I've been wandering the Wastelands for three months now and I've come to a conclusion. There is no God.

Let me tell you what happened today. I was heading south along the river, walled in on the left by decayed office buildings. I remember thinking how beautiful they looked in the falling sunlight.

Suddenly I saw Mutants. They had a captive, and she was bound up, blindfolded, kneeling on one side of their camp. I thought, I've got to get her out of there.

There was no way to avoid a fight. Before I knew it they were on top of me. One of them came at me with a sledgehammer, and I prayed with every blast of my shotgun that he would fall before he reached me.

But then something else happened. Somehow in the chaos somebody threw a grenade. It bounced near my feet, then rolled past me as I leaped aside. I heard it pop behind me, but I didn't have time to look.

After I turned the Mutants' heads into spaghetti I went back for the captive. I found her in pieces. The grenade—she never saw it coming.

That's when I knew. Nobody's looking out for us. Nobody made this world. Nobody's telling this story—it just happens like it happens.

In my heart I've known ever since I stepped out of the Vault and looked out over the polluted carcass of what used to be Washington D.C. There was something lovely about that scene too. A golden light lay over the shoulders of the hills. A rusted water tower reflected the blue sky. A dust devil teased the earth along the path in front of me. Then I walked up between some boulders, and a feral dog nearly ripped my throat out. I had to beat it to death with a police baton—couldn't get the blood off for three days.

Now I've been out here three months and can't see my own skin for the muck and the grime. Still searching for my Dad, I tell myself. But who am I kidding? I'll never find him. If the Mutants haven't got him, the Yao Guai have.

At first I told myself that Fate would guide me. When I looked into the faces of the people around me—the people I knew and loved growing up in the Vault—I saw beauty and mystery and spirit. These faces, these eyes, the light behind these eyes, were not random happenstances of chemistry or science. Someone made these people, directly or indirectly. Someone was telling a story through them and through me. Whoever that Someone was would make it all come out all right. Even if I died, I would die heroically. But I wouldn't die—no one I loved would die. I would prove myself the hero of this story that Someone was telling.

That was then. What a self-righteous, stuck-up little chump I was! And naive, so terribly naive.

Then I met the raiders, watched their brains splatter on the rotting concrete—one by one, day after day. The slavers and their tortured slaves. The rats, the scorpions, the Deathclaws. All the poisoned freaks who haunt this hell hole. They taught me, without words but undeniably: There is no story here. No God. No Designer. This world just happened. It's just happening. It'll just keep on happening, because there's Nobody to put it out of its misery.

A few weeks ago, I met a tough, smart fighter named Sydney in the ruins of the National Archives. She carried a mean SMG and knew more about ammunition than anyone I'd met. We teamed up to find an old, valuable document—"The Declaration of Impediments" or something.

Her dad had left her behind, too. When she was fourteen, he went out and just never came back. "Never even said goodbye," she said. "Do I have to tell you what it's like for a young woman alone in the Wasteland at that age?" Boy, that stuck with me.

Then a few days later I was exploring an old building downtown and came across a skeleton curled up on a cot. Next to the corpse was a recording of Sydney's father that he hoped would somehow reach her. It explained everything. He had gone out to do some business, the deal went bad, bullets were exchanged, he took one in the gut. He had just enough time to tell her that he loved her, that he never meant to leave her, and that he had faith she would make it.

So Sydney grew up hating the father who loved her, fending for herself in a vicious world where the only language anyone understands travels at 896 feet per second.

Now what kind of God would let that happen?

I'm not looking for my father any more. I'm going where he has gone, following in his footsteps, doing what I'm supposed to do to someday catch up with him. But I know he's gone.

This story can have no happy ending, no resolution. This world is too cruel, too grotesque for me to believe it has any Storyteller but Mr. Luck and Mrs. Chance.

I'll keep wandering the Wastelands, because that's what my body and brain tell me to do. But don't talk to me about Fate or God or Destiny or Designer. If he ever existed, he died when the bombs fell.

Or maybe he just walked out. Like Sydney's father. Like my father.

Labels: faith, fiction, games

In Texas, where I live, autumn comes through about one time in seven. Occasionally we'll get a beautiful, bright fall where the trees turn all sorts of colors before gracefully scattering their leaves. Usually the trees turn brown and drop their leaves overnight in a lump. I want to tell you a story about what happened one of those years when none of the trees wanted to put on a show, except one of them—and that one was an evergreen.

It was a cedar, in fact, and it stood in a forest of all kinds: oaks, walnuts, pears, hackberries, maples, willows, and pecans. Now cedars, as you know, never lose their leaves. They stay green all year round. But this particular cedar loved nothing better than to see the colors of fall. All through the scorching heat of summer she dreamed of a day when the north wind would bring frosty air down from the Rockies. Then the sun would shine bright from a clear, blue sky onto a festival of yellows and ambers, oranges and auburns, vermilions and russets and reds. She would shake out the dust from her limbs and breathe in the sweet air and feast her eyes on the colors all around her.

This particular autumn began as they all do, with a sudden sweep of cool air followed by three days of storms. The little cedar felt refreshed and happy. She rubbed her leaves in anticipation. But after a week or two, she began to notice that the other trees were only turning brown.

She went to the oaks and said, "Great oaks, autumn has come, yet you haven't turned beautiful colors. Why are you only turning brown?"

"Ah, little cedar," the oaks answered, "we haven't had enough rain. We need water to turn lovely colors, but our roots are dry and our mouths are parched and all we can do is turn brown."

The little cedar felt very sad for the oaks. Then she went to the pecans and said, "Mighty pecans, autumn has come, yet you haven't turned beautiful colors. Why are you only turning brown?"

"My goodness, little cedar," the pecans answered, "it's hardly worth it, is it? I mean, we do all that work to make a little splash of color, then all our leaves fall off as soon as a puff of wind comes along. Why go to all the trouble?"

The little cedar felt rather angry at the pecans. Then she went to the maples and said, "Beautiful maples, autumn has come, yet you haven't turned beautiful colors. Why are you only turning brown?"

"Well, little cedar," the maples answered, and they smiled condescendingly, "it's not exactly fashionable anymore, I dare say. Bright colors are well out this year—haven't you heard? Browns are so much more understated, don't you think—so much more sophisticated. We wouldn't be caught dead in the bright oranges and reds we wore last year." And they droned on like this for some time.

The little cedar felt bewildered by the maples. As the sun set, she sensed a frosty bite in the air that told her winter would soon arrive. Then all the trees would lose their leaves, and she would have to wait a whole year for the chance to see them turn again. The little cedar looked up to the budding stars and said, "Please, please let me see lovely autumn leaves before winter comes." And she fell asleep with tears dripping down her branches.

She awoke the next morning to the sounds of gasps and whispers. She looked around. The sky was blue, the air was crisp, and the forest buzzed with excitement. Yet everywhere she looked, the little cedar saw only brown, dry trees, and she wondered what had captured everyone's attention. Then she realized that what they were all looking at…was her.

She looked down at her limbs and saw that her own leaves had changed from dark green to all the colors of autumn: yellows and ambers, oranges and auburns, vermilions and russets and reds.

She shook with joy. She was very beautiful, and she reveled in the breeze and the sunlight. The whole forest admired her—even the maples—and she gloried in her colors for the rest of the autumn.

Labels: faith, fiction

A high, cold voice whispered in the gloom: a voice of shivers, a voice to raise the dead. "Come here," it said to something that lurked unseen in the room. "Come close to me, my pet. Tell me where you have been—what you have seen and done this night."

As if in response, a sinuous form emerged through the shadows. Silently it approached the owner of the voice, then climbed up to rest near his shoulder. Lord Voldemort's slitted eyes regarded those of the animal. As always, his eyes showed cruelty and purpose—yet now they also harbored something like fondness. He scratched the creature's chin with his long, sharp fingernails, and in moments a gentle purring emerged from the animal's soft throat.

"Nothing to report, Delilah?" said Lord Voldemort, his thin grey lips curved in a twisted grin. His gaze penetrated that of the small cat at his shoulder. It bent its chin into his palm, arched its back, and rubbed against his skeletal wrist, purring loudly. "Nothing to say, as usual. Stupid creature," he said, but the softness of his gaze belied an uncharacteristic lack of malice. "You are half the conversational partner Nagini was." His expression turned sour. "How I miss her," he said, gazing into the darkness. "But she shall be avenged. Yes, sorely avenged."

A figure appeared in the doorway opposite the place where Lord Voldemort sat. "Good morning," it called cheerfully, then moved swiftly through the room. Lord Voldemort glowered at the intruder as she passed, his eyes widening in threat. She was a teenage girl dressed in Muggle clothing, with a pale complexion, handsome features, and long, dark hair. She gazed back at him with a placid, slightly defiant expression, and walked through to the kitchen. "The Dark Lord hasn't had his coffee yet today, I see," she said. Voldemort's eyes widened even more, then he let out a snort of disgust and sprawled back on the throne. "Such insolence," he snarled, turning again to Delilah and continuing to scratch her chin. "At least you do not openly defy me." At that moment she turned her tail toward his face. He sniffled and spat out a mouthful of fur.

All at once another creature emerged from the door and raced toward Voldemort with blinding speed. Almost before he could respond, it burst into the air and landed on his chest with a deafening squeal. "Daddy!" it screamed, clinging to the front of Lord Voldemort's robes. "Give us a cuddle," the creature said, laying its head on his smooth, gray face. She was small and sprightly, the size of a house elf, and wore a bright yellow dress and a bow to match. Lord Voldemort's lip curled in an expression of bemusement and revulsion, but his hands slowly enfolded the girl's narrow back. "Good morning," the Dark Lord grunted. She popped up, put a finger to his nose—which was little more than a pair of slits—and stuck out her lip in a truculent expression. "You haven't forgotten your promise, have you?" Voldemort looked confused for a moment, then remembered something and turned his head away. "No, I haven't forgotten," he said, sinking lower in his chair. The small girl climbed down from his knees and ran toward the kitchen. "Good!" she said, and tossed her golden hair as she looked back at him. "I knew you wouldn't. I knew you'd keep your promise."

"You little liar," said the older girl. "You fretted all night. ‘Daddy won't forget will he?' ‘I just know he'll forget.' ‘He never keeps his promises.' Little whiner. I barely slept a wink."

"You're the liar," said the smaller one, taking a bowl from the cupboard. "I knew he'd remember. How could he forget? You're just jealous."

"Jealous of what?"

"Jealous ‘cause you know he loves me best," said the little one, smiling smugly.

The older girl's reply was cut off by Voldemort. "Silence!" he hissed, sitting forward in his chair. The kitten, startled, leapt down. Voldemort growled for a moment before calming himself. "Your squabbling annoys me," he said at last. "Tabitha, fetch me my coffee."

"Get it yourself," said the older girl, not bothering to look at him. Lord Voldemort's pupils grew large as he watched her pour milk into her cereal. His lip trembled, and his right hand twitched as if grasping for some object it dearly missed. At last Voldemort fell back once more, covering his eyes.

A small dog skittered into the room. It panted its way over to Voldemort and placed its paws on his leg. Then it spied the cat licking itself nearby, barked sharply and gave chase. Voldemort gave no sign of having seen the dog, but re-adjusted his robe—which resembled a velvet smoking-jacket—and crossed his legs. The cat soon climbed where the dog could not reach, and the dog lay down beneath it. The only sound was the occasional clink of spoons from the kitchen.

After a few minutes, a short, middle-aged woman came into the room, her head to one side as she fiddled with an earring. "Good morning, honey," she said to Lord Voldemort, then paused and looked him from head to toe. "Why aren't you dressed?"

"I only just arose," he replied.

She rolled her eyes. "Another late night, I guess?" she asked, and began collecting mismatched shoes from the floor.

Lord Voldemort grimaced and looked at the ceiling. "Violet, you have no idea the importance of this research in which—"

She interrupted. "Yeah, well we need to get a move on. Your suit's in the laundry room. I pressed it last night."

"Slytherin's Beard! I abhor these Muggle clothes you insist on donning—" Voldemort began.

"Don't curse, dear. If you want to look like some kind of hippy you can wear whatever nightclothes strike your fancy. But if you want to look respectable, I'd suggest you—"

Lord Voldemort's voice emerged at a shrill pitch. "You dare speak so to the Dark Lord? I have killed children for less offense than I have borne this morning in my own castle."

Violet looked taken aback, then cocked an eyebrow and said, "This is no castle, Your Deviousness. News Flash: We live in a terraced house in Islington. And you need to get ready now or we're going to be late."

"The Death Eaters would never have spoken so to me," said Voldemort, slumping his shoulders and staring into his lap.

"Your Death Eaters all bit the dust, as I recall, and your various other toadying lackeys moved on to greener pastures. We're the best you've got now, Your Worship, and the best you've ever had, some might say. Anyway, stop sulking and go shave your head. We have to be out the door in ten minutes."

Lord Voldemort continued to fume as Violet hurried the girls off to finish brushing their teeth. After a few moments, she reemerged carrying a small baby. "This one's done the dirty," she said, placing the child into his unwilling hands. "Why don't you hoover it up with your little wand thingy—makes a quick job of it. And get a move on!"

Lord Voldemort slowly lowered the baby onto its back, drew his wand and placed it on the floor while he fetched a fresh diaper and wipes. By the time he returned, the baby had picked up the wand and was using it to shoot small flowers across the room. Voldemort smiled as he began changing its diaper. "That's my boy," he said, admiring the spell. "Not a filthy Muggle like the rest of them. You'll be a true wizard like your old man, won't you?"

He wiggled the baby's nose, and its giggles erupted in a volley of daisies and dandelions. Voldemort laughed as well—a cruel, mirthless sound, like bricks being rubbed together—then let out a long sigh. "How did I ever get myself into this—mess?" he asked the baby, who responded by dimpling his cheeks.

"By saying, ‘I do'," said Violet, reemerging from the hallway. "Or don't you remember—the candles, the cake, the vicar with the hip flask?" Voldemort looked up at her and saw her expression soften. She knelt beside them and helped clasp the little overalls. "Strongest magic ever made—isn't that what you said?" she asked.

"‘Till death do us part'," Voldemort said, looking into her eyes, his expression unreadable. "‘Let no man put asunder'. What madness overtook me?"

"I think we both know the answer to that," said Violet, lifting the baby and standing up. "Come on, we need to go! You can put your suit on in the back seat."

Voldemort stared blankly for a moment, then rose and followed her toward the door. Violet turned. "Come on, girls!" she called, then looked urgently at Voldemort. "You haven't forgotten you're taking Jenny to the fun fair after church, have you?"

"Church?!" Lord Voldemort spat.

"Yes. Church. That place we go on Sundays?"

"Sunday?!"

"Are you daft? If you wouldn't stay up till all hours you might have enough brain left over to remember what day it is. You do remember that pastor asked you to say the opening prayer this morning?"

Voldemort stopped, looked to the sky for a moment, then let his face fall into his hands. His voice, when it came, was a gurgling wail like the sound of a drowning banshee. "Oh God!" he cried.

"That's the spirit," said Violet, and strode off to unlock the car. The baby over her shoulder swished the wand back and forth a few times, then babbled something indistinct. With a flash of sparks, a small viper sprang from the end of the wand and landed at Voldemort's feet. He regarded it for a moment as it writhed over his patent leather wingtips, then picked it up and looked it eye-to-eye. It hissed menacingly, baring its fangs, then lashed out in a futile attempt to bite his face. The Dark Lord's bitter expression lifted as a gleam came into his eye. "Perhaps all is not yet lost," he murmured. Looking quickly up and down the street, he placed the snake in his pocket and drifted down toward the car.

Labels: fiction, writing

Once there was a shepherd boy who tended the village flock. The villagers had charged him with grazing the sheep, guiding them, and protecting them from harm. They kept the sheep for clothing and food, and relied on the boy to keep close watch.

One day as the boy's mind emerged from a delicious daydream, he heard one of the flock bleat wildly for a moment, then go silent. He looked for the source of the outburst but saw nothing. Later, when he counted the flock, the number came up short. He decided he must have miscounted—his abacus was missing a bead.

The next evening when the boy numbered the sheep, he realized that two were missing. He looked all over but found only a tangle of blood and wool where the flock had last been grazing. He felt alarmed at first, but when he brought the flock into the village, he told no one about what had happened.

The next afternoon he saw a black shape racing among the sheep and heard terrified cries pass through them. He dismissed the shape as a bird or badger, but later when he counted the sheep, another five were gone.

That night the man who tended the barn asked the boy about the flock. "It looks one or two short," the man said. "Are you sure they're all there?" The boy gave a toothy, uncertain nod before going into the house.

The next evening, as the boy played his flute to the sunset, he noticed an odd silence coming from the flock behind him. When he had finished his song, he looked back hesitantly, then quickly turned away, not wanting to believe his eyes. After a few shuddering moments he looked again at the flock.

Half of the sheep were missing. Half of those that remained lie groveling on the ground or stumbling aimlessly from place to place. As for the rest—at first the boy couldn't understand what was wrong with them. They seemed to be standing up and lying down at the same time. Their wool had turned black and white. They sat eerily still, and breathed either not at all or with rapid heaving gasps. Occasionally one of them shook violently, then became still again. They seemed to have two sets of eyes.

It was then that the boy grasped what he was seeing. The black-and-white sheep were not sheep alone, but wolves and sheep clutched together in a cruel embrace. Each sheep had the jaws of a wolf clamped onto its neck. More than a dozen wolves were scattered among the flock, their eyes shifting furtively, their lips peeled back in a guilty grin, each quietly crushing the life from its victim.

The boy snapped to his feet with his voice clenched in his throat and his flute dangling from his fingers. He hesitated, unable to take his eyes from the horror in front of him. He knew he had to get help, but fear stayed him: fear of what the villagers would do when they found out; fear that the wolves might let go of the lambs and turn their hungry eyes upon him.

I wish I could tell you what happens next, but I can't because it hasn't happened yet. As of July 21, 2007, that was the last we had heard of the Boy Who Wouldn't Cry Wolf.

Labels: faith, fiction, writing