Prologue: The Glory that was Greece

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,

Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

(Lord Byron - The Isles of Greece)

‘Well?’ asked my mother, for the second time. ‘How do you feel about a Mediterranean holiday this summer?’

It still took me a few moments to register what Mum had been saying. I was inclined to be distracted at the best of times. These were not the best of times. It was April 20th 1987, Easter Monday: just a few days before my twenty-first birthday. But neither the arrival of Easter, nor my impending ‘second celebration’ of manhood brought me any sense of elation. My father’s three-month-long battle with stomach cancer had come to an end four weeks before. He was just forty-eight years old.

My university had been very understanding, and I’d spent the last few weeks of the spring term, as my father’s life drew towards its close, at home. I’d supported my mother, and sister, in their grief, as best I could. My own feelings? I’d tried to bury them. Deep. As deep as the collieries where Dad had toiled throughout his entire working life, since the age of fifteen.

Still waters run deep. They don’t come stiller than the waters that gather in the deepest places of the earth. Yet my father was someone who had always been so full of joie de vivre. He had been larger-than-life, a lovable rogue, with more than a little bit of Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses about him; popular, and well-known within our community; but it was I, his son, who now felt that I’d squandered every opportunity I’d ever had to truly get to know him. To know and understand the real man, behind the jovial comic mask that he so easily and customarily wore.

I looked at Mum. She was barely into her forties, and certainly didn’t give the appearance of it; yet now the possibility of a long life of widowhood beckoned. She was bearing up remarkably well, considering.

‘Sorry, Mum. I was miles away. Where were you thinking of?’

For several years now, Mum and Dad had holidayed abroad, taking my younger sister with them. The kind of places, in the south of France and along the Spanish coast, that had become popular with Brits over the past couple of decades, as cheap flights had led to the boom in the overseas tourism industry. Not the kind of resorts that held much appeal to me - I hadn’t believed I’d missed out, at the time. Yet more lost opportunities to spend time with my father, I now thought to myself, wistfully.

‘Well, I wondered about somewhere different from where your Dad and I holidayed,’ said Mum, eyeing me carefully. ‘I was thinking, perhaps…Greece? One of the islands, perhaps?’

Greece!

I wasn’t expecting that. What was it that someone had said…? Something about ‘The glory that was Greece, and the grandeur that was Rome,’ wasn’t it?

I’d always wanted to visit Greece. Ever since I had read Roger Lancelyn Green’s retelling of The Tale of Troy as a nine-year-old boy, I’d been captivated by the heroic deeds of the Greeks. My love of astronomy had ran parallel with my fascination with the Greek myths; and few things afforded me greater pleasure than to gaze up into the night sky, and to recall the heroic deeds of Perseus and Hercules, locked in eternal combat with the sea-monster Cetus and the many-headed Hydra in the heavens above, just as they had once battled those creatures on the earth below.

Greece! The islands and the mountains that had birthed legends: Achilles and Alexander, Herodotus and Homer, Pericles and Plato, Socrates and Sophocles. I knew the names of more dead Greeks than living Englishmen. Or Welshmen, come to that.

‘One of the islands?’ I said. ‘Which one?’

There were so many to choose from. Corfu, I knew, was popular. Most of what I knew about Corfu came from reading the naturalist Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals, describing his idiosyncratic boyhood on the island during the 1930s. His mother had also been widowed at a young age, I reflected.

Then, of course, there was Rhodes, once home to one of the seven great wonders of the world; the mighty Colossus, standing more than 30 metres high at the entrance to the harbour, making it the tallest statue in the ancient world. A shame it had only stood for little over half a century.

Like Dad, its life had been cut short.

‘Rhodes? Corfu? Paxos?’ I looked at Mum, and smiled to myself. Would she blush and look away if I suggested Lesbos - Where burning Sappho loved and sung?

Mum shook her head.

‘No, none of those. I was thinking of Crete.’

Day One (August 8th): Beware the Bull

Pasiphaë gave birth to Asterius, who was called the Minotaur. He had the face of a bull, but the rest of him was human; and Minos, in compliance with certain oracles, shut him up and guarded him in the Labyrinth. (Apollodorus - Bibliotheca)

Three-and-a-half months later, Mum, Sis and I boarded the flight to Heraklion airport. It wasn’t my first time overseas, but it was my first time alongside my family. I was worried that we would have wildly different expectations of our vacation. Mum and Sis would be happiest on a beach, or sunning themselves besides the hotel pool. But, for me, here was a chance to try out my Greek, to immerse myself in the local culture, and to visit the archaeological sites of Europe’s oldest civilisation, the Minoans.

The highlight for me, I was certain, would be the excursion we had planned for our first full day on the island: a visit to the Palace of Knossos, the largest Bronze Age site on Crete. Since its discovery in 1878, and its excavation by English archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans from 1900 onward, the sprawling complex had come to be associated, at least in popular presentations, with the myth of King Minos; and the great maze, the Labyrinth, he had ordered to be built by the foremost architect of the ancient world, Daedalus.

According to the tale, this wonder was the home of the half-man/half-bull beast named after the King, the Minotaur. Such was the ingenuity of the Labyrinth that no man could hope to navigate the complexity of its halls and corridors. Only with the help of Princess Ariadne’s ball of twine was Prince Theseus of Athens able to find his way into the Labyrinth, and then out again once he had slain the Minotaur.

Not that I believed in it, of course - but I did sometimes think it was odd that I was the one whose astrological star-sign was Taurus, the bull, and not my father. After all, he could be unsubtle at times; a veritable bull in the china shop. And I had certainly learnt, in adolescence, exactly how to push his buttons - to be the red rag to his bull. Then again, my inclination towards stubbornness and my own prideful predisposition were both far greater than his. Hallmarks of a true Taurean: as also was said to be a certain complexity, and deviousness, of the mind. Labyrinthine, one might say.

Some believe that the name Labyrinth was actually derived from the Greek word λαβρυς (labrys) - the name given to the distinctive double-headed axe, at least according to Plutarch, the design of which was found adorning the walls throughout the Palace of Knossos. The ruins of the enormous complex could certainly be described as ‘labyrinthine’. Was this, then, the site of the famed lair of the great bull-headed beast?

Hardly. But then, as I made my way from one hall to the next, it seemed to me that it wasn’t very much like a palace either. What was this place? What had been its function? Why had people gathered here, in the heyday of Minoan splendour, almost four thousand years before? Had it been a storehouse, a crossroads of trade, a centre for administration? A gathering point for entertaining and celebrating, for music-making, bull-leaping and wine-quaffing? Or a court for proclaiming the wealth and power of a clan, a family or a king?

I wandered into what Evans had believed to be the throne room of Knossos - home to the oldest stone throne in the Aegean world. The ‘throne’ itself - if indeed it was a throne - was an alabaster seat set against the north wall, with two griffins on either side, staring at it. Gypsum benches - seats for the king’s counsellors, perhaps? - fanned out from the throne, running along three walls of the chamber. Here, in the centre of the palatial complex, was the very seat of power of Europe’s first civilisation.

***

My father’s seat of power was more modest - and certainly more comfortable. Our ‘front room’ wasn’t as lavishly decorated as the throne room of Knossos. No frescoes of griffins, no palm fronds and altars painted on the walls. Instead of a lustral basin set before the throne, Dad’s armchair faced the television. If the basin in the king’s chamber was used for religious ceremonial purposes, as had been supposed, then the television of my father’s chamber perhaps served a comparable function, i.e. to transmit the images that amounted to his religion; the sports, the comedies, the war movies and the Westerns, that provided him with ease and relaxation after a hard shift underground, or an afternoon labouring in the garden.

When my father was at home, taking his repose, there was no question that this seat was his. Yes, of course, I, or my sister, were allowed to sit in it ourselves; but the clear understanding was that we were to yield it to him, without challenge or fuss, should he come into the room and wish to sit down.

My grandmother had a similar arrangement in the chamber that doubled up for her as both kitchen and living room. A widow from before I was born, she would surrender the principal armchair, the one nearest the hearth, to her bachelor brother whenever he came to visit. It was her home; she paid the rent upon it from her modest widow’s pension. Yet whenever my great-uncle visited, he would silently and wordlessly ‘take the throne.’ This was the unquestioned social order with which I grew up.

The only time, at home, when my father would humour me, and allow me unfettered access to his high seat, was when Doctor Who was being broadcast. For twenty-five minutes on a Saturday afternoon, I was allowed to sit, undisturbed, and enthralled, to the latest adventures of the Time Lord from Gallifrey, whose erratic wanderings through time and space mesmerised me, no doubt, in much the same way as Homer’s retelling of the peregrinations of the Greek hero Odysseus had once held his first audience spellbound.

My sister had still been young enough, just about, to continue to delight in the memory of sitting on Dad’s lap, or bouncing on his leg, while he sang some nonsense-rhyme to her. I’d long since grown out of doing that; or even of watching the Friday night horror movie with him. Perhaps that shared experience between father and son was the one that I would miss most of all.

My mother and sister would have gone to bed. I would be looking up at the occasionally flickering screen, in the darkened room, while watching one of the classic Universal monster movies; sitting on the floor by Dad’s feet, while he dozed in his armchair. Whenever there was a particularly effective ‘jump scare’, I would grab my father’s leg, awakening him from his slumber. Some mild oath might form upon his lips; but he would invariably look down, to see if I was okay. It’s not just the mother hen who looks after her chicks.

Mum never rested in my father’s seat of power. She was always too busy in the kitchen - her domain - for such idleness. Wives and mothers had more subtle ways of maintaining their influence within the household.

For weeks after his passing, I couldn’t bring myself to sit where Dad had once sat. If we had had griffins on the wallpaper, on either side of that armchair, perhaps they would have wept the silent tears that I refused to shed.

***

The palaces of Knossos, Phaistos, Hagia Triada, Mallia, and Kato Zakro were not the gay residences of peaceful and artistic rulers, as the imaginations of Sir Arthur Evans and his successors have made them. In reality they were highly involved cult structures built for the veneration and burial of the dead.

So wrote German scholar Hans Wurderlich in 1972. And who can say? Was Knossos built for the living, or the dead? A great teeming agora, a melting pot of humanity, reeking of sweat and heady sensuality, brimming with colour and life; or a solemn necropolis, a painted mausoleum of the departed, filled with the stench of putrefaction and decay?

Evans discovered three thousand clay tablets, inscribed with two distinctly different scripts, which he named Linear A and Linear B. Linear B, the later script, turned out to be Greek. Linear A continues to defy all attempts to translate it. The puzzle remains undeciphered: the mysteries of the Labyrinth remain intact.

So much is hidden, so much is lost. What were the Minoans really like? Did they love as we love, laugh as we laugh, cry as we cry, dance as we dance, hate and make war as so many people have hated and made war in the ages before or since?

I wandered the halls of Minos, and I felt that these people were strangers to me, separated by this vast expanse of time.

But are we not all strangers to one another? Who can know what it is like to inhabit another’s skin? Truly, had I known my father, in life, any better than I knew the silent ghosts that haunted the halls of Knossos four thousand years after they had once loved, and laughed, and cried, and danced, and hated, and, perhaps, made war, from this place?

***

One day - a few weeks after Dad’s funeral - I’d wandered into the front room at home. I glanced across the room. And there he was. Sitting in his armchair. Just for a moment. And then he was gone.

I had experienced something similar the previous year, shortly following my grandfather’s death. Only on that occasion, it had happened in church. I’d glanced across the aisle, to the Sabbath seat which my grandfather used to occupy during the final few years before he succumbed to dementia, then death. And there he was - unwrapping a sweet, as was his want, before the beginning of a long and possibly tedious sermon.

***

An unfilled pew; an empty armchair; and a vacant throne. A chapel, a home, and a palace, replete with silent ghosts. Imaginings and phantasms of my labyrinthine, Taurean mind.

But what hope now for a relationship when the golden thread of life is broken? Not even Ariadne’s ball of twine would suffice, to help me traverse a Labyrinth littered with lost opportunities and bitter regret.

I left Knossos, disappointed. Somehow, I felt even more lost than before.

Day Two (August 9th): Iconostasis

One of themselves, even a prophet of their own, said, the Cretians are alway liars, evil beasts, slow bellies. This witness is true. Wherefore rebuke them sharply, that they may be sound in the faith. (St Paul’s Epistle to Titus)

Clearly, the apostle to the Gentiles had had a low opinion of the inhabitants of Crete. Yet by the end of my time on the island, my impression was that - like so many Mediterranean peoples - their 20th century descendants were a good deal more devout than the dour Protestants of northern Europe.

The second day of our holiday was a Sunday. I decided to go to church in the village close to our hotel. I’d never attended an Orthodox service before. In my time at university, most of the evangelical prejudices of my formative teenage years had gradually been chipped away. I wasn’t quite the same little bigot who had visited Liverpool with his parents, and scoffed at their suggestion that he might want to visit ‘Paddy’s wigwam’ - the local nickname for the modernist 20th century Catholic cathedral of Christ the King. The Anglican Cathedral was just about tolerable - but a Catholic place of worship? No way in hell! How shocked my sixteen-year-old self would have been to see me, just five years later, attending a service whose rituals and ceremonies would have made those observed within Frederick Gibberd’s architecturally far more majestic metropolitan cathedral of Liverpool look positively Puritan by comparison…

What really surprised me was how prolonged the service was. Clocking in at three hours, this was worship of a length which would have felt dragged out interminably back home. Admittedly, I’d been to a few Charismatic services that were almost as long - but nothing as arresting or as colourful as this celebration in an unprepossessing Cretan village.

I sat and I watched, fascinated, at each twist and turn in the elaborate liturgy. The old women, dressed in deepest, dusty black, were the most devout - crossing themselves repeatedly, and getting up from time to time, moving around the main body of the church, lighting candles, and offering murmured orisons before the gloriously painted representations of the saints fixed upon each pillar and wall. The first half of the service looked so strange, and sounded so chaotic, to Western eyes and ears - a peculiar hubhub mixture of personal prayer, and public devotion.

At this point in the worship, there were very few men in sight, apart from the priest. He was stern and austere in his bearded magnificence, bedecked in sumptuous vestments, and swinging a magnificent gilded thurible. By turns he would appear and disappear behind the iconostasis - the icon-covered screen that hid the altar from the view of the people. However, there was also a trio of cantors, humbly dressed, who would take turns to wrestle with a peculiar revolving stand, upon which rested the liturgical books from which they sang a capella in a manner that was somehow both bewitching and disconcerting. It felt as if they were undertaking some great endeavour. Somehow, it was almost as if they were labouring with blood, sweat and tears; as if engaged in an atavistic struggle to shape something ineffable in the echoing space between the printed page on the stand, and their far from dulcet voices. Their peasant hands, rough and coarse, spinning the stand, perfectly matched their strenuous tones - yet, after a fashion, from their dogged exertions, something glorious and transcendent was being created. I sat, and I listened, utterly transfixed.

***

The hymns that night were familiar Christmas carols, exulting in the triumph of light over darkness. I’d never as yet attended a service of ‘Midnight Mass’ in person - it was somewhat antithetical to the simpler liturgical practices of my Methodist upbringing. But just as I’d gotten into the habit over the previous few years of listening to the Nine Lessons and Carols from King’s College, Cambridge on the radio, so I’d also begun watching the first Communion of Christmas on television. It was usually broadcast live from some cathedral church or another, sometimes Anglican, sometimes Catholic. In 1986 it was the turn of Clifton Cathedral, Bristol.

O magnum mysterium,

et admirabile sacramentum,

ut animalia viderent Dominum natum,

iacentem in praesepio!

I listened to the words, but my heart was numb. What did this ‘great mystery’ matter to me, who just an hour before had learnt from my mother that our worst fears were certain to come to pass? The surgeons had opened up my father, and discovered that his stomach was riddled with cancer. There was nothing more they could do for him, other than offer some palliative care. They gave him six months, at most. This would be our last Christmas with him.

The responsorial chant continued:

Beata Virgo, cujus viscera

meruerunt portare

Dominum Iesum Christum.

Alleluia!

Beata Virgo. How blessed was it, really, to bear a child you would watch die an agonising death on a cross, thirty-three years later?

And how blessed was it, truly, to be wed to a man who had only just, after the bitter year-long strike, been released from three decades of toil underground with his modest redundancy package, in the hope and expectation of many more years of marriage yet to come; only for that natural presumption of growing older together to be extirpated by this wretched and unseasonably-timed revelation?

My mother had retired to her bedchamber, alone, to contemplate her impending widowhood; my sister remained, for now, unaware, sleeping in blissful ignorance; and silently, how silently, I considered the wondrous gift given, as I watched the celebrant in Bristol elevate the consecrated elements above the high altar, 40 kilometres away - it might as well have been the almost 4,000 kilometres distance between my home and the Little Town itself, for all the ability of this act to give me any solace that night.

And is it true,

This most tremendous tale of all,

Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,

A Baby in an ox’s stall…

And is it true…

…that God was man in Palestine

And lives today in Bread and Wine?

And was it true? That night, I went to my bed hungry, my soul thirsting, unsatisfied, with Betjeman’s timely question ringing in my head.

***

Almost nine months later, the language was different - Greek rather than Latin - but the underlying sentiments were surely the same. Words of adoration had left me unmoved and empty on Christmas Eve, the bleakest midwinter night of my life. But now the flame of faith had quickened again in my heart; and, like Parry, I was glad.

Halfway through the service, to my surprise, the congregation almost doubled in size as a troop of men came in. They had missed the proclamation of the Word, and the priest’s exposition of the Scriptures. I realised, later, that this was perfectly normal. The men, by and large, were perfectly content to appear, unabashed, for what was deemed the high point of the service, the liturgy of communion. Before that, they had gathered in the square outside the church, playing chess, or backgammon, drinking strong coffee and ouzo, and exchanging news and gossip with one another. That was their ‘proclamation of the word.’

I was well-aware of the prohibitions that existed in the Catholic church, and which were practised with particular rigour in Britain, regarding Protestants receiving the Eucharistic sacrament. After three years of moving steadily beyond my sheltered Methodist upbringing, I had become used to receiving the blessed bread and wine at the services of half-a-dozen different denominations. It rankled, somewhat, that I should be denied communion within a Catholic church - ironic, considering my younger self’s avowed hatred of all things ‘Roman’. I assumed that similar restrictions would apply here in Cyprus: for Orthodoxy, after all, was stranger and more exotic still than Catholicism, to your average Protestant believer.

And I was also somewhat self-conscious, knowing that my dress and pale skin-tone gave me away as a tourist, and as an outsider to this little village’s most sacred ceremonies. Their customs were so different, in so many ways, from any form of Christian observance I’d observed previously; even the women crossed themselves in a dissimilar way - right to left - from what I had seen previously amongst Catholics. I clumsily attempted to copy them, in what I hoped would been seen as respect.

How strange, too, this disappearing and reappearing of the priest behind the iconostasis! Hidden from sight, he performed the precise act of consecration: as inscrutable as the life imperceptibly forming in the womb; as veiled as the final corruption of the grave; and as unfathomable, of course, as the pivotal moment of Christianity itself. We forget, so readily, that there were actually no witnesses to the Resurrection of Christ - merely observers of the aftermath.

As I watched the priest, it felt almost as if I was present at the Eleusinian Mysteries, those most famous of the secret religious rituals of classical Greece. At least I had the confidence to believe that my fate would not be that of King Pentheus of Thebes - torn limb from limb by Dionysus’ followers when he had had the temerity to spy upon the Bacchic rites.

Yet, to my surprise, I found myself wordlessly beckoned forward by the priest himself; first to kiss the Book of the Gospels, and then later to receive communion, a fragment of wine-soaked bread on a golden spoon. Here was grace - extended to a stranger - of a kind that I had not expected. And after the service, I had also received a portion of the blessed loaf, the sign of fellowship.

I reflected on my father - who had so often driven me to and from church. Who had never belittled or dismissed my beliefs - even when I had felt too embarrassed to talk about them to him. I thought about the prejudiced, impressionable teenager I had been not so long ago, who would have been horrified to see my present self lining up, with the faithful, to kiss a jewel-encrusted book - Gospel or not - in an act which he would have condemned as detestable idolatry.

I wished I could go back in time, to shake that insufferable, self-righteous prick, and box his ears. I didn’t know how my father had resisted the temptation to do so. I really didn’t.

St Paul - and myself. What did we have in common, one with the other? Arrogance and big-headedness in the extreme, that’s what. Perhaps in time the apostle had grown out of it. Then again - assuming it was authentically Pauline - the letter to Titus condemning the Cretans was supposed to be a rather late composition. So perhaps not. Well, never mind St Paul: I knew I had to learn to put aside such crass intolerance. I just wished my father was still around to see me do so.

Day Three (August 10th): Deus ex machina

Because we’ve smashed their statues,

because we’ve run them from their temples

does not mean that all the gods are dead.

O land of Ionia, they love you still,

it is you their souls remember.

When an August dawn breaks over you

your air pulses with their life,

and sometime the shape of an ethereal youth,

invisible, in rapid flight,

sprints across your hills.

(Constantine Peter Cavafy - Ionic)

The wisdom of holidaying in Crete in August - and an exceptionally hot August, at that - was something I had questioned from the moment we walked off our plane, straight into a hot dry wind that had the feel of a blast furnace. The air was certainly pulsing as we disembarked - the temperature barely dipped below 35 degrees Celsius during the day throughout the span of our vacation, was often above 40 degrees, and remained above 30 degrees even at night. Later, I was to read that Greece that summer had experienced her deadliest heatwave in modern times, with a thousand people dead in Attica alone.

I had planned to visit the archaeological museum in Heraklion on the third day of our holiday. Unfortunately, all the museums and historical sites were closed that day because of a strike. I looked in my guidebook, and noted the nearby ruins of a small amphitheatre where there was no admission fee for tourists. I reasoned that this site, perhaps, would have no attendant staff. Ergo, perhaps I could visit it without hindrance.

My assessment turned out to be a little optimistic. There was a tall wire fence surrounding the site, and the entrance gates were firmly closed. Undaunted, I made my way around the perimeter. Eventually, I found a place where the latticework in the fencing was torn, where it was possible to squeeze underneath.

Beyond the barrier, I faced a steep uphill climb - and was thankful I had brought a sunhat, and an ample supply of water. The ground was dry and withered beneath my feet, but at least Crete had been spared the scrub fires now raging out of control across Rhodes. From the crest of the hill, I was able to gaze down on the far side, surveying the semicircular remains of the amphitheatre.

I began to descend, picking my way slowly and cautiously. I wondered: How many people could this amphitheatre once have held? Many hundreds, perhaps a few thousand. How often, in its heyday, had the crowds gathered here? And what kind of performances had they witnessed?

As a teenager, I’d already read many of the tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, and the comedies of Aristophanes. The first Greek play I’d ever read was Agamemnon, the opening act of the Oresteia - the only complete Greek trilogy of plays that had survived from antiquity. But my favourites were the Theban plays of Sophocles - Oedipus Rex, Oedipus at Colonus and Antigone. Although not a true trilogy, like the Oresteia - having been written at different times, for different occasions - their commonality of theme, dealing with successive events in the history of Oedipus and his family, meant they were often printed and performed together. The previous year, the BBC had broadcast a wonderful new version of the plays, translated by Don Taylor. My VHS recording was already showing wear and tear from being played many times since.

Of all the tragic heroes of ancient Greece, there were none I identified with as much as poor Oedipus. No - not literally - I had never killed my father, nor married my mother. But the idea of a man, who believes himself good, just and wise, and who takes pride in his virtue, gradually learning that he is a victim of a terrible, ineluctable fate; that, for me, held an immensely powerful, and frightening, attraction. Oedipus proclaims: ‘Born thus, I ask to be no other man than that I am.’ A boastful claim? Or the assertion of a man desiring simply to live up to the famous injunction of the Delphic oracle γνωθι σεαυτον (gnothi seauton) - ‘know thyself’?

A third of the way down, I parked myself on the uneven steps of the ancient amphitheatre, lounging beneath the noonday sun. Had the audiences who had gathered here in centuries long past done so in order to remind themselves of the immutable power of nature’s eternal laws? In each retelling of these familiar tales of gods and heroes, of monsters and men, had they seen the patterns of their own lives reflected, replicated and redrawn? As the drama unfolded, did they ponder the universal truths of justice, honour and vengeance, the inevitable pathways of hubris and nemesis? Did they behold the actors playing the parts of Achilles and Iphigenia, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, Jason and Medea, Creon and Antigone, and think to themselves: yes, these men and women are not so very different from us?

But if so - then why the need for masks?

In practical terms, the masks of Greek actors, usually made of wood or leather, served to amplify the voice so that those wearing them could better be heard across the vastness of the amphitheatre; whilst their exaggerated expressions helped to define the characters they played, and made them more discernible even to audience members in the more distant seats. They also allowed the actors to play different roles, even different genders, with greater ease. Each mask, a different persona, with which to face the world.

Most of the time, my father chose to wear the comic mask. He would have been well-suited as a character within one of the humorous, earthy plays of Aristophanes; whereas I, without a doubt, would have found my place within one of the darker dramas of Aeschylus and his fellow tragedians.

But what about the man, and the boy, without the mask - that device that exaggerates and amplifies the persona which we choose to show to those around us? Surely, the real visage hidden beneath is a mix of both comic and tragic, light and dark. The complexities thus concealed are aspects of the true self that we show but to a few: perhaps not even, always, to ourselves. For the temptation to give the lie to the Delphic oracle’s wise injunction remains a strong one.

But in death, the mask is finally frozen, immutable at the very end.

***

Like many of the customs surrounding death which were once routinely observed - the closed curtains, the black armbands, the doffing of caps as the cortege passes by - the ‘viewing’ of the corpse, lying in state, probably seems puzzling to many people these days. We cling to the old customs more than most in the Valleys. The day before Dad’s burial, I visited the funeral parlour. I had done it for my father’s father a year before. Now I did it for him.

The waxy skin of death, with its strange sheen, and bloodless pallor, is hard to describe, to those who have never seen it up close for themselves. One feels as if one is looking at an empty vessel - which, of course, is true, I suppose. The spirit has already departed, and what remains is something that only partially resembles the person you once hugged, with whom you once walked hand in hand, and upon whose shoulders you once delighted to ride; the father who could make you laugh, or cry, just with a look, lying motionless now within his casket, his eyes closed forevermore.

It was odd to see how, in death, the image of my father resembled that of his father more than I had ever noted before. Will that be how it will be for me? Will I, in death, finally look like the man whom I have loved - and yet felt estranged from - more so than any other in my life?

I take a final glance, and whisper my last words of farewell. And now, it’s too late for looks, or for speech. Too late to penetrate beneath the mask of death. Too late, for the son, to perceive the father. Too late, for the father, to truly know the son. The heavy curtain remains in place; and the veil that was not penetrated in life remains impassible in the face of death.

Unless, perhaps, the Deus ex machina can find a way.

***

Euripides, of all the great Greek tragedians, was the master of this dramatic trick, so-called because it involved the literal cranking onto the stage of a machine whereby the actors playing the gods could enter the action. The sun god sends a golden chariot to rescue Medea from Jason in the play that bears her name; and in Alcestis, Heracles appears in similar fashion to save the heroine when she offers her life in exchange for that of her husband Admetus.

Indeed, so often does Euripides resort to this familiar plot device, that Aristophanes was able to parody his fellow thespian’s overuse of it. Aristophanes elevates Euripides on-stage, ‘machina-like’, as a character in his own comic play Women at the Thesmophoria. The tragedian finds himself hoisted by his own dramatic petard, quite literally!

Do we really want a Deus ex machina to save us from ourselves? To tear away the lies, the deceptions, the conventions and the habits, with which we are surrounded? Or does ignorance - of ourselves, and of others - remain bliss? Beyond death, perhaps, ‘God out of the box’ will finally reveal all. Or is that just another form of wishful thinking?

The theatre has fallen silent, and the play is done. The statues in the temple have fallen. Does that mean that the gods are dead too - the new God just as much as the old?

Across the vastness of the amphitheatre, a bellowing voice rang out. I looked down and saw, far below, a security guard. My intrusion into the closed-off archaeological site had been detected.

Suddenly unmasked, I jumped up and hastened back the way I came. Oh, to have the wings and sandals of Hermes to speed my flight! But perhaps, to the guard below, straining his gaze upwards, squinting against the sunlight, it’s as if the shape of an ethereal youth, invisible, in rapid flight, sprints across your hills.

I

The day I died was just an average day.

I remember waking up with the morning sun shining through my bedroom window. I remember how it warmed my back as I got dressed. I even remember stopping for a second, and thinking: ‘Maybe - just maybe - today will be different. Maybe today will be a good day.’ In my heart I knew it wouldn’t be, though.

I grabbed my backpack, and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Breakfast was the same as always: quietly sitting across from Dad without a single word or a ‘Good morning’ being said. I went to the sink, washed my bowl, and grabbed the lunch money off the counter. I remember pausing and turning around a little at the door, hoping for a ‘Have a good day’ - even a wave or smile - but like every other day, it was not to be found.

Oh well, I guess it’s just an average day.

II

I remember waiting for the bus, and the lump in my throat as I saw the bus coming down the road. I knew I would be sitting all alone as I did every day before. As we stopped at each of the kids’ homes, I knew none of them would say ‘Hi’ to me as they walked past me, going to their seat. I remember them all laughing happily behind me.

Oh well, I guess it’s just an average day.

III

In school it was no different. It felt just like so many days before. Running from class to class trying to hide from a couple of bullies that didn’t like me, for some reason I never could figure out.

My luck ran out late in the morning that day. I saw HIM in the hallway waiting for me. I remember thinking: ‘What will it be today? A punch, slap, or kick; spit in my face; or just belittling me with hurtful words.’

As I headed to what had been my life for a couple of years now, something in me snapped, as I thought: ‘Not today.’

As I got closer to him, I heard him say: ‘Come here, and get what you deserve.’ Then he reached out to grab me. I jumped forward, and pushed him as hard as I could; and he fell to the floor, hitting his head on the lockers. I ran to class as fast as I could, and never looked back. I remember sitting in class feeling really good, I even smiled for the first time that day.

I thought: ’Now that I finally stood up for myself maybe - please God - maybe they will leave me alone. Maybe we can even be friends - wow, that would make me so happy...

‘Maybe this will be a better than average day.’

IV

Lunch was usually my most favorite time of the day. I really enjoyed sitting and talking with the couple of friends that I did have. I found out from them that word of what I did was going around the school. I finished most of my cheeseburger, and said to my friends that I’d be right back.

‘I just need to go to the bathroom.’

As I stood at the urinal, I heard the door open. I looked around, and saw it was him. I let out a sigh, and thought: ‘Okay, let’s just get this over with. Whatever it will be - a slap, punch, or typical name-calling.’

As I turned around, I started to say: ‘I am sorry…’ - but he lunged forward, and thrust a knife deep into my stomach six times. I grabbed my stomach with both hands, and fell to the floor. The pain was so bad. As I laid there, trying to breath, all I could think was…

‘This is definitely not an average day.’

V

As I opened my eyes, I remember how confused I was.

I was looking down at myself - so strange, I had never been able to do that before. I was such a mess. Blood was everywhere, and coming out of all the holes in my stomach. I was angry because I saw he had put rips in my favorite shirt.

I could see teachers, policemen and firemen running all around. I wondered why they would not talk to me. I kept asking them questions, but they just kept ignoring me.

‘Oh well, at least it does not hurt anymore.’

Things went dark for a while. With a bump, I woke up in a very strange, cold room. Off in the distance, I could hear my Dad’s voice.

‘Help, Dad - help me, please - I am so cold, Dad.’

I saw Dad standing over me, crying and repeating my name over and over. I had never seen my Dad so broken.

‘What, Dad? What is wrong? I am right here, Dad - please answer me.’

He put his head on my chest and said: ‘I love you so much.’

‘I love you too, Dad - I love you too.’

Why can’t he hear me?

’Wait, stop - please stop - do not pull that sheet over my head. I am scared of the dark. I can’t be dead - I just can’t be - I’m only fourteen. Please, God, please - I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I promise I will be better. Please, God - please give me...

‘Just one more average day.’

***

A story about why we should never allow bullying.

Ethan

As Trent and Will watch from the trees above The hunter takes cover in a tree nearby . All the sudden a pack of wolves go by these are massive in size and Will is amazed at the sight of this group . As the sounds pass and things calm down the hunter climbs down from his nearby tree and now he’s lost the trail of vampires and is frustrated . Will is enamored by this hunter as he looks only slightly older than he is . A young man with nice looking flowing blond hair and an athletic body build . About the time Will gathers himself Trent dropped out of tree and attacked hunter from behind and Will couldn’t let Trent kill him for some odd reason . The hunter was knocked unconscious as Trent went in for the kill Will drops out of the tree and pushes Trent down and away . Will starts hissing at Trent and stands guard over the hunter , Will says to Trent “I’m not gonna let you kill him and I don’t want to hurt you but if you make me I will so please don’t persist Trent “ .

Trent is angry and yells at Will “ Why are you protecting him he’s killed so many of us and he doesn’t give a rats ass if you protect him Will . If he sees a way to kill you at any time he will gladly do it “.

“Let’s just leave him be and get going before he wakes back up “Will says .

“You know you want to find your brothers and I’m the only thing that can take you there so walk away and let me feed on him “ Trent says .

About that time Will bows down and bites his neck “ No now he’s one of us and you cant have him without thinking Will doesn’t know why he turned the hunter into his own living hell from a human other than to save the hunters life “.

“Now you’ve gone and done it you stupid idiot . It is known amongst all us vampires to never turn a hunter into one of us ! Why you do it Will Why ?

“I had to save his life you were gonna kill him and now we don’t have to worry about him hunting us so no harm has been done “Will exclaims .

Let’s just get out of here before he wakes up come on you stupid asshole “.

Will and Trent get going and argue back and fourth as they leave the highly wooded area .

“It will be sunrise soon we need to find a place to go inside “ Trent says .

Not a word was spoken between the two of them as they searched for an abandoned house to rest up in . It took about hour to hour and half to find a quiet out of city cabin that nobody lived in at the time so the two Go inside and look around Trent gives all clear and they quietly just stare at each other . An hour passed sun starts to rise and finally Trent starts to talk “what made you do it Will Why you turn your first human and why him ? “ Trent asks .

“I really don’t know why but I liked him even though he was trying to kill us “ Will says “ he didn’t deserve to die “.

“I thought you liked me but I’m guessing not and you were attracted to the hunter wasn’t you Will admit it “.

“I’m not sure all I know my emotions got the best of me and I didn’t want you to kill him alright damn it “ Will shouts out .

“Well there is a reason we don’t turn hunters into vampires and you will find out soon enough because they don’t stop hunting you Will and he will be pissed because he can’t go back to his friends now they will know he’s one of us now and he will be super aggressive in finding us now even more so and you better hope he never finds you “ Trent explains .

“Want he just be happy I saved his life and stop chasing us now “?

“You silly teenager No! Think about it Will are you not pissed off wanting to find the man that turned you and don’t even say your not wanting to kill him Will I know you already “ Trent says .

“ Damn ! Your absolutely right I don’t know why I was gullible . What do you suggest Trent how will I deal with this situation “?

“ Well you have a few days to figure it out before he turns fully and comes looking for you “ Trent exclaims “for now get some rest we leave at sunset “.

As Will laid down to rest his mind was racing what’s next what will I do and why did I choose him . Was it because I was attracted to him or just instinct ? I guess I’ll figure it all out .

Will was exhausted and finally passed out for his night time .

Time to wake up !

Another day

Eggs bacon hash browns biscuits and gravy.

Eat then go shower .

Get dressed for the day.

Everything starts swirling spinning in my head .

Sudden feeling of hopelessness and anxiety .

What do I do and how to I cope today ?

Can do nothing right it seems ?

Is it because teenage blues or something else?

Everyone close wants me to change and be best I can be.

So much expectations

Nothing less than a ninety for school grades if you make an eight nine or lower your grounded for month.

No dating allowed unless it’s a proper girl .

I can’t chose who I want to be with .

So confusing so messed up.

Peer pressure is difficult .

Parents pressuring me.

Swirling into a black hole deep in my heart and mind .

Will I ever get out of this ?

Will I not ever get to be me ?

Tightness and sadness grip me .

Turning turning someone please help me get off this pattern !

Can I just be me ?

No you can’t you have to change to what everyone else wants you to be .

Why oh why do teenagers have so much pressures ?

Who knows from day to day if I will ever get to escape ?

Can I please for one day be me ?

Can I please have some fun ?

The answer I get is no because you need to be better and to prepare for life .

Depression and anxiety set in .

Time for bed.

Maybe I will get lucky and sleep .

Again I ask when can I just be me ?

Well it’s a new year finally

A new you

A new lease on life

The things you want to change

The things u want to learn

The things you everyday

But wait why do a new you

Why change anything

Why not keep being who you are

Why put yourself through this all

The answer is because I want to

I want to grow not sit back do nothing

Live your life to grow and be even better.

Always strive for the best you that you can be .

Here’s to 2020 and a new fresh start

On the making of you .

Go get them and show them

You rock the world !

Taken to soon from me

It was a fateful night

Sitting around the tree

Having one of your favorite hot chocolates full of marshmellow creams

You said be back shortly and don’t worry

Watching Santa Claus is coming to town on tv

As time passed you didn’t return . I worried about where you could be

Then the fateful knock on the door

Policemen at the door with news of your accident on highway intersection

I would never feel your hug of kiss or hear you say I love you never again after that fateful night .

My life forever changed on that December night .

The funeral came and went as we all said our goodbyes as forever you would lie in your grave silent as could be til you ascended into heaven .

Dad I love you so much and miss you so much every Christmas .

A piece of me is missing at Christmas every year and no one will ever replace you as my father ever no matter how much they yell and scream and try to make me . I have but one dad that is you forever and ever you live in my heart and I love you very very much .

I hope u r proud of me daddy

I try not to disappoint you ever.

Merry Christmas season dad may you always know how much you are missed and loved .

Mom...... can you tell me why we have no tree or no gifts this year for Christmas and where my daddy is ? Asked little Joey Porter .

“Son ..... daddy left us and took all our money and we have to be out after Christmas from our house because I can’t afford it and I’m sorry babe but I just can’t get you anything and it’s to late to get help as Christmas will be here soon “ mom said heartbroken.

“Why did this all happen does daddy not love us anymore and where will we stay after Christmas “ Joey says as tears flow down his cheeks .

“I don’t know why he left son and we will stay in our van together “ mom said back .

“Was it my fault he left us alone , I’m sorry momma that I wasn’t good enough I really am “ Joey says back sobbing now.

“It’s not your fault baby at all he just didn’t want to be a family no more “ mom cries back .

They sit around hugging each other as the electricity gets turned off as they had no money to pay the bill . It’s a cold dark place but the love they had for each other mother and son will get them through at least that’s way Mom was looking at it .

“Joey time to go to bed bundle up son stay as warm as you can “. Mom said .

Joey ran upstairs and went to his room looked at some of his stuff lit two candles to lighten up his room .

He looked out his window at all the neighbors houses were all lit up with bright beautiful lights and he just wondered to himself why life is so unfair .

He was teased by neighborhood kids because his dad left with another woman and he didn’t have nothing of real value .

About then his one true friend Preston called him on his walkie talkie “ Joey come in Joey are you there” through walkie talkie.

“Hi Preston not in mood to talk tonight hope you have a great Christmas my friend thanks for being so nice to me I’m going to miss you when I’m gone”said Joey .

“I will miss you too but first my mom and dad want you two to come to lunch tomorrow if you can come “

“Sorry we can’t mom says we have to load up car with our clothes and get out by night time but thanks for asking “ Joey said “over and out “.

Joey decides to lay there and enjoy his few things he has and say goodbye to them . He cries as he missed his dog chubs they gave him to a friend as they couldn’t have him in the car . He missed his best friend . He thought about what the future held for him as he had no idea where or what was going to happen to them.

He drifts off to sleep saddened .

Joey is awaken by strange noises at 2am and looks around and doesn’t see anything at all and goes to the bathroom . As he was stumbling back to his room he swore he heard lots and lots of noise he checks on his mom and she’s sound asleep hmmmm I’ll go back to bed myself .

Joey went back to bed and fell back asleep he missed cuddling with his dog so much .

He slept until probably 7 o clock as he heard the neighborhood kids playing with there new gifts outside in the steady falling snow .

He goes to the bathroom and it’s freezing in house then goes and jumps in his moms bed .

“Merry Christmas mom I love you so much ,he gives her big kiss and hug “.

Mom wakes and kisses him back “Merry Christmas baby I’m sorry .....”

“Shhhsh stop it’s ok I’m alright we have each other and I love you very very much “ Joey says .

Let’s get going a lot to get ready for when we have to leave “ mom says

They get up get dressed and start getting clothes together “mom can you get me another trash bag for my clothes from kitchen “.

“Sure thing be back in minute , Joey hurry come here now did you do this “ mom screams

Joey dropped what he was doing and about then the power came on as he was heading down the stairs .

“Mom we have lights....... what the heck “? Joey says puzzled

“Where did all this come from “? Joey ask as before him was a decorated tree with lights and all and all around was presents . One was moving under the tree addressed to Joey . Joey ran over with bow on a vented box and he just falls on floor crying as out came his chubby . He loved on him and kissed him “ I thought I lost you boy .... mom how and why “ the doorbell rang it’s our landlord Mrs. Wilcox .

“We are about to get car loaded and leave I promise “ mom says hurriedly .

“ you will not be going anywhere your staying at least six months more no rent Merry Christmas “says mrs Wilcox “I could not let you and Joey be homeless as it’s not your fault he abandoned the two of you and I’m paying the utilities so it should allow you to get a job get on your own two feet “.

Joey and his mom run over to her hug her and thank her and doorbell rings.It was all the neighbors with Tommy and his parents carrying armfuls of food .

“Well I couldn’t let my best friend be alone on Christmas so I brought a few friends with me “ Tommy said .

“Thank you all for coming what a wonderful surprise “ Joeys mom says

The neighborhood kids spokesperson Ronnie begins to speak to Tommy “we are sorry we made fun of you about your dad and y’all for not having any money that’s why we all got you gifts too so you wouldn’t have to go without Christmas gifts “

Joey is crying with happy tears “thank you all so much this is the best Christmas I have ever had “.

Now everybody lets go eat and spend this Christmas Day together.

You see Joey learned a valuable lesson this day as long as you stay true to yourself you can get through anything that comes along against you. He now has his home his baby and not only his friend still he now has many new friends .He and his mom will stay together in there nice warm home . Merry Christmas everybody and remember if you can help someone out please do !

“Good morning Mike remember I told you I’d be waiting for you this morning so you could teach me better on how to take care of a farm “ said Peter.

“ Well I’m kinda shocked to see you here this early really I didn’t think you would be up before noon but ok let’s get this day started “ Mike said .

First I go around get the eggs from the chickens feed them clean up the houses there in and don’t make fun of me for talking to them okay “

“It’s so cool how you treat them and sing to the birds it put me in a good mood for sure too “ said Peter.

Well next up mike took Peter to the cows milking stage so he could show him how to put milking machines on them fourth of them and yes he talked with each one . While they were being milked Mike showed him how to clean up pig pens and feed them all there slip . Next up was onto the horses combing and cleaning and loving on each horse . It amazed Peter how Mike spent time with each one talking and loving them as he went through his task . He then feeds each one of them hay and horse feed and waters them .

“Wow Mike you are so awesome and sweet to each of the animals I’m reall impressed “ said Peter .

“I feel it’s important these animals feel loved and appreciated for what they contribute to our farm plus I’m attached to them “ Mike says happily .

It’s time for a lunch break now and we can relax a bit I packed us some sandwiches chips drinks let’s go out by pond to eat really” Mike said smiling .

“Sounds good to me I’m hungry and ready for a drink “ Peter replies back.

“ hey Mike, can I ask you something have you ever fell in love with anyone yet “?

“Well no I haven’t met anyone good enough yet that excited me or showed any interest in me really. I had a crush before but sadly never acted on it before person moved away . Why you ask did you yet “? Mike asks .

“Well yes I have had a few before but I have a crush on someone now , I just don’t know if they would go for me “ said Peter .

“You’ll have to tell me later as we have to get busy again Peter “

As Mike put away lunch stuff and walked around pickup truck Peter watched him with admiration and he had twinkle in his eye as he saw a well built handsome boy his age walked around . His crush was on Mike but he didn’t know what to do or if mike would accept he had feelings for him .

“Hey mike I have to go home for now Evan is watching spending time and learning I’ll talk to you later ! Thanks for lunch “.

“Hi there Mike are you having a good day so far “ Evan ask .

“It’s been busy so far hop in I have to go fix some fences and look for coyotes now come on “ mike said .

They drive around looking for stray coyotes and damage to any of the fences and talk to each other about life things in general . Mike finds a fairly big section of fence that needs to be fixed and stops truck and gets out to survey the damage . As Mike walks up to the fence Evans heart pounds wow so hot very smooth and he’s great looking . He gets lost looking at Mike’s butt in tight jeans when he’s interrupted silently “ you gonna help me or what lol. “ Mike said “or are you going to day dream “?

“I’m coming be right there “ he had to calm down a bit before he got out to help Mike as he didn’t want Mike to know he was turned on by him .

They worked and worked on the fence for what seemed like the whole day when suddenly Evans phone rings and his mom tells him she needs him home . “Sorry Mike I gotta go home my mom needs me but thank you for having me over “ Evan says nervously “see you later ok” .

As Evan walks towards home he stops when Mikes not looking and checks him over really good and smiles and continues on his way .

Mike finishes up on fixing the fence and putting supplies back in truck bed and hears another voice “hi Mike it’s me Scott I come over to finish up with you my dad said we all three need to learn farming better “

“ wow ok it’s nice you guys tell me who you are because I still get confused by you three whose who lol “ Mike says laughing .

They hop into truck head back to house and all the animals and mike plays with the dogs and sheep’s and goats and feeds them all .

“ I just don’t see how you have time to play with all of them and feed them your amazing “ Scott says.

Mike goes and gets water hose so he can water all of them for the night and Scott watches him with dreamy eyes as inside he is tingling because Mike is so hot and he has crush on him bad . Scott talks to himself about Mike in his head “omg if i could just walk up to him kiss him and hold that tight butt of his in my hands mmmmm I’d be so happy “ . He shakes it off and helps Mike as he continues his chores .

“Well let’s go inside mom has supper ready to eat “ said Mike

“I have to go home but thank you Mike say hi to your mom for me ok “ Scott says as he hurried down the dirt road back towards his house and he has to adjust himself as he walks .

After a quick supper mike heads up to his room and does his school work for the day and writes in his journal about his day with the triplets . He is very very happy he has new friends and they spend time with him . As he finishes up his day it’s time for nice relaxing hot shower to get cleaned up . He takes his clothes off and hops into shower and suddenly he hears noise in his room he tries to see who or what it is and catches one of the triplets peeking in bathroom .

“Hello can I help you why you looking at my butt through glass door “? Mike says quizfully .

He looks again after he gets soap out of his eyes but whomever it was is gone . He dries off and goes into bedroom and wonders which of the three it was . “ Maybe I was just seeing things if so wonder why I thought it was one of the triplets “.

He decides to lay down but he is puzzled as he drifts off to sleep.

Outside in the cold it’s starting to look a lot like Christmas time.

Lights on houses with sparkling displays of wonder .

The smell of Christmas cookies and pies baking is in the air.

It’s cold enough to see smoke from you breathing .

Snow falls once or twice a week to make it winter wonderland .

The sounds of Christmas music playing loudly .

Christmas shows on tv networks surely means it’s nearing .

Children hustling and bustling to do things without being asked .

Must be trying to get on Santa’s good list .

Cozy nights snuggled up to your loved one in front of a warm fire where chestnuts might be roasting !

Christmas trees and decorations going up !

These are all signs of Christmas nearing so enjoy the season and countdown the days until Christmas !

Merry holidays and seasons greetings to all and to all a good night !

As we were about to start school after a short very hot Summer break , I couldn't help but think about how things were now . I'm going into high school , wow, that blows my mind . I'm kinda nervous about it so my mom said ok to a sleepover of my two best friends in the world Barrett and Kenny .

I'm at an awkward stage in my life . I have a crush on both of my friends I have never acted on it because I am told I have to like girls because I'm told that's how things work your nothing or nobody without a girlfriend. But why am I having these feelings and fantasies of being with both of my best friends? I don't dare say nothing or act on it though because mom and dad say it's ungodly to love another guy if your a guy and won’t happen in this lifetime!

Our pastor preaches on evils of being in love with same genders and hell and brimstone will rain down on them . So you see that's why I'm confused religion and parents and society say it's wrong but I can't shake these feelings .

Kenny and Barrett arrive we instantly decide to go riding on our bikes to skate park and do some tricks . It's so hot we all strip down to shorts and do tricks for awhile a lot of kids show up on skateboards so we decide to go to our favorite fishing and swimming spot for a quick swim . We strip down to our underwear and jump in lol we play Marco Polo and tag your it . Swimming under the water I bump into Barrett's body and he throws me off balance so I grab him and won't let go . We wrestle a bit in the water trying to dunk each other until Kenny came over and dunked us both . The town bully shows up and starts hollering names at us and steals our shorts shirts .

Now ...... what are we gonna do guys? Kenny pops off and laughs , we are gonna bike home in our undies through downtown and all lol . it'll be fun ..... if anyone says anything just wave back say have a good day with smile boys will be boys after all .

Ok fine lol we biked through town undies soaked showing our butts off for all to see the church deacon said to boys go get clothes on don't embarrass us boys we smile waved thanks Mr. Brown laughing whole time . We get to my house and my mom is appalled go get you some more clothes on right now all of you boys . But mom it's not our fault junior stole them from us . Well you boys shouldn't been undressed in public anyways ,hurry along .

We go inside change and can't help but to look at Barrett and Kenny they look so hot to me it's hard to not say anything to them .

We hurry up finish getting dressed and go upstairs to the kitchen . You guys ready for supper yet I'm ordering in pizzas y'all can go back downstairs and play games and eat chill out we will leave you alone ok enjoy your night together boys .

I was so excited pizza and games what more could I ask for two of the handsomest best friends in my room all night how can I contain myself . My heart is racing faster and faster .

We eat our pizza play around as we eat talking about other girls and boys in school and what we are looking forward to in school this year. Kenny went to get soda from fridge I was playing my game when barrett grabbed me and started playing he kissed me up and down body from my feet to my head I was so shocked and happy he just said were boys we just play around a bit I like you a lot Sweeney and So does Kenny . When I spend the night at Kenny’s we play around all night nothings wrong with that is there ? Ummm...no I guess not but in eyes of everyone it is wrong so I don’t do it .

About that time Kenny comes back in now it’s time to get this party on ! Let’s play truth or dare ! But first we all have to get undressed fully !

Omg what Kenny. ? Are you not afraid of being caught ? No I’m not your mom said she’s leaving us alone all night so we can play video games so don’t be afraid ! I’ll go first Barrett truth or dare ? We must have played for hour or so laughing having fun together it was great fun . We all decide to sleep on pallet of blankets together as we watch a scary movie, we attempted to watch a movie who knew how much three first time high schoolers could have . We all put pjs back on so we wouldn’t get in trouble in morning . We kissed hugged snuggled cuddled all night . Many more adventures awaited us throughout the coming year and I knew that this year would be one of the most awesomest years yet . Who will I end up being with this year ? Will it be Kenny or Barrett or somebody I haven’t met yet ? I’m so excited ! Whatever happens I will most definitely have to keep it to myself because mom and dad won’t understand . One more day till school starts again . I see off my friends then decide it’s time to do some internet searching reading about how I’m feeling and if it is ok to be the way I am . On the first page I come to it says it’s just a phase boys go through this phase sometimes curiosity is expected . Okay there I go so I don’t need to panic yet whew what a relief !

I can’t wait to get to school tomorrow it will be so amazing !