Lament for the "Plugged-In" Generation

Wyatt needs to run.
I can see it in the dance of his eyes.
This is potential.
This is childhood.
This is living.

Squandered.
Stifled.
Squelched.

LeapPad2,
He calls it.
Friend,
Ceasar called Brutus.

One day
He will need those experiences
The ones he's missing out on today
One day
He will need those people
The ones he's ignoring today
One day
He will need that childhood
The one he's wasting today.

Wyatt needs to run.
Wyatt needs to breathe.
Wyatt needs to live.

Run, Wyatt.
Run.

Challenge of the Day

Use this sentence in an excerpt from a novel with talking animals:
"He stole my cheese! That fur ball stole a piece of my cheese!"

I never thought I'd kill him. Nobody else had doubted it wouldn't come to that, observing our birth positions, but somehow I'd managed to convince myself I could defeat the inevitable conclusion designed by nature. But in the end, I wound up completing fate's path. It was nature— not my own design— I take credit for nothing of the actual events. I was cat, he— mouse. And therefore, all amounts of effort to battle fate, in the end availed to nothing. It was all hopeless.
But I'd tried. We were companions once— once, long ago. Before I ate him. I would let him ride atop my sleek, black, furry back as we made the daily trek down to the duck pond to watch the sunrise, and then wake up that lazy good-for-nothing of a rooster, to allow Farmer McNeigh to go on thinking he had some use in him, and avoid killing him. We were civil, then— friendly, you could say. There is a particular bond that comes from a mutual enemy— in our case, Nature— and a surprising comradery in a mutual battle for survival. In the dark times, those bad old days, we were partners, friends. But we only remained so as long as the world remained a dark, harsh, and cold battle for the living. Funny old world, isn't it?
Then it happened— the springtime of history, the dawn of a new era. Farmer McNeigh was murdered in a rainstorm. He always was a fast driver. Rain is unforgiving. Nellie, the white mare, swears she could smell the burned rubber skidding on asphalt— even though it happened nearly 53 miles away from Greendale Farm.
Liberation, let me tell you, is exhilarating. And just a little bit dangerous. At least, for a cat. McNeigh was a widower— and hated, too. It was perfect. Nobody wanted the farm. Nobody, it seems, even knew about it. Left to our own devices, we farm animals prospered. At any rate, most of us did. I, on the other hand, frankly still miss my daily back scratches and bowl of milk. And that's enough to make any feline irritable. As the others celebrated and gave thanks, preparing plans for authority and management of our own personal democracy, I did what I do best— I sulked along the edges.
None of the others seemed too pleased about my tacit possession of McNeigh's farmhouse, but seeing as nobody could bring themselves to confront me directly, it remained mine and mine alone. And besides which, it made the most sense it would go to me— everybody else was too scared to enter the house, like it had some kind of malaise taint after housing a human.
Isolation is a curious thing. It will either swell your ego so big it poisons your whole being or shrink it down so small your eyes bug out and your lungs pop. Either way, something vague inside you dies: whether it be from lack of outside compassion that your heart attempts to make up for with too much love for yourself, or simply from lack of external reminders that the rest of the world is insufferably idiotic. I did not do well alone.
And then one day, I suddenly wasn't. I admit truthfully I was downright startled to hear a voice in the kitchen on that foggy morning.
Creeping silently, as I am wont to do even without effort, I neared the kitchen and watched, unnoticed, from the shadowed doorway.
It was him.
The mouse was muttering nervously to himself as he skittered around the pantry. He had something white in his hands. Cheese! A hunk of cheese that I had been saving for that never decided upon, never truly to be celebrated, future special occasion.
He stole my cheese! That fur ball stole a piece of my cheese!
And in that moment, I hated him. I don't know why. I simply abhorred him. This place was mine. Not only had he trespassed— he had stolen. We had nothing now: no link to join us. No bond to keep us. He no longer deserved to live. In one mighty leap, I pounced.
Then I ate him.
He was tough, like loathing, and tasted bitter as loneliness.

Loathing and lonely. . . loathing and lonely. Does one loathe because he is lonely? Or is one lonely because he loathed?

Leadership

When I was little, I would watch movies like Mulan and read books like Percy Jackson and Harry Potter, and wish desperately that I could be just like them—be the one to give the rallying speech before we rushed into battle, the one who took the crazy last-minute risk that baffled the enemy, the one who saved the day. When I saw a leader, all I saw was glory. I saw the medallion with the crest of the emperor given to Mulan, the chance to become a god given to Percy, and the boxes and boxes of candy sent to Harry in the hospital wing after he met Voldemort for the first time, in his first year at Hogwarts. But most importantly, I saw the fame, the applause, the praise. To me, a leader was just a celebrity.

It has taken me a good deal of time to realize what really makes a leader: the selflessness, the courage, and above all, the hope.

The first thing that makes a true leader is the ability to stop thinking about themselves. This is truly a fantastic feat, as we are born thinking about prolonging our own survival. But the moment a person can forget himself and worry only about another human being is the moment he creates in himself the foundation of being a real leader. This is because a real leader leads in order to better others, not to glorify himself. In the words of Arnold H. Glasow, “A good leader takes a little more than his share of the blame, a little less than his share of the credit.”

The next thing that is essential to true leadership is courage, or the art of being terrified, but doing what needs to be done anyway. A leader can’t just give up when the going gets tough. That’s what followers do. He can’t do the same thing as a follower, because then he is just one of them and not, in fact, a leader. A true leader is set above others for a reason. A true leader leads because he can do something that other people can’t. A true leader knows the danger, knows all the risks, and feels the deepest fear, but finds in himself the ability to keep going even when others can’t.

But the cardinal trait that sets a leader apart from a follower, is hope. A leader, in its most basic sense, is a person who acts as the face of hope to the followers; the one who leads, who shows the warriors how to pick up the sword, but more importantly, reminds them why they picked up the sword in the first place. Regardless of a leader’s private fear or uncertainty, a true leader continues whether directly or indirectly to provide people with the strength to go on fighting, the motivation to persevere. Leadership takes a certain degree of concealment: to feel fear and discouragement, yet not to show it.

To really be a leader, one must have a kind of big-picture outlook on life—to know what is most important in the end. A leader must know what they hold true, must be certain of why they fight for their particular cause, of why they lead. This is developed through intelligence—not academic necessarily, but the ability to look at life and analyze it, to evaluate it, and come up with a basic understanding about life and the world, that gives them the strength and clarity to fight for what they know is right. This intelligence also comes into play with the necessity to be able to learn. Leaders must constantly be learning—from people wiser than them, from people not as wise as them, and from themselves. They must be able to learn from mistakes, and from something even harder to learn from: successes. A true leader inspires others because they were first inspired, leads because they were first led.

And in truth, every human being has the potential to be a leader. They just have to see that for themselves, and then they have to forget themselves, learn the fine art of doing fearful things, and never, ever give up hope.

Artemus Ch. 2

Hentin stared out at the rain uneasily from the commonroom window. I never knew why but for some reason rain always made Hentin nervous. It just made Landon mad, however. 

"What, do they think we're going to melt?" he was roaring, "We're knights, by Trenton! We can survive a little water!"

Max looked up from his book lazily, and simply admonished, "Don't swear on the King's name."

Kaleb walked in just then, rubbing his eyes irritatedly. "Can't a man get any sleep around here?"

Landon glared. "Nobody's stopping you." I wasn't sure yet if Landon really hated Kaleb or if Kaleb just happened to enter his path whenever Landon was in a bad mood. Which was almost always.

Kaleb glared back pointedly. "You are! You're the one hasn't shut up all morning!"

"Guys," Max warned, and they both stopped. Kaleb went back to bed. Most of the other guys had stayed in bed, too. Practice had been canceled for the day due to a downpour. The reason that was given for this cancellation was to keep our armor from getting rusty, though I suspected it had more to do with Prince Kade's laziness. 

"We ride to battle in the rain and our armor is just fine then!" Landon bellowed, seeming to have forgotten the recent interchange. Max looked like he wanted to tell Landon to quiet down, but he let it pass and went back to his book. Landon was pacing in front of the large fireplace. Hentin hadn't moved from the window. 

It did seem a little ridiculous to cancel practice, but at least we didn't have to drench ourselves today. Also, it gave me time to find David and ask him about the girl. 

Landon stopped pacing when he saw me by the door and pointed accusingly. "Where are you going?"

Opening the door, I replied, "To find David."

"Why?" he demanded, suddenly excited, "Are you going to ask him to let us have practice anyway?"

"No."

Landon scowled. "Then what are you going to find him for?"

I hesitated, suddenly aware of all three of their eyes on me. I shrugged. "I just want to find him."

Landon's frown deepened and he opened his mouth to speak, so I chose that moment to exit the room. 

The first place I checked was the armory. A servant named Travis, a boy around my age, was polishing armor.

Travis greeted me with a bright grin, the expression I sometimes thought might be the only one his face knew how to do. "Good morning, Sir Artemus! Anything I can do for you?" I hesitated, caught off guard once again by the"sir". Apparently it was going to take quite a while to get used to having a title. Even though some of us hadn't technically been knighted by King Trenton yet, we were all given the formal knight title "sir". It was sometimes hard to draw a clear line between what constituted actual knighthood, and what didn't. We all practiced the same ways, dressed in the same uniforms, slept in the same tower, ate the same foods, and all had the same title. The best definition I'd been given was from David, who told me simply, "Being a real knight means you've gone to war," so that still made me a knight-in-training, along with a few others like Trevor, Nicoli, Sylvester, and Wilberforth.

I shook my head. "No thanks. Actually— have you seen David anywhere?"

"Not this morning, sir."

"Oh well. Thanks, anyway."

"Have a nice day, sir!"

I paused in the doorway, debating how to respond to that. I was still trying to get used to the whole knight thing, and had yet to master the propriety and rules of the classes. Was a knight allowed to wish a servant a good day?

"You too, Travis," I said anyway, not caring about propriety because for one thing, we were alone, and for another, Travis's positive mood was contagious. I wished all the servants were as nice as him. Most of the lower class people I'd met since moving to the castle were grouchy and bitter. Had I been like that when I had just been a simple peasant? Probably. There hadn't been much to smile about back then. 

I made my way back up to the main edifice of the palace, still marveling at how easy it was to get lost in the one single building, even after having lived in it for the past nine months. I heard a rumor that Hentin had made a map of the place when he first came to live at the palace, but I was too proud to ask him for it and too lazy to make one myself, so I got lost about every other day. After taking a wrong turn to the dungeons, then getting all turned around in the South Corridor, I gave up for the morning and found my way to the Lesser Hall for breakfast (not without great difficulty). 

Max, Landon, and Hentin had found seats at the table closest to the giant windows that ran the length of the wall. Hentin was still staring down the rain like he was possessed, but Landon seemed to be in a much better mood after having something to eat. The hall was unusually sparse, as most of the younger knights were taking advantage of the morning off by staying in bed. The rain from outside cast a grey glow through the glass, giving the room an overall serenity. 

"Find David?" Landon asked. 

"Nope." I shook my head. 

"Too bad. We're holding our own little jousting tournament this afternoon. He'd probably want to come."

I raised an eyebrow at this, but Landon was contentedly focused on his food, and Max just gave me a helpless smile and shrug. Jousting tournaments were customarily established by the king. Landon was a rather persistent sort of fellow. He could come off as a little forward at times, because he pushed people around until he got what he wanted, but at least he got things done. 

Max passed me a plate of salted ollpes, an expensive fruit I'd discovered as yet another benefit of wealth and privilege. "Don't eat them all at once, Art. It tastes better if you chew than if you swallow them whole— morning, Quellin!" Max interrupted himself as Quellin took a seat of the bench next to me. 

"Morning, Max," Quellin returned brightly, noding to each of us in turn. "Landon, Hentin, Bert— My word, Bert! Where on earth do you put all that?" Quellin marveled, looking from me to my plate, "It's a wonder you can stay lean the way you eat!"

I grinned impishly, and refrained from explaining I was simply making up for seventeen years of near-starvation.

I finished breakfast quickly and excused myself. I had just made my way out of the Lesser Hall when Evengelina, the royal chief of staff's daughter, confronted me out of nowhere. 

"Oh perfect!" she exclaimed, closing her talons around my arm, "I was just looking for someone tall, dark, and handsome to give me some help! You're not busy, are you?" She blinked up at me with wide, coy eyes. 

"Uh, well actually, I was—"

"Oh good! I need a little help with the flour sacks that arrived today. I'd have asked one of the servants, but you're much nicer company," she winked at me, "And much stronger, anyway."

And she proceeded to talk my ear off for the next hour and a half. First it was the flour sacks, then the broken shelf in one of the palace libraries, then the new giant golden vases that apparently very urgently needed to be moved to the other end of the castle for some mysterious reason. I hadn't the slightest inclination to voluntarily spend an hour and a half of my life with such a person, but she was a lady, servant or not, and I was not royalty— only a gentleman— so I couldn't refuse. Evengelina talked so much I nearly forgot to be looking for David, and totally forgot to wonder about the fate of the strange girl. When at last I was released from Evengelina's clutches, I went to the southern end of the castle and proceeded to make a sweep through the entire palace in search of David. At long last, I finally found him anxiously rifling through some papers in the smallest library.

"David!" I exclaimed, running up to him, "Finally! I've been looking for you all day!"

Very uncharacteristically, David let his eyes fall back down toward his papers as he muttered, "I'm sorry. I have been busy."

I hesitated, suddenly taken aback. "I, um. . . I wanted to ask you about the girl. Is she—?" 

"She is on trial as we speak."

"Oh," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else. From David's expression, I gathered her case was not going well. Finally, I asked in a low tone, "Do you think she's a spy?"

David heaved a sigh. "I think she is a poor innocent peasant who sat up in a tree to watch us practice."

I frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"I overheard one of the nobles questioning her briefly when she first woke up. She was angry, but not afraid. It was as if she had never even contemplated a consequence for being discovered in a tree on palace grounds, which makes me believe she was there either by accident, or with faultless cause. He warned her that if she did not tell the truth in court, she would be killed anyway. But it was strange. . . she was so angry and proud, and stubborn. . . I don't think she will admit to such a humble and innocent explanation as the truth. I think her indignation of her treatment will render her mute, and thus condemn her."

I trusted David's judgement: he had always had uncanny accuracy in judging character, even when the evidence did not immediately support his judgement. However, it did not make much sense that a peasant girl would venture all the way onto the grounds of the palace innocently.

I watched David for a moment before asking, "So what now?"

David pressed his thumb to his lip, thinking. At last he looked up at me and decided, "We talk to her ourselves."