The Long Road

By Rami Abdo

I turned around for a moment and gazed at my house in the distance. It had been such a long time since I took a walk, a simple stroll around the neighbourhood using my own two legs. There was no destination, no goal, it was simply a walk. My mind’s usually preoccupied with meaningless pursuits while behind a wheel. Dodging potential accidents, hate-mongering with the other road-rage filled drivers, making crucial decisions about the route I should or shouldn’t take. Walking doesn’t bully me in that way.

I also notice more things when I choose not to drive, the details in the little things that whiz past me while speeding across the main roads: The aroma of trees, the elaborate cracks in the walls of houses, the sounds passersby make as you glide past them. They are all important in some way, and ignoring them in my day to day journeys while I fuss about ‘bigger’ worries are a perfect metaphor for the way I sometimes become in my journey of life. I worry and muse over issues like money and my future plans, yet all around me I am surrounded by beauty in many shapes and sizes, beauty that offers itself to me on a silver platter. All I need to do is stop the world, reach out and pluck its succulent fruit.

How do I stop the world? I consciously and physically stop what I’m doing at any given moment, take the time to examine my surroundings with all my senses, and then I savour it, appreciate it, learn from it. What is this it? It is the realization that all the things around me are working together, interacting in a perfect way at that instant to create the circumstances I am currently in. It is the comprehension that everything around me is a living sentient being, constantly creating and destroying and forming new thoughts, new feelings, and new connections with itself in an ever-changing state of infinitesimal ecosystems existing inside slightly larger, more complex ones, and so on and so forth. To put it simply, it is understanding and valuing a moment for what it really is.

I faced a long stretch of empty road and decided to shut my eyes and see with my other senses. As soon as I did, I understood what it meant to feel with the body. At first I focused my will on hearing and I was swiftly bombarded with a flurry of activity that I normally wouldn’t even register: The rustle of dying leaves blowing across the pavement, the soft murmuring of the elderly as they sit on their front porch, gravel spraying from car tyres as they skid past.  I focused on each of these and they were heard as clear as if they occurred next to me.

As I concentrated my will on my sense of smell, I picked up on odours I usually ignore. The scent of freshly cut grass, the carbonic smoke of car emissions, even the heat baking the tar road was isolated in my nostrils as a unique identifiable smell.

I then became fully conscious of my body’s sense of touch. I felt the intricate network of my leg muscles flexing and relaxing, interacting with one another with every step I took. The wind caressed me gently as I moved against it. It swayed aside for me as I streamed past its flow, obedient to my shape and my movements. It separated and glided through my fingers, solidified once more on my palm and allowed me to grasp it as if the hilt of a sword. Then it flitted past and around me, resuming its former path and mission.

I opened my eyes and it was as if I could see for the first time in years. Colours were vibrant and contrasting, each exceptional with its own hue. My sight flowed through the landscape as a bird would glide down a hidden valley, on its own journey of discovery, picking out every new shape and every fresh movement. The trees swayed with the wind and the cars rolled with their momentum but I was stationary, immovable as the rock of the earth. I was invisible, a watcher of the machinations of the life around me, invincible to their touch.

As I sauntered down the road in my own world, I came across a pretty girl standing on the pavement, waiting for someone or something. I was bombarded with a multitude of elements all at once. The golden strands of her hair played in the breeze in perfect unison with the hem of her white skirt; they synchronized and composed together as an orchestra would. There was an auburn tinged aura emanating from her, a product of the rays of the setting sun reflecting off her pale skin. As I neared her, the subtle hint of sweet perfume approached my senses; it was a tender blend of vanilla and honeydew which intoxicated me under its spell. As I passed by, our eyes met briefly and in that fleeting moment time stood still. The energy in the air elevated me to new heights. The sides of her mouth arched into a smile and I smiled back. For that short instant it was as if we had known each other for years; a lifetime of questions were asked and answered and an infinite number of scenarios came to life and expired.

The spell was broken just as suddenly as it had woven itself into existence. Her father had pulled up with his car and picked her up. I looked back one last time and our eyes met once more, lingering and wondering for that which was...that which could have been. But as I strolled on down all I felt was wonder for what a simple walk down a long road can create: A series of short-lived moments that we can choose to either ignore or extract their enchanting core and enlighten ourselves with its beauty. 

Childhood Memories

By Rami Abdo

All the memories I have of my childhood are of me as a nine year old boy. Whenever I try to recall one, or when I’m telling a story of my distant past, I always put myself at around that age. Why is that? It’s as if I didn’t exist before I was nine. I just suddenly came to be one day, a complete nine year old boy. Even when I look at photos of myself as a baby or my first few years as a child, it’s as if I’m looking at a complete stranger.  Who is this weird human being staring back at me and why am I trying to relate to it. It’s a complete blank. This phenomenon is called ‘childhood amnesia’ and is common in all of us. The average earliest memory one can recall is usually around 3-4 years old. Even several years after that, it’s usually just bits and pieces that can be recollected as blurry images.

There are various theories out there that explain it. One plausible theory is that our lack of language skills at such an early age doesn’t allow us to put our memories in ‘writing’; i.e., the details of our memories  need to be associated with specific words and definitions that help us identify them and store them in our brains. This implies of course that our childhood memories are still intact, hidden in the recesses of our minds, we just don’t have the key to access them properly in a way we can understand. Some say that dreaming is a type of key to access this vault. Interpreting our dreams is a science in itself, but being able to tap into our earliest memories seems like a wonderful thing, putting together a puzzle of our lives one piece at a time. Another way is via hypnosis, which if done right, can help bring back repressed memories of a traumatized childhood to shed some light for people in need of psychological help.

A more biological approach talks about the structural design of a baby’s brain. The connections between the brain cells don’t start forming until after about a year, so until they do learn how to do it, a lot of memories are lost in the process. Basic survival is all the brain cares about at that point, so it doesn’t need the ability to store memories until much later. These connections are constantly re-wiring themselves as well, even in adulthood, so it’s possible the first ones have been ‘overwritten’ so many times that they are now nonexistent.

Sigmund Freud believed that from a psychoanalytical point of view, our memories of our childhood were so traumatic that we repressed them into our unconscious. Only when we become psychologically mature enough to handle them do they start returning. Most scientists nowadays have discredited this theory; however, it cannot be denied that our memories and our emotions are inescapably linked. If we experience a heightened emotional moment, we are more likely to clearly recall the circumstances around it.

I do remember the traumatic moments I had in my childhood as sort of flashbulb memories; Pictures that feel like low quality still shots from an old cinema reel. They come to me more as a feeling than anything else. I still think I was around nine years old for all of them, but more likely they are scattered around between the ages of three and nine. Of course if they are too traumatic, then a sort of defence mechanism activates and represses them into the dark depths of our minds, never to be brought out again (except in the climactic ending when you get a glimpse of your arch nemesis’s medallion which triggers a violent flashback of how he killed your parents one Tuesday evening, chaining into a series of events where you are raised by well hidden kung-fu monks that train you in the deadly martial arts even though you are a westerner).

They can be quite cathartic and revealing to bring back to the surface. I had a relatively normal childhood which I would love to relive: Trips to exotic countries with my family by my side, playing with the other neighbourhood kids in the streets of Cyprus (it was the safe eighties!), going on adventures and discovering new realms with my friends. But for some others, their past was a dark time which they just want to put behind them. They are more interested in their future, creating new memories, fixing the mistakes of their parents and changing the legacy of their nation. Who can blame them? In a way I do envy these people, because they only look forward, onto their next adventure, instead of digging into the past as I constantly do. I could certainly learn a thing or two from them. 

The Chosen

By Rami Abdo

 Zurri sat hunched across the fire with his clan brothers and sisters. They were all silent, waiting anxiously for what was to come. The light of the flames flickered and highlighted the myriad of Gruul tattoos and painted markings that littered every inch of his muscular body. He tightened his grip on his trusted wooden spear and glanced up at the night sky.

“The stars are clear this night,” he thought to himself. It is a good omen. Today would be a good day to die.

The flaps of the large tent behind him parted open and two figures emerged. Zurri and the others all instinctively stood up and stepped aside to give way. Gomeg the druid and Ravek the guildmage walked up to the fire, with the rest forming a semi-circle around them, audience to their imminent chants. Ravek raised his staff and recited the clan’s mantra. Zurri murmured it under his lips with the rest, allowing it to engulf him in a sense of clan pride. His clan was his home, his everything. He knew he would defend it with his life if he had to, and would gladly give his soul too if he could.

Ravek raised both his hands, ending the chant abruptly. “The ancients have spoken. Tonight a warrior amongst you will be chosen,” he declared, pausing to scan his audience. “The chosen one will climb the lava mountain and take to battle with the Uur-dragon that has terrorised our lands for far too long.” He pointed behind him at the lava streaked mountain in the distance. As if for effect, a small lava fracture at its peak burst outwards with menacing foretelling. The ground shook slightly with its distant roar, and then a silent moment ensued as the warriors shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

“Step forward each of you, into the fire’s light, so that I may gaze upon your faces,” Ravek continued.

One by one the warriors stepped up to the fire, standing in front of the mage and druid for a glancing moment until they were quickly waved away. When Zurri’s turn came, he confidently stepped forward, head held high. He returned the piercing stare of the wise mage, unflinching as he gazed intently into those dark pools of knowledge. Ravek lingered for a moment longer than usual and then waved him on.

After all the warriors had presented themselves, Ravek spoke. “Zurri! Step forward!”

Zurri’s heart leapt into his throat. There was instantly murmurs heard amongst the others; some were more a sigh of relief than anything. Zurri composed himself and stepped forward into the circle again, leaning on his spear, now more for support than anything else. His knees were weak but he held himself upright with pride, he was chosen and that was that. The test of his mettle as a warrior was finally here, and he wasn’t going to back down now.

“I see in your eyes that you are a brave soul, Zurri of the fire-heart clan,” Ravek whispered softly, as if only to him. “You will be a worthy opponent for the dragon.” He turned his view to address the rest. “Zurri is our chosen warrior!” he proclaimed loudly. “His fire-heart is strong and his spear sturdy! He will vanquish the Uur-dragon and bring us its bloodied fangs as his prize!”

The warriors of the tribe cheered for Zurri, invigorating him with positive energy. He had no doubt that the dragon would taste its own blood off his spear. He took a deep breath as Ravek dipped his fingers into a jar hanging from his belt and painted fresh markings on Zurri’s face. The guildmage then took off his necklace adorned with Gruul charms and placed it around Zurri’s neck. “May these protect you from the dragon’s wrath and give you safe passage home...or may they grant you a clean death in battle,” Ravek pronounced. Zurri bowed his head to him in respect.

Gomeg the druid spoke for the first time. “Take this potion I have concocted and drink it just before you face the dragon,” he said pulling out a gourd made of swine leather and handing it to Zurri. “It will give you great strength and valiant courage to face the beast and defeat it. It acts quickly, so do not linger too long after drinking it!” Zurri took the gourd and placed it in his satchel. He bowed his head once more to the two wise ones and then turned to bid his brothers and sisters farewell. He embraced each of them in turn. Some smiled for him and some cried for him, each recalling a fond memory of their chosen brother.

“Do not shed a tear for me my clansmen,” Zurri announced boldly, “I go now to victory or to death. Either way, I serve my clan well.” He gathered his supplies and began his long trek to the lava mountain, which loomed ominously in the distance. No one had ever ventured there and lived to tell the tale.

It took him several days to reach the foot of the mountain, and several days more to climb it. The path was treacherous, littered with jagged rocks and searing lava flows that burnt the skin off just from approaching near the red river. The dragon’s lair was at the top of the mountain, but all wildlife for leagues around had long disappeared, driven off by the threat of the winged beast. It had acquired a taste only for the flesh of men, so would regularly attack the tribe’s lands searching for its next meal. No one was safe anymore until the dragon was vanquished.

By the time he neared the summit’s peak, the lava mountain had taken its toll on him. He was blackened with soot and pockmarked with burns and scratches from head to toe. His whole body ached, his muscles sore with fatigue from hiking the steep climb of the rugged mountain paths. The ground shook from the constant lava flows below the surface, and there was a constant thrumming rumble that rattled his brain. He lay on a rock to catch his breath and scan the peak’s edges, searching for where the dragon would make its lair. He had spied from the distance spouts of flame shooting out from an area just below the peak, so he had headed for that general direction. He could see now that it was a large cave, its entrance vertically flat across the mountainside, impossible to reach by foot. As if on cue, another spout of flame discharged out of the cave entrance with roaring thunder. “That’s certainly not lava,” he thought to himself. He glanced up at the night sky and saw no stars. The ash and steam had covered them all. “No omen today,” he thought.

“DRAGONNNN!” he yelled with what strength he had left. “SHOW YOURSELF YOU SCAB SWINE!” Zuuri marvelled at his own brazen arrogance. However, whatever bravery he had inside him was instantly evaporated in the next moment. The rumbling had stopped. He realized now it was the dragon’s breathing. Two massively taloned claws edged their way out the sides of the entrance, followed by leathery wings, and finally a scaled bony head made of nightmares. The dragon had emerged.

It was large, larger than he thought. One of its claws spanned his entire body, and Zurri was tall for a man. As it emerged from its dwelling and reared to its full height, he realized it may as well have been a mountain itself. Bony spikes protruded from its immense skull and its red eyes emanated with a blazing radiance that pierced directly into his soul. Its body was as that of the mountain, a rock hard carapace veined with a network of glowing flame, as if its heart was the very sun itself. Fumes of ashen smoke arose from its fiery nostrils as it searched for that which interrupted its slumber. When it spied the puny human on the crevices below, it let out a chilling growl that resonated in Zurri’s very soul. His heart sank at the sight of the towering behemoth. His body failed him and he fell back onto the ground with base terror. He crawled backwards, whimpering with fear, until he hit his head on the rock he had been resting on. The jolt awakened his senses and reminded him of the potion that Gomeg had given him. He clambered for the gourd and pulled it out of his bag. The dragon was slowly crouching, preparing to leap upon its hapless prey.

“Gods of old...give me strength,” he worded, as he uncorked the potion and drank it all in a single swig. Its effects were instantaneous. A tingling sensation washed over him, numbing his body and his senses. The weariness of the last few days left his limbs entirely, and he leapt to his feet with strengthened might. He felt a renewed vigour in his heart and his spirit soared above the clouds. He sensed the power of his entire clan behind him, urging him on. He was invincible, untouchable. He raised his spear at the dragon and roared back defiantly, no longer afraid.

“FEAR ME NOW DRAGON! FEAR MY BLADE, FEAR MY SOUL, AND FEAR MY CLAN’S DEFIANCE!” Delirious with power and foaming at the mouth, Zurri launched himself at the beast with a triumphant cry, at the same time as the dragon pounced with its open maw. It caught his airborne body along the midriff with its snapping jaws. He felt his insides crush with the impact as its sharp fangs pierced his body. He felt no pain, the potion made sure of that. Spitting blood, he cursed its existence before plunging the spear deep into its fiery red eye. It screamed with pain, Zurri still impaled on its teeth. He laughed at the dragon, mocking it.

“You are a mindless beast,” he thought to himself, strangely calm at that moment of respite. “You shall never know the meaning of brotherhood, of nature’s true power...of self-sacrifice.” He coughed blood and uttered his last bellowing war cry as the dragon snapped its jaws shut.

Ravek and Gogem walked across the foot of the lava mountain. It had been many moons since Zurri had set out on his quest. A few days after he had left, they had seen flashes of fire and heard thunderous roars coming from the mountain peak. Since then, there was no sign of him...or the Uur-dragon for many days.

As they rounded the mountain to its far side, they came across a welcome sight. The dragon was slumped on a protruding cliff some way up, stone dead. It had petrified, as lava dragons do after they die, their inner-fire long extinguished. Only a faint glimmer remained, its heart, which never fades.

“The poison worked,” Gogem the druid shouted triumphantly.

“Yes, and so did its delivery method,” Ravek uttered sadly. “Zurri offered a noble sacrifice for his clan. The greatest he could ever give.”

“I made sure that his last moments on this earth were spent well,” Gogem said as he recalled the ingredients of his concoction. “We shall feast on boar tonight in his name, and burn the dragon’s heart in his honour. He has made the fire-heart clan proud.”