“The old gods never left,” said the old man, nose in the air.

“Where did they go?” his granddaughter sought to humor him; It had been a grand family trip, a whole affair with aunts and uncles and cousins from all over the country, wedged in vans and pickup trucks through an itinerary that led them in and out hotels and beaches and mountains and parks, tracing their roots, old favorite spots. She knew it was not easy for the old man; today it was a tour through a village renowned for their local crafts, and the short walk from the car to the entrance had already exhausted him.

“They didn’t go anywhere,” he sniffed. He could not see, but by the smell he knew; The memory of it drove him beyond the sharp waves of wood varnish and rust, and he was a boy again, surrounded by a forest that was said to be as old as the sky. But that was a very long time ago, and very far away.

“We should buy something, don’t you think?” She picked up a statuette and the store clerk that had been eyeing her looked elsewhere. They had only entered the store for the wooden chairs and benches that stood guard by the entrance, an easy resting spot for her grandfather, and she thought to compensate for this intrusion by buying something, anything. It was an unspoken obligation.

“We didn’t cut them down,” and his hands trembled. “Some trees were so, were so old that even our…our great-great-grandfathers would recall them as they are: huge trees with the dark wood, covered with vines. They looked like curtains, even walls. We were only allowed to take fallen branches, or the younger ones we planted ourselves…but you would have to wait for many years.”

“Are those the trees with the Nunu?” her childhood ran rampant with stories of the Nunu in their little mounds by the foot of old trees, giggling and tricking travelers into taking different paths, putting curses on people who trampled them. She turned it over in her hands. It seemed carved to the likeness of a shadow, dark and slim and smooth. Her fingers found the price tag and she blinked. “It’s expensive!”

“They’re made from the trees cut down to make way for the hotels and restaurants.” The store clerk said meekly from her counter, “hundred-year old trees.” A park had been made, for the few old trees that remained. There were only a handful of them left, the vines trimmed and strung with rubbish, names and hearts etched into the roots.

“I’m paying for a relic, then.” She showed it to her grandfather, put it in his hands to feel. “We’re buying a relic, look.”

“Ah.” but the old man had tired of talking; instead searching, searching among the overlapping smells for the past, for more hints of home. Only when his granddaughter had taken him by the arm and guided him slowly back to the car did he say, “Ah, even gods would always return to something. They would make homes in those trees. Gods lived in trees. They always have.”

“What happens if the trees are taken down?”

“A terrible thing. A terrible thing, to be trapped. They would be trapped in the wood, bound to it, wherever it went. Farther and farther away, as it is. A terrible thing to be so far away from home.”

“A terrible thing to be so far away from home,” she echoed quietly as she went for a stroll on their last morning in the village. “A terrible thing too, to be lost but so close to home.” It was not even sunrise. People had hardly stirred in their beds with thoughts of waking.

She pulled apart the vines, found a space between knotted bark and put the statuette within. She knew no prayers to the old gods, no ritual to awaken them, not even the language sung them, only the longing for home.

They watch him again. They don’t take their eyes off him. Annoying little monsters.

He wishes he could just step on them. Crush them. Like the little bugs they are. Like bugs who deserve to die.

Every night they perform their evil rituals. Unholy little beasts. The chants and whispers keep him awake. Distracted. But necessarily vigilant. Oh well, he has that to thank them for.

But oh the horror! The wickedness of their very presence. The rites that purge this sanctuary of all its goodness. This place is supposed to preserve all that was held sacred of the past, the present, and in the future, the future. Not stain it with these unholy beings!

He only wishes he had the power to oppose these little gods. These little devils masquerading as gods. To cast them into the fire they worship. Where they rightfully belong.

But every time he decides to face them, those stone cold grey eyes lock right on to him. They stop their corrupt ceremonies as they silently turn to glare at him accusingly. With their evil distorted dark faces. Monsters. Blank zombie-like expressions. No questions asked. Their eyes say it all.

You have a problem?

He disrupts their rituals. They know he is the blasphemer. The traitor. The one who will betray them. He knows that they know this. But they only silently watch with their stone cold grey eyes.

It’s a game of who makes the first move. Graciously they deliberately peeve him into considering the first move. No, he will not give in. If they can act all righteous, so can he.

After all, he is only a powerless sentry. A subordinate. He can only follow orders. His very job is to keep watch and maintain order. He cannot participate, he cannot rule, and he most definitely cannot oppose. Only watch. And obey. Helplessly.

His hands clutch at the pendant hanging at his neck. His last hope of remaining sane in the presence of these sinful wicked beings. He wears it like a talisman. He opens it and glances at the pictures of his two children – a boy and a girl – closes it and decides once more that he needs to send them to college one day.

“If you want to keep this job, don’t do anything stupid,” he speaks out loudly. To himself, of course. Staring at the statuettes with his watchful eyes. They just stare back.

“Yeah, just another night at the museum, move along now,” he tries to convince himself.

OFF LIMITS. Authorized Personnel Only.’ It read.

Leila drew a deep breath and pushed the curtains aside. ‘You’ve come this far, so might as well…’ she thought. She smoothed her skirt, not wanting to think ahead. Then, she walked on, swiftly turning her back as she heard footsteps in the hall. Quietly turning to make sure the coast was clear, she then quickly found the door and pushed it open. There they were.

She grabbed a plastic cup and joined them. The TV was on; on one side some women were giving each other manicures. But it was this table she wanted to sit at. It was their one night when they forgot about the measly pay or the grouchy bosses. Or in her case, the perpetually drunk boyfriend of 8 years who liked to hit her a little too often.  The head cook, Roma, knew she might fall into more than just a little trouble with this set-up in the pantry. But Roma knew what it meant to the women.

‘Was this punch spiked? Oh, what the hell!’ Leila chuckled, for all we know, the bosses could be at wits end and looking for them. Soon someone would notice the women secretaries, clerks, all disappearing for breaks at the same time for an hour. But till then, this was their haven. And this table, her guilty pleasure – the Wednesday night poker table. Who said it was a men’s game, again?

“Dude, tell me again, why are we doing this?”

“Because, we’ve never done anything illegal in our lives. We’ve no stories to tell to our kids, assuming that we somehow manage to produce kids. After all, there is that essential ingredient called ‘woman’ missing in our lives.”

“You could try adoption… but that’s not the problem we have at our hands… I get it. We need to get women in our lives.”

“Exactly! Chicks dig illegal stuff too. This will help us score at-least a couple of points with them.”

“And that’ll take our total score to what 3? Dude, we need a lot more than a couple of points.”

“We have to start somewhere, right? So stop being a wuss and cut the wires.”

“I still don’t think trespassing into an abandoned government facility is what chicks have in mind when they think sexy-kinda-illegal stuff. But I’ll follow you coz you know, you’re my best friend.”

“I think I’m gonna cry… what are you a 14 yr old girl… stop saying shit and get to work.”

“What do you think is on the other side?”

“My research tells it’s one of the possible locations for Area 51.”

“Your research?”

“I did a lot of googling last night.”

“Fair enough. Could there be aliens there, then?”

“Could be. And considering how many women they’ve impregnated so far, I guess they believe in free sex. We could be in for a treat.”

“Dude! That’s gross. I don’t want anyone or anything trying to impregnate me.”

“That’s not what I meant, dude. I meant if the males of their species love sex so much, it’s only logical to assume the females would too.”

“You’ve got a point there. I guess, we do have a better chance of scoring with alien-chicks than the human ones.”

“Things are going to change for us tonight.”

“I just hope they look good.”

“I’m counting on all of them being hot like Seven of Nine.”

“Seven of Nine was a ten of ten. Let’s do this thing”

“Atta boy.”

Interview with Dwight Oswald Twistleton,  model featured in latest Prompt, “Off Limits”,  pictured above.

How did your modeling career in this unique genre begin?

I wanted to be an actor from a very early age. Unfortunately, I was told that my expressions were so one-dimensional , that I could never be believeable in any part.  I was offered a chance to be a crash test dummy and worked steadily for several years till I was injured in a freak air bag accident.

I suppose that gave you pause?

Dang right!  Gave me a big headache too. Took ‘em a week to get my head back on straight.  During my recuperation I heard that sign models were in demand. Sounded like a piece ‘o cake.  That summer, I broke out with a “No Diving” sign. Everyone said I looked really cute in my Speedo.

I notice that your left profile is always featured in your work. Any reason?

Well, obviously it’s my best side. In fact, truth be told, it’s my only side since that nasty air bag incident.

Ouch! Well, anyway, do you have a favorite sign that you were featured on? Something really memorable?

“Slippery When Wet” without a doubt. Shot that one in Thailand. Boy. It was so hot there that the soapsuds kept drying on my body.  So they brought in a couple of pros who kept  soaping me up till the director got what he wanted.  Nice ladies though. Couldn’t understand a word they said, ‘cept something about “happy endings”.

I notice you always wear black when you work. Any reason?

My friend, Johnny Cash, told me to do it. Said it always gave a guy presence-suggested a bad boy sort of image. ‘Specially when you do something like a”Toilet” sign. Don’t want nobody messin’ with you while you’re standing there next to the sign.

Anything special coming up for 2012?

Well, speaking of up, I’ve got an escalator job in the works. It’ll show me in profile, natch, riding down on an escalator, so these mall morons don’t try to go up on the wrong one. You should also be looking for a special signed, limited edition of “Pedestrian Crosswalk” the Department of Transportation is having me do. It’s going to have an Abbey Road kind of vibe to it, ‘ cept it’s just me in place of the Fab Four. The back of each sign will be stamped DOT, so I’m hoping everybody will think those are my initials.

Time’s up now, Dwight. Any parting advice for those who read this drivel to the very end?

Like my bosom bud Madonna said to me, get out there and strike a pose!

[a.k.a. Celestial Lessons 002, a stand-alone narrative]

Another morning. Another day. I have to face it. Face her.

As I walk slowly towards the bedroom – her bedroom – I curse myself silently, at my accelerating heartbeat. It was actually louder than my footsteps. She might’ve woken up already, because of that, if not for the smell of her favourite morning coffee, bacon and eggs in the air.

Maybe it was the coffee. Have to stop taking coffee before seeing her.

OFF LIMITS. Read the sign on her door. A warning to me, I feel. Every morning. Do I heed it?

I don’t even bother to knock anymore. She couldn’t care less anyway. College life does that to you, I guess. I turn the knob and enter into a mess of a world, her world, clothes and bags, all over the floor, books and bras…

And there she lay. On the bed. Made for a queen. Tangled up in a heap of pink blankets, sprawled like a lazy cat, thick blonde hair covering her face, bare long legs dangling off the edge…

Curses.

At least she could’ve worn some clothes.

“No…” she groans, groggily, through the golden mane hiding her beautiful face, muffling her soft, husky voice. “Please tell me it’s not time already.”

“I can’t lie to you,” I lie, “you’ve got a seminar presentation this morning.”

“You’d make a terrible roommate, Kieran,” she replies, slowly getting up, folding her lithe catlike body into a sitting position, hair magically parting, emerald green eyes shining through, right through me like a laser beam – I have a thing for piercing green peepers – blanket strategically covering all that was needed to be revealed.

It was just pure torture. Just watching her. Skin the colour of peach glistening in the sliver of the morning sun rays sneaking through the curtains. Such a celestial body. Even the sun wants to take a peek at her, to wake her up, to touch her. What more a lowly being like me?

“I wouldn’t be your roommate even if you begged me to,” I lie again.

She smiles ever so lightly. Another laser beam shot right through me. I think she knew.

“I would’ve stayed at my dorm, if everyone there wasn’t trying to brutally murder me,” she explains, in that groggy intoxicating half-whisper, threatening to rip me apart, and those bedroom eyes, threatening to incinerate me with their laser power.

More excuses. The things I have to put up with.

Calm down now. Breathe. Keep your distance. Stay detached.

“Once more, your breakfast is made ready by yours truly…” I say as she flashes another smile, a brilliant one this time, more brilliant than the sun. It was only gratitude. And I just lose the words, whatever it is I was saying just now.

Stop this. Now.

One last look – I always keep vowing to never look at her this way again – and keep breaking that vow, every morning – I turn my eyes away from her beautiful face, as I say, “Mom’s gone like a ghost again. To work, I think. I’m gonna have to rush off, too. Got a killer Physics exam.”

Turning, walking away from her door, I hear her soft voice fading off, “Good luck, brother…”

I wish she could just stop calling me that.

[Also see: Celestial Lessons 001]

The crashing of the waves on the rocky shore sounded like thunder. It was early morning and the gray mist was losing to the rising sun as the distant sky became tinged with pinks and purples. As each wave rose to its peak the white maelstrom of the raging sea spoke of the power of the hidden depths. The icy cold water enveloped each of them as they struggled to shore. Many had been lost in the crash. The few that remained knew their quest was over. It had been a noble quest of course, but now it was only survival that mattered. Santa was dead. After hundreds of years he was dead. Murdered by the enemy. Christmas was at risk. Millions of children’s lives would be changed forever. Even for adults life would never be the same, for without Christmas, society would spiral even more out of control.

Lawrence knew this. That is why he applied for the job. He would he be the new, magical Santa, if the enemy didn’t find him of course, and it already looked liked the enemy wasn’t going to let that happen. Now, he struggled to shore, icy sea water stinging his feet in his boots. He was freezing, soaked from head to toe. He felt like a walrus, his Santa suit absorbing each molecule of water of the ocean, weighing him down as he trudged through the breaking waves to shore.

What now? Looking around he saw that four of the Santa’s had survived this vicious attack. Two of them ripped off their red coats and ran up the beach. They wanted no more. Just moments ago 15 of them had been on a private jet taking off from LAX on the way to the North Pole for the final interviews. The explosion and fire had come without warning from the back of the plane. Dense smoke, yelling, panic and then the plane had hit the water. Lawrence didn’t know how those pilots had brought the plane down belly first, but they did, and he was alive because of them.

He looked over at the last Santa who shook his head and slowly took off his red coat and hat. I’m the only once left. It’s up to me. Lawrence thought. I will be Santa. I will fight the enemy. I will win. Santa will live. Christmas will be saved.

Did you ever wonder what happens to all those guys in red suits with white trim you see in department stores, malls and other public spaces come December 26th? Few people know that these guys are unionized. That’s right, they all belong to Santa Claus Reenactors of the World or SCREW. Further, Clause 17 of their contracts [no pun intended] requires that  they be given a week off every year at a very warm beach of their choice.

This year their unanimous vote for a vacation destination was Juhu Beach in Mumbai. No foolin’! The above picture proves it. Here we see Stan and Oliver of England coming out of the Arabian Sea waters and heading for the wet Santa suit contest won last year by Soh Hung, from Mainland China.

Other diversions for these guys include the reindeer pie toss, milk and cookie gorging and the ever popular stuff an elf into a small box contest. The favorite of all is, however, the kissing yo momma under the mistletoe game. This event is the one that got a little ugly last year when Aditi, [you've read of her before] being paid to play the role of “yo momma”, violently objected to a  “french” kiss by a Santa named Sarkosy and set his beard on fire.

Oh well, it’s mostly good clean fun for all. Participants are already making plans for Dubai,  December 26th, 2012. See you there or be square!