Wheels from Another Time

Cars are iconic masterpieces.  Besides the fact that somehow we have the technology to make four wheels spin in perfect unison, they are also beautiful works of art.  When we think back, especially in recent American times, cars have a certain look based on the period in which they were made.  And the time between the 1960s and the 1980s yielded some of the most strikingly American cars to this day.  But why, when shopping for a car, would you ever consider buying an old car without all the bells and whistles of a modern one?  You’d buy it because classic cars are unique, simple, and they give you a one of a kind identity that you simply cannot achieve with a run-of-the-mill modern car.

Most classic cars are one of a kind. You won't ever have trouble distinguishing your car from the other boring ones sitting in the parking lot. The uniqueness of a classic car is what most people find attractive about them; the fact that no one else on the road is driving the same wheels as you. Also, the changes and modifications you can make to an older car, as a personal statement, are limitless and something you simply can’t opt for with most modern cars.  Think about that special paint job you could give your 1965 Mustang--a candy apple red, or racing stripes, or flames on the hood--or, those spoke rims you want desperately for your 1949 Cadillac.  Modify the engine of your 1952 Ferrari to have more horsepower. The possibilities are endless.  With new cars, unless it’s a multimillion-dollar sports car, no matter what, there’s going to be another car exactly like it driving around somewhere.  Classic cars are not for everyone, but if you’re looking for something that says, “Hey this is my car and no one else’s,” an older, vintage car is just what you want.  Just the fact that there are fewer of these cars on the road, makes it a unique experience to own one.  To celebrate the uniqueness of these cars there is even an entire social scene associated with owning these relics: classic car shows and events; clubs dedicated to certain models; classic car rallies, and more. You can't get much more one- of-a-kind than by being a member of the 1967 GTO club.  

You may lose some fancy bells and whistles with an older car, but some would look at that as a relief.  There’s nothing to distract you, nothing making things happen without your say. You have complete control. In new cars, there are sensors that beep when you get too close to an object, which is a great feature, except when the sensors don’t work. When the sensors fail and you have developed a reliability on them, you will probably hit someone while backing out of a parking space.  In addition, the sensors are incredibly conservative, beeping like mad when you're still three feet away from the object.  In some new ford models, there is a new technology that actually stops the car for you if there is something in front of you; it also forces you to stay in the lanes unless your blinker is on.  Again, all of this is great for the perception of safety, unless the system fails and you find yourself smashing into things because you expected the car to stop by itself. If the car is driving itself, it takes all of the joy from the driving.  With an older car, you won’t have any of these things to rely on. You know the vehicles limitations and you are the only one responsible for controlling it. That seems a million times safer to me, no gadgets doing things for you, just you and your hands on the wheel.  New cars have displays, which allow you to operate a GPS, change the radio station, browse the Internet while driving, and even text on your in car display.  Do you really want all that distracting you from the one thing that requires 100% of your attention, driving? In fact, over the past few years the number of deaths involving texting while driving, has doubled those involving DUIs.  All this technology in new cars could be contributing to more distracted and unsafe driving. In addition, with modern cars, if anything breaks, even the tiniest thing, you practically need to be an electrical engineer to have any hope of fixing it. So, you take it to the dealer and they fix it for a ridiculous price because they know you can't fix it.  With an older car and a little bit of knowledge and determination, you can fix every single part of that car. Because engines back then were simpler, less mechanically complicated, and there was more space to work. Classic cars offer the owner the opportunity to fix every piece of it himself. Not only is it great to fix things yourself, but also knowing that if it breaks you can fix it, is incredibly rewarding.  With no distractions and useless nonsense, a classic car is safer and far easier to maintain.    

Sadly, in our modern world, you are what you drive.  People judge you on the model of your car, how clean it is, and how much you take care of it.  So, why not use that to your advantage?  With an older classic car, you can paint a picture of anything you want, except, boring.  You can be the cool guy with 1967 Camaro and leather jacket or the classy aristocrat in a suit driving a 1956 Rolls Royce.  When owning a classic, you are connected with it in on a personal level.  Whether your long lost uncle gave it to you, you rebuilt it with your own hands, or you just take care of it with a passion, it is all yours and you’re proud of it.  When people think of you, it will be you and your car they see.  Long time Tonight Show host, Jay Leno, an avid classic car collector, owning over 100 vintage models himself, explains it well.

“A few years back I received a letter from a woman in her 90s; she'd gotten married in a 1951 Hornet. In fact, it was the only car she and her husband had ever owned. After he died in 1996, the Hornet was parked in her garage. I went to look at it. Physically, it was fine. Mechanically, it was worn out. It had gone more than 260,000 miles. But it was all there. Every receipt was in the glove compartment. So I bought the Hornet. But really, I was buying the story more than I bought the actual car.” --Popular Mechanics, October 1, 2009

Up until recently, cars were designed with the intention of giving their owners a certain look and style.  “If one had to define the essence of a classic car,” Leno continued, “form over function would certainly have to be at the core of this definition.” Back then, the cars were first designed for a “look.”  The design was then given to the engineers and it was their job to make it drive.  The finished product was a car specifically designed for its looks: think the 1968 Stingray, or a 1963 Shelby Cobra, or the 1964 Astin Martin DB5.   For some people, it’s also a form of therapy having something to take care of,” Leno states.  “You don’t see classic cars in therapist’s parking lots.”  I wonder if today’s children will grow up with fond memories of their family car. I don’t think they will.  Forty years ago, cars were icons.  You bought them to make memories and to drive for as long as possible.  Today’s cars are built to be used, broken down, and then recycled back into the system.  The result is a car that has no originality because there are so many exactly like it driving around.  People drive and own modern cars with the mindset of “Oh when this car breaks down, I’ll just buy a new one.” they have no connection with their car besides that it gets them from point A to point B.  I would even question how this affects people’s driving, when they have little or no care for the automobile they are sitting in. I know I would be a safer driver if I was driving a car I had poured my heart into and was one of kind. Owning a classic can not only bring you personal joy and connection, but it could indeed change your entire perspective on driving.    

I’m not saying a classic is for everyone, that’s impossible.  But, if you’re the kind of person who wants something original, uncomplicated, and that you can identify with on a personal level, then a classic car is exactly what you’re looking for.

 

         

Dracula Vs. Frankenstein

Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein are two of the most well known and widely recognized fictional stories ever written. They were also some of the first science fiction and horror novels.   After reading the two books, I was struck by the grotesqueness of both monsters in the stories.  Count Dracula was a far more terrifying antagonist, however, because of his choice to be evil, his actions against humanity, and his manipulative characteristics.

The legend states that Count Dracula was known as Vlad III, “The Impaler.”  He was a brutal man from the region of Transylvania, in Hungary, who had a reputation for impaling his enemies on wooden stakes.  When his father Dracul summoned him to war against the Ottoman Turks, Vlad could not refuse. Leaving his beloved wife behind, he rode to war. While Vlad was away, false letters of his death reached his wife. In her bitter sadness of losing her beloved, she threw herself from the castle walls and into the river.  Vlad returned victorious from the battle only to find his wife had taken her own life.  In his mad rage, he swore everlasting vengeance on humanity for its cruelty.  He made the choice to consume human blood and, in doing so, became something other than a man, a vampire with an everlasting life filled with death and murder, forever spent in the shadow.  Dracula chose and sealed his fate without a second thought. The monster created by Victor Frankenstein, however, was different.  Essentially, the monster was a victim; a victim of the carelessness shown by his creator.  Victors only aim was to create life, he cared nothing for “the life” he created.  Almost as soon as he had created life, Victor rejected it, by shunning the monster and abandoning it to a world that would never accept him. Society too, judged the monster by his gruesome appearance and not by his actions, for the monster was by no means evil by nature.  In the beginning the monster was kind and did what he could to help people.  He even saved a girl from drowning in a river, but still people were too blind to see him for who he was. When the monster discovered that a family of peasants was poor and in need he gathered food and firewood for them. Sadly his kindness was only repaid with words of disgust and looks of fear from the family. At one point, the monster befriended an old blind man, until the man’s family returned and chased the monster away.  The monster never meant to be a killer, he tried his very best to befriend and help those he met.  Dracula would only be kind to you if he needed you to do something for him, or he was about to drain you of all blood.  

Dracula was a killer, every death he caused brought him one step closer to his sinister goal of world domination.  Dracula wanted a vampire dominant world and he was willing to drain the blood of a countless victims to get it.  Everyday, Dracula needed the blood of a newborn baby, just to keep him looking healthy.  Dracula enjoyed it, he enjoyed sucking the blood from his victims, every look of pain or fear he made appear on someones face, he relished.  It was a lust to him, something he longed for and enjoyed.  When Dracula turned the young lady Lucy into a vampire, he did it with such tenderness and care, but afterwards he threw Lucy aside without a second thought.  Frankenstein's monster, killed out of desperation.  The monster was lost and alone in a world that didn't want him.  The monster did murder Victor's younger brother, but it was so Victor would feel the same pain and loneliness that the monster felt and to force Victor to evaluate the monsters existence. Later, the monster killed a young girl whom Victor had grown close to.  All of this was because Victor abandoned the monster in a world that wasnt ready to and probably never would accept him. On top of that, he demanded Victor create him a mate,  so that the he would no longer be alone.  In hopes of ending the killings,  Victor began doing just that, but midway through, he began to have fears of an entire race of monsters being born.  So, Victor took the half-made monster and dumped it into the ocean.  When the monster saw this, he retaliated out of pain and anger and murdered Victor's wife, not out of anger, just so that Victor would know how it felt to lose someone he cared for.

Count Dracula loved to treat everything as if it were simply a game.  He relished toying with his victims minds. Watching them slowly fall under his spell, gave him a rush of exhilaration and seeing them lose their minds made him smile.  for example, when John Harker visits Count Dracula at his estate in Transylvania, his entire castle was set up to drive Harker mad.  Harker is picked up from the town by a carriage with a driver that never utters a word.  That’s an odd way to greet someone. The driver takes him up into the mountains by a snow covered and overgrown road.  Once reaching their destination, in the middle of nowhere, Harker notices the castle. It casts an ominous presence instilling fear, with ivy covered walls and stone gargoyles looming in the shadows. Dracula tells Harker he is welcome to go anywhere in the castle, yet more than half the doors he finds are locked. Harker immediately questions what is behind those doors, adding an element of anxiety to his already fearful mind.  Harker discovered a dark dusty room full of coffins, he investigates further and finds that none other than his host, the count, is sleeping in one. Not being able to take anymore, Harker tells the count that he needs to leave.  Dracula bids him farewell, but when the door is opened for Harker, the entire courtyard is full of massive snarling wolves.  Harker runs back inside and for the remainder of his stay the howl of the beasts never ceased.  The castle that welcomed him, had now become a prison.  Later in the story, in London, Harker has organized a group to hunt down and ultimately kill Dracula.  But Dracula shows his cunning manipulation once again by turning the fiance of one of the group members into a vampire, in hopes of demoralizing his adversaries and scaring them off his trail.  The behavior shown by Frankenstein’s monster was all a reaction to the hostility he faced when encountering others and especially his maker.  If anything, Victor was the one instigating and manipulating the monster.

Both monsters are extremely scary, Im not trying to make Frankensteins monster seem meek, but as you can see Dracula was a far more terrifying antagonist, with his cunning brutality and the horrible crimes he committed.  He manipulated and killed to get his way without a second thought. Frankensteins monster was pushed into the things he did and was never evil by nature.  For these reasons, Dracula was the most memorable and captivating.        

Les Misérables du Tristan

Three years ago, my parents moved my baby sister and I out of our lovely two-story home in Woodinville, Washington and brought us to sunny Atherton, California.  At first, I hated it, but after three years of living there I learned to love the warm weather and wonderful coastal cities.  Then, out of nowhere, my folks dropped another bomb and this time a much bigger one. We were moving to France and ultimately England. At first it didn’t seem real. I thought of it as a joke, but then things became very real, very fast.  From then on, I was scared.  The day we first arrived in France, my life was over. I was depressed. I hated the place we lived, but, in the end, it made me a stronger and more capable person.   

The plane bumped and jittered as it first touched down on the barren tarmac. The fasten seatbelt sign dinged off and the cabin came alive with groggy bodies. I dimly walked through the airport and stepped out into the cold to be received by the waiting car.  I rolled down my window and felt the cold air on my face, but I was too absorbed inside myself to even notice the amazing city around me. I overlooked the hustle and bustle of evening life, the rich aroma of coffee that wafted out of an open café door, the foreign language all the people spoke with such elegance. Even the historic buildings and snow-capped Alps were all invisible to me. Instead of sitting in awe of these marvels, I rolled up the window and fell asleep content to wallow in my misery for a while longer.  Even my dreams seemed to taunt me with visions of home and memories of times past.  I awoke sometime later in yet another strange and mysterious world.  The car was stopped in an icy driveway; Moonlight splashed on the ground giving it a milky appearance. The ice seemed to be alive constantly drifting in and out of shadow, as if it where a living breathing being.  I opened the car door and the cold almost knocked me over, as if I’d hit a brick wall. It made my skin tingle, almost like pin pricks.  I took a step and almost fell flat on my face as I skidded my way towards a drab looking house where I was to live for the next six months

It appeared as a simple two-story log house to me, but inside it was a luxurious French chalet with furs and fine furniture. Still, my eyes saw it, but none of it existed. I couldn’t accept that. Yet, for no real reason at all, I hated that place.  Even though so many amazingly exquisite objects surrounded me, from the furry cow hide covering the gray slate floor, to the plush leather couch that looked like it would envelope me if I sat on it.  Still, I shunned them for the simple fact that they were not home. A wooden spiral staircase wound its way upward. The wood looked worn and polished my many feet.  None of it mattered; none of it was really there; none of it was home.  As my room, I chose a small loft nestled above the kitchen. It was tucked away up in the rafters and I felt as if I could escape from all the drama up there. In one corner, was a small bed draped with a red duvet, but it only reminded me of how much I missed my own warm bed.  In another corner was a desk made of a hard and rustic looking wood with strange patterns winding their way over its surface.  I solemnly unpacked my meager possessions and placed them gingerly on the desk; my laptop, a major league baseball, a camera and a large hunting knife my uncle had given me. These five things were my little piece of home.  There was a skylight in the slanted roof that was covered by snow, so from up here the outside world didn’t exist.  I liked that. It made me feel as if no one could touch me; as if I could hide from the sadness.  Overcome with jetlag and homesickness I climbed in bed and drifted off into a troubled sleep.

I opened my eyes and was greeted by a brilliant blue sky, and sun had melted away last nights dusting of snow. I rose and began carefully climbing down the ladder made of soft pine to the kitchen.  The stone floor was cold to the touch and sent a shiver up my spine.  No one else was awake, so I made myself some breakfast, sat down and let my mind wonder wherever it would go. The fresh French pastries my dad had bought on the way from the airport were delicious, but I didn’t dare acknowledge that.  As the sun appeared over the snow-covered mountains, I decided to go for a walk.  I grabbed my coat and stepped outside into a world of frost and icicles. The reflections from the sunlight blinded me at first and made my eyes sting. The bitter cold made my chest hurt with each inhalation and the clouds made by my breath froze onto things.  Though I was surrounded by boundless icy wonder, it still took me months to realize it was there.

April came, four months since we first landed.  I finally came to terms with my new reality. Running through the crystalline forest everyday helped me feel better about myself, as exercise always does.  I began spending a lot of time taking pictures of the small, yet, beautiful winter birds. Their colors were amazingly contrasted against the wintery background. There were so many species that I had never seen before and I loved cataloging them, finding their foreign names, and learning their songs.  I learned things about myself I never knew before. I learned how to deal with tremendous amounts of change; through my solitary 6-mile runs in the forest that started out as an escape, I discovered running as a gift to help me cope with stress and encourage me to be more independent.  Most of all I learned ways of being resilient when times get tough.  I learned I was capable of anything, if I set my mind to it.  I still was bitterly homesick, but I Skyped my friends Isaiah and Jeremy and they brought me the news from back home. 

A part of me was afraid that if we went back home all my friends would have forgotten me; that they’d throw aside past memories. I overcame the depression that was consuming me with my running and pursuit of being out in nature. I started to appreciate were we lived and what my new home had to offer. Yes, my parents moved me across the world. Yes, I missed my friends bitterly.  But my eyes had finally opened and I was willing to see and enjoy the world around me and ultimately became a stronger person because of these things.  I remember watching the first drops of water drip off an icicle and feeling warm for the first time in months.  

Two Silhouettes

Two silhouettes where in front of me, I didn’t want them there, for they where the wall holding me back from my desires.  Shining beams of light highlighted the room behind them in a wintery crispness.  The light bounce of the gleaming silver handle, hitting my face and embellishing it in warm light. The things in front of me wouldn’t let me have my desires, and therefore they where my enemies

Desires

I want a Chevy impala

I want a black Chevy impala

I want it so bad I’d murder for it

I hunger for it

A shiny one with a loud engine

I want to drive it down Main Street with AC/DC playing

I want to drive it across the country and take my friends along

For the ride

I want to smell the old leather and think of ages past

I want to work on the engine, rebuild it with my own hands, feel the slime of the oil

I want to love that car

I want that to be the car I always remember

Watcher, a short story.

Watchers

Snow fell softly covering the tracks he so dearly needed to follow.  He cursed quietly to himself for not heeding the warnings sooner.  The snow began to fall slightly harder muffling his footsteps and giving the forest a sense of muted white, as if all color was gone from the world.  Suddenly, there lying in the path of the footprints was a body of a man.  A sheen of ice coated the dead man’s face giving him an almost angelic appearance. The dark tattered clothes of the corpse were covered in a dusting of snow.  He knelt down and gently brushed the layer of ice off the dead mans face. “I’m sorry” he sobbed; “I could have saved you.” He sat there looking down at the body, as if he had nothing left to live for. There was a small voice in the back of his mind whispering to him that something was amiss.  He stood up slowly and turned.

There, resting against a tree was a feather. It was not an ordinary feather though. Every time he moved or took his eyes away it changed colors, shifting from a wintery blue to a blood-like crimson.  He leaned over to pick it up.  Something stopped him; it was as if a higher power was urging him to leave it where it was.  Instead of heeding the warnings, as he normally would have, he threw them to the back of his mind and gracefully scooped up the feather.  He held it with the tenderness of a man who had lost much.

He glimpsed something else shimmering beneath the snow. The man bent down, as he reached for it, the feather, as if of its own accord, floated out of his hand, and buried its quill in the snow.  He reached over to pick it up. The second his fingers touched, the feather dissolved into the snow.  With a cry of anguish the man began digging frantically in the hopes he would find it.  Suddenly he felt something, but his hopes where dashed, for he had only uncovered a sheet of ice. Sobbing he covered his face with his hands, content to wallow in his defeat.  A scratching sound, almost as if a cat where sharpening its claws, interrupted his grief.  He looked around but saw nothing.  Prepared to descend back into his failure, he glanced down and there it was scrawled in the ice. 

He grew tense and looked up at the stars, then collapsed on the ground, motionless.  His body was never discovered.

Chapter 1

Ferrin sat up with a snap drenched in cold sweat. After a moment of horrific panic, he calmed down.  The dreams had been worse then usual this past week, as if the demons that haunted him had been angered by something. He in vain tried to drift back to sleep, but restlessness urged him to start his day early.  He rose up and dawned his many layers of clothing so as not to freeze the moment he stepped outside.  Ferrin was not a big man but he had a wiry strength about him that people often underestimated.  Strapping on a peculiar looking sword, he stepped out into the predawn twilight; the sound of snow crunching under his boots was the only thing to break the silence.  He glanced up at the flag flying from the battlements. It was rippling vigorously in the biting wind, so it was a strain to depict the black snake silhouetted by a wintery blue, the lord of the castle’s coat of arms.

Ferrin stalked over and began quietly tapping on the barracks door, slowly with much grumbling the rest of the ranger corps staggered awake. “Saddle your horses,” whispered Ferrin. “ We must be away before the guards get back to there posts, Gillian’s orders.”  His commands where quickly obeyed as he went to get his own horse. His horse’s name was Vapor and had been gifted to Ferrin when he was a mere colt. He was a large gray Destriar, though he could outrun the fastest sprinter. 

Ferrin saddled his horse and went to meet the rest of the corps by the East gate.  The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges, Ferrin drew up his color in an attempt to keep the biting wind away.   They silently led their horses across the clearing headed for the near by forest.  With an unsaid command they saddled up and at a brisk trot disappeared into the falling snow.  By the time the sentry’s had changed posts, the falling snow had already erased all traces of there leaving.

Ferrin pushed them at a brisk pace until midday, snow continued to fall, no one spoke for fear of breaking the velvety silence. After a short brake to water the horses, they rode on, the trees started to become more numerous and of a different kind. The mountains, that until now had closed them in, began to shrink and turn into rolling hills covered in snow. One of the younger rangers, a mere boy named Brom, remarked quietly, “My whole life and I’ve never left these mountains until now.” Some of the men chuckled in response. Brom unfazed asked. “Where are we headed?”

“To the highlands.” Replied Ferrin.

The hooded figure next to Ferrin seemed to suddenly snap awake at these words, “What? You do know what that means, don’t you?”

“Yes I do,” replied Ferrin calmly, “and I know that you do as well Seth.”   

Seth gave Ferrin a searing glare and stormed off into the gathering darkness. 

“Where’s he going?” exclaimed Brom.

“Leave him be,” Muttered Ferrin. “He’ll be back.”

Seth galloped through the trees, the forest seemed to be suffocating and the only thought in his mind was to find somewhere clear. He began to panic as the trees became almost impenetrable.  Suddenly he burst into a glen. Beams of moonlight reflected off ice coated trees. The grass was covered in a layer of frost, giving it a crystalline appearance and making each blade a knife made of ice, as though the world was frozen in time, isolated form everything else. Nothing moved. Nothing broke the eerie silence.

Seth dismounted and tied his horse to one of the trees at the edge of the glen.  He noticed how every tree was identical as if the stark white bark and skeletal branches had been sculpted from stone.

“I’m tired of Ferrin leading us on suicide missions!” growled Seth to himself.

“He has no regard for anyone but himself. I’ve been in the ranger corps for decades and who gets the head spot? Oh no, not the veteran who single handedly saved the corps. No they give it to the lordling with the fancy sword. Who is Ferrin? He never did anything. So why on earth is he calling the shots?”

Seth sat in the middle of the glen, slowly letting his rage subside.  He turned to get his horse, but there was nothing there. Where his horse had been, only frost remained! Seth stood for a moment motionless. He heard a sound barely audible at the edge of his hearing. He whirled around, dagger in hand! With a sound like braking glass, the skeletal trees parted and out of the abyss beyond, stepped a pale figure.  It had a likeness to a man, but its body was made out of milky white branches.  It turned to face Seth. When their eyes met, somehow Seth knew those eyes where the last thing he would ever see. They were a brilliant green, but they burned with a darkness so ancient that all beauty was lost.  As much as he wanted to, Seth couldn’t remove his gaze. His body froze, like a cornered mouse unable to escape. He noticed all the frost around this creature had melted away, the exposed greenery was like an explosion of color in the ice.

“Close your eyes Seth” he said to himself. “Close your eyes and all this will be gone, you’ll wake up in the glen.”  

He closed his eyes and a sound like a thousand whispers greeted his ears. When he opened them again the creature was right up against him. He could feel warmth emitting from it though it brought him no relief. The frost at his feet melted soaking through his woolen boots. The whispering grew louder deadening all other sounds.  The creature reached out and latched onto Seth with an iron like grip. 

“Where is he?”  Shrieked the creature. The voice seemed to come from ever direction, and it slithered like a spider on silk.  

“Wh, who?”  Seth stammered.  

The creature’s eyes rolled back in its head and in a voice murky with power recited, “He who leads through a shadow, he who smiles through a frown, he who does evil in the name of good.”  

“I know no such man!”  Cried Seth.   “What is his name?”  The creature lifted up its free hand and placed it on Seth’s head.  “What are you doing screamed Seth?  Stop!”  He was suddenly overwhelmed with images and emotions of Ferrin.  The images stopped.  Without removing its hand the creature locked eyes with him. 

“Thank you it rasped, but I no longer have use of you.”  And with careless ease it crushed Seth’s skull. 

His red, steaming blood splashed on the grass, melting away their razor sharp edges.  When Ferrin and the rest of the corps came looking for him, all they found where frosty blades stained red.

A short story by, Tristan G. Maritin