The boy stood motionless at the top of the hill. Every muscle in his body was taut and quivering as he stood, waiting. A little on the chubby side, with round, chubby cheeks and a little pot belly, no one would ever suspect that this stout man-boy was actually the youngest and most powerful of all shamans. His clan, the Dove clan, relied on him to guide them through their spirit-filled world. His hold over his people was powerful yet he still adorned himself in a simple, peasant garb. He would mix among his sheep, observing and secretly laughing at their everyday struggles to survive and not offend those hidden spirits. His soul was revealed to his people when, in the middle of a hot summer night, he drowned his entire family, one-by-one. He tread water that entire night and was found by dawn's light swimming among the cold, mushy corpses of his family. He had communed with powerful water spirits that night and his ability to know a ghosts' mind was well known.

    His 'familiar' of choice was the eternal dove. So white and pure, they were the antithesis of his black soul, and he enjoyed the dark irony. They now stood on raised stick platforms he held in his fat, sweaty little hands. They were the signal-givers.

    His lips parted and spoke one quick command, like a jab to a fighters' face: "Hei". At this word the doves took off into the dirty-gauze colored sky and performed a perfectly-executed loop.

Nothing happened.

    Slowly, so slow you weren't even sure if it was a sound or just the ringing in your ears, a dull roar, like thunder, made the ground tremble.

The boy stood his ground.

The roar grew.

It was clearly audible, the sound like the far-off sounds of a storm coming through a high mountain pass, rumbling as it picks up speed, creeping down the mountainside.

Bugs crawled along the muddy ground, over the boys feet, and immediately fell quivering back into the soil, away from the poisonous skin of the shaman.

Now the sound was so loud it felt as if you could lose yourself in its' rumble.

Still the boy stood.

And the roar grew some more.

    Animals, 80,000 strong, hurdled by the boy, striving for their glory. Dressed in iron plating woven into uniforms, the Samurai warriors were fanatically-driven fighting machines. Like Nordic Beserkers of old, these men were almost supernatural in their ability to spill a mans' warm intestines from his gut and be beheading another man before the sloppy tubes of flesh splashed on the hard-packed turf. With veins bulging and war-cries ripping from their chests, the men roared into battle.

    Who won that battle, and to what cause they roared has been lost in history, but that day was the beginning of the end of the Samurai. No record is kept of the whereabouts of the Shaman.

    On the other side of the battle, a young pageboy glanced up and caught sight of this brave shaman atop his hill, with dove-staffs in hand. The shaman seemed to sense his presence, as his head whipped around and locked eyes with the frightened pageboy.  This was impossible, the pageboy thought, he was more than a 5-minute walk away, and a man couldn't even shout that far, let alone see that far.  The shaman's gaze was electric and the two boys locked eyes for no more than a moment, enough time for the shaman to move his lips very quickly, as if he were uttering some sort of chant.  The pageboy dropped to the ground, exhausted, and somehow full.  He crouched down, quivering and weeping for his mothers' bosom. Yet he never forgot that vision of the shaman. He didn't forget him when he was captured or even when he was tortured by Sai-Chan, the one-eyed interrogator. That face haunted his dreams in prison, even when he shut his eyes, or sat in his cage, awaiting execution.  He knew he had a higher calling and against all odds, he escaped that hovel and traveled the 200 days-walk home.  The shaman's face followed him, every time he slept or ate, even when he bedded his wife and made her be with child. That face haunted him until he took his chisel and did something about it. For 43 days, the former pageboy stuck stone with chisel, trying to rend the image from his mind. The soul of the dead shaman was woven into that statue by the poor pageboy. It would be the labor of his meager life, the only thing of any value he ever did.
    He was burned alive the next season in a mysterious house fire, along with his wife and their newly-born child but the statue survived the blaze.  A wandering hermit found the odd, half-burned statue and locked it away in his cave for the next four thousand years, where it was discovered in 1978.  It was bought and sold dozens of times, and bad luck seemed to follow it wherever it went.  It was purchased one day by an archaeologist who just happened to walk by the statue in a little town in Japan.  Soon after, he died mysteriously in a car crash and his estate was donated to the Museum of Fine Arts in his home town of Boston.  It was put on display in a dusty corner of the museum and was promptly forgotten.

    A boy pulls out his camera and captures the soul of the shaman who passed from this world those four millenia ago. He utters "cool picture" under his breath and walks back to join his tour group with the shaman's voice screaming for all eternity in his new plastic prison.

Happy, so happy together in our little bubble.

Too perfect, unhappy at that,

your need for disarray overtakes

your sense of warmth.
 
 

I need, I want, you want but don't need,

us to be happy together.

Your needs run into blacker things, wanton destruction

of all that you care for.

Going down in a blaze of glorified bitch.
 
 

My fault was caring too much, caring so much you thought me a fool.

Yet I was the stronger one,

heart tempered like Pyrex, a hardened glass.

These pieces have been picked up many times before,

but this was the hardest blow.

I don't NEED you.

I don't WANT you.

You are gone from my life.

Then why do I still care?

I went to a party Mom, I remembered what you said.

You told me not to drink, Mom, so I drank soda instead.

I really felt proud inside, Mom, the way you said I would.

I didn't drink and drive, Mom, even though the others said I should.

I know I did the right thing, Mom, I know you were always right.

Now the party is finally ending, Mom, as everyone is driving out of sight.

As I got into my car, Mom, I knew I'd get home in one piece.

Because of the way you raised me, so responsible and sweet.

I started to drive away, Mom, but as I pulled out, the other car didn't see me, Mom, and hit me like a load.
 
 

As I lay there on the pavement, Mom,

I hear the policeman say, the other guy is drunk, Mom, and now I'm the one who will pay.

I'm lying here dying, Mom. I wish you'd get here soon.

How could this happen to me, Mom? My life just burst like a balloon.

There is blood all around me, Mom, and most of it is mine. I hear the medic say, Mom, I'll die in a short time.

I just wanted to tell you, Mom, I swear I didn't drink. It was the others, Mom. The others didn't think.

He was probably at the same party as I. The only difference is he drank and I will die.

Why do people drink, Mom? It can ruin your whole life.

I'm feeling sharp pains now. Pains just like a knife.

The guy who hit me is walking, Mom, and I don't think it's fair.

I'm lying here dying and all he can do is stare.

Tell my brother not to cry, Mom. Tell Daddy to be brave.

And when I go to heaven, Mom, put "Daddy's Girl" on my grave.

Someone should have told him, Mom, not to drink and drive.

If only they had told him, Mom, I would still be alive.

My breath is getting shorter, Mom. I'm becoming very scared.

Please don't cry for me, Mom. When I needed you, you were always there.

I have one last question, Mom, before I say good bye.

I didn't drink and drive, so why am I the one to die?
 
 

Don't drink and drive.

Please.

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Page last updated: April 28, 2003