd seen some of things werewolves can do at full strength."

Ivan rounded on him. "You think me innocent in such matters?" he growled. "I was nearly bitten myself a few years ago, and my father was executed because of the Curse!"

"Really, now?" André looked like he had just happened upon something very interesting. "So you're from Fairhaven, then? I know they are the only ones left who practice those old customs."

Ivan gave a curt nod, but remained silent, opting instead to gaze again into the night. After a moment, he spoke again. "We should get moving. It won't be long before he strikes. We should be in position."

His companion nodded, and the two of them made their way silently from the street corner. Walking side by side, Ivan's hand still on the hilt of his sword, they headed for the village square, where Ivan could just make out four lumps around the massive fountain in the center of the square.

Apparently, André wanted to make a lasting impression; the bodies were none other than the village elders, all staring lifelessly from eyes frozen open in death and terror. Every one had been killed in a different way, although it was plain that they had all been killed by André's short, evilly serrated dagger. One had been stabbed in the chest, one had a cleanly slit throat, one had four long diagonal gashes across his chest…Ivan turned away from the last one, nauseated. When he felt sure he could speak without being sick, he addressed André. "What did he do to deserve that?"

The old man pulled his black dagger from his belt. "Oh, he got violent when I approached his daughter. Pretty little thing she was, too."

"Was?"

"Well, naturally," his tone gave the impression that he was simply talking about the weather, not murder. "I had simply handicapped the man so he could watch me enjoy the company of his pretty little teenaged daughter, but for some reason he didn't appreciate it, so I killed him. Naturally, the girl didn't take kindly to her father's murder, but she soon forgot about it as she was busy trying to scream." His eyes took on a manic gleam. "She's dead, too. Had to gag her. Wouldn't do for the village to wake while I was having my fun, now would it?" he cackled again. "Oh, I wish I could see her mother's face when she comes downstairs in the morning, finding her daughter…bloody, naked, tied like a Christmas turkey…and her husband, gutted in the square."

Ivan felt like his stomach was full of lead. He held no pity for the victims, but was sickened at André. "You're a sick old man. We're assassins, you fool! Why do you take such pleasure in your target's pain?"

"Why don't you?" André asked. Then he waved a hand as if swatting a fly. "Bah. No matter. I forget, while some in the Assassin's Guild enjoy their work, you feel above such emotions. Tell me Ivan, do you even feel emotion?"

Ivan gritted his teeth in annoyance. "Only anger, hatred, frustration…and pain…always the pain…"

He didn't realize he had spoken out loud until André replied, "Well, I'd say that you have some problems. Why are you an assassin, if not for pleasure?"

Ivan began pacing the square, making sure everything was in place as he spoke. "It pays well."

André's hacking laugh seemed to follow Ivan as he moved, even though the old man still stood by the bodies next to the fountain. Ivan glanced up at the full moon, hoping that his superiors had truly secured the loyalty of the werewolves. It wouldn't do to have them turn on each other tonight. Too much was riding on the events of the next twenty-four hours.

As he completed his check of the village square, he spotted a tangled lump just inside the opening of a narrow alley. Curious, he made his way over, sword drawn just in case. When he got closer, he noticed that it was vaguely human-shaped, but far too thin and still. He prodded the bundle with the tip of his sword, and the hood of a cloak fell back from the face.

Gasping, Ivan backed up several steps while André walked toward him, hissing, "What's the matter, you fool?"

Silently, Ivan pointed out the figure to his companion, who suddenly grew pale.

The cloaked body must have been a young man at some point, a rich one, judging from the clothes. But it was the body itself that sent cold ice into the stomachs of the two men.

The skin was shriveled and was a grey that gave the impression that the life had not simply been taken, but torn from the body by something twisted and unnatural. There was no substance to the body, the pallid skin hanging limply over brittle bones. The only thing that remained of the young man was the eyes, wide and staring, any spark of life now gone from the ice-blue depths.

Ivan turned, desperately trying not to vomit. Even André, who had seemed to be unaffected by death and decay, seemed disgusted. "What could have done this…?" André murmured.

Ivan knew exactly what did it, but why would one be in this poor, desolate little village? He had thought he'd left all of this behind all those years ago when he fled from Fairhaven, his home town. Now it was all returning to him in one night; first the werewolves and now, "It was a vampire, André."

André's head turned toward him so quickly, Ivan thought he heard a snap. "What?" he seemed horrified, but then it turned to suspicion. "How do you know that?"

Ivan, now over his battle with nausea, strode over to the body, sheathing his sword and drawing a small knife, which he used to gently pull the cloak from the neck of the body. "Here," he indicated the two round punctures on the neck from a vampire bite. He beckoned his companion closer, so that they both knelt on their knees beside the body. Ivan pulled a kerchief from inside his cloak, using it to turn the head away from him, so he could see the back of the neck. "Perhaps the creature left his mark…"

Seeing the confused glance from his unwilling comrade, he explained that all vampires had a mark of their own design, and that some would mark their kills with it, so that their name would grow into legend. "It's been done for thousands of years. And you are in no position to be that disgusted."

For André had the same look that Ivan had when they first entered the village square and saw the bodies of the elders.

copyright 2007 H.J. Hanauer

Undefinable

What does it take
For you to see me as I am?
Why do you always claim
That you know my innermost thoughts?

Do you really want do know
What goes on
in
my
head?

Dark waves of thought crash violently
On the rocky shores
of belief,

The full moon casts light
On the dark forests
of emotion,

The sun tries valiantly,
Only sometimes succeeding,
To brighten the caverns
Of experience.

My words wander
Like lost souls
On the winds
Of my imagination.

Broken thoughts
Tumble
Through time.

I am not profound
I am not a leader
I am not encouraged
by life's winding road.

Bright colors flash
Soundlessly
Through a dark, cloudy, moonlit sky.

This is who I am.

I am emotion
Thought
Reason
Imagination

To others, I am defined
Through my words
And the actions of this limited body.

To myself, I am defined
By my perception
Of the world.

By the cries of my mind
Or the laughter
Of my muse.

Language is limited
So is action
expression
relation.

I am undefinable
And I am weary of being imprisoned
by the world's mind.