There once was a small, harmless creature, unassuming yet full of care for the world around him. He lived in a meadow at the base of a large hill, and his name was Lucero. Others, like him, also lived in the valley, but they kept their distance from the hill because of the old rumors warning of its danger. Legend had it that if you crept too near the base of the hill you would cause giant boulders to tumble down and injure you or sometimes even crush you completely. But Lucero was young, bright, and full of naive hope. He loved playing at the base of the hill. There were beautiful flowers that grew only in that area, and their sweet scents would lull him into a peaceful daze accentuated by the warmth of the sun’s bright rays.

One day, as Lucero basked in the beauty of the valley’s edge, he decided to start a search for the prettiest and sweetest smelling flower in the meadow. He would then bring it back to show his friends and convince them that the base of the hill was a place of magical bliss, which was to be enjoyed rather than feared. It took a while, but Lucero finally found the perfect flower. He analyzed it from stem to blossom and found not a single blemish, and it smelled sweeter to him than any other flower he had come across. Lucero so deeply admired this flower that he even hesitated to pick it out from the ground. But, after much deliberation, he decided it needed to be picked and shared with the rest of his kind as a way of reassuring them of the hill’s beauty and goodness.

As Lucero took the flower into the middle of the valley where his kinsmen dwelled, he noticed their immediate reactions. Everyone who saw it was left stunned with mouths agape and faces elated. The scent of the flower carried throughout their whole inhabitance, luring each and every set of nostrils and eyes to the flower in Lucero’s hands. At first, Lucero was pleased with their fixation. Clearly, his plan had worked. But as time went on, he noticed that some of his kinsmen started asking if they could hold his perfect flower. Some of them even stuck their entire faces into the flower and inhaled so deeply that it made Lucero cringe, and he would quickly yet carefully take it back and examine it to make sure it had endured no harm.

One night, as Lucero lay asleep on the soft grass of the meadow, he was awakened by a loud rustling and some harsh whispers. As he opened his eyes, he realized that his perfect flower was no longer lying next to him, and its aroma was rapidly diminishing from the air. So, he quickly turned his head in every direction until he spotted a dark silhouette against the moonlit horizon running away. Lucero began pursuing him with a speed and determination previously unknown to him. It took him a while to catch up, but he never stopped and never slowed down until he had his perfect flower back in his hands. He didn’t remember how he had managed to secure it again, but that was not important to him now. He had it back, and he was running again. This time back to a place where he knew he and his perfect flower would be safe––back to where they’d first met.

When Lucero reached the base of the hill, he dropped to his knees and held his perfect flower delicately across his lap. As the sun began climbing over the horizon, his inspection began. He noticed immediately that its stem was weaker and more flimsy than when he’d first picked it. He noticed also that one of its petals was torn, and its scent was not the same as when he’d kissed it lovingly goodnight. Seeing his perfect flower like this troubled Lucero deeply, and he wanted to fix it. So, he found the place from which he’d taken it, and he began trying to replant it. It could barely stand up. So, Lucero began forming a ring of soil around its stem to support it. Once finished, he rushed to the stream in the middle of the valley to fetch it some water. He had nothing but his hands to carry the water in, and they were small so he made several trips. Back and forth Lucero rushed. And with each handful of water, Lucero would also give his perfect flower a kiss and tell it of his love and admiration for it, saying always that everything would be okay and that he’d never leave it or let it die. He did this until evening. By dusk, he was exhausted and lay down next to his perfect flower and brushed it tenderly with his tiny hand while reminding it of how precious it was to him.

The next morning, Lucero woke up to find that his perfect flower had fallen over in the night and all the vibrant colors that had once dazzled his eyes had faded into dull tones like those of stones. Even the lavish joys of its scent had dried up, and the blossom hung limp like a head dangling from a dead neck. Lucero, in a panic, replaced it in the ground and built a higher ring of soil around it, so that it could stand. Then he rushed back and forth again to the stream. And after returning from one of his trips he found his once perfect flower lying flattened into the earth as if trampled by a large beast. Lucero’s heart broke. He knelt down, and amidst sobs, he tried to retrieve it from the tightly packed earth. But even with the gentlest of fingers, he could not get it back without it breaking.

Lucero’s sadness then turned to frustration. Why had his perfect flower not recovered? Why had it refused the life he tried to give it? But no, Lucero then thought, I should have never brought it to show my kinsmen––should’ve never picked it from the ground.  I could have stayed here with it forever.  Alone and in peace.

Lucero now lay flat against the earth next to the remains of his once perfect flower.  And as he thought all these thoughts and felt all these feelings, he was suddenly struck by a large, heavy object.  Everything went black.

Lucero knew instantly that he was bleeding, but his head was still spinning from the collision and he couldn’t see clearly enough to tell what all was damaged or what had caused it.

Several minutes later, Lucero became aware of his wounds and their severity.  And within a few seconds, his level of pain struck an all new high, almost as if the perception of his injuries had made them more real.  He was still unsure of what had hit him, but he began thinking that perhaps the old legends of the boulders might be true.  It may have been what had trampled his once perfect flower into the ground also.  With this on his mind and with the pain mounting, he quickly scanned the area around him to make sure no other threats were near.

The very next day, Lucero, still wounded and weeping, set out to make sure that nothing would ever hurt him like that again.  No flower or boulder would get the best of him.  So he began building a wall.  His hands, being so small, could only lift rocks as big as his head, but that would be enough for now.  In time, he would make a wall high enough and thick enough to prevent any future attacks he might encounter.  So, just as Lucero had urgently fetched water for his once perfect flower, he now urgently gathered rocks and stacked them all around him.  On the one side, he would block out the boulders, and on the other, he would block out the flowers.

Occasionally, some of Lucero’s kinsmen would venture near the hill’s base and catch him building his walls.  They looked upon him with pity, and tried to tell him that his wall would never be strong enough to keep the boulders from breaking it down.  And Lucero would triple the thickness of his walls with every remark that questioned his strength.  Others would say that the flowers would just grow beneath the wall and seduce him, thus keeping him from further work on his wall. 
And Lucero would remove every ounce of grass from within his walls until nothing but earth remained.  Even then, he covered the earth with rocks for a floor, insuring that no vibrant flower would sprout up and seduce him again. Lucero built his walls until he could no longer see over them, and he was completely surrounded by the dull color of rock.

One afternoon, though, as Lucero was stacking his rocks, he noticed a small, pastel-shaded flower beginning to blossom in the corner he’d first finished. His initial reaction was of fear and resistance. He picked up a rock to throw at it, but then he realized that it was far too small to do him any great harm. Besides, it wasn’t nearly as beautiful as his once perfect flower, and its scent was quite subtle, though, still pleasant enough. After further analyzation, he found it to be innocuous. But still, he kept his distance and was wary of its slightest growth.

As the days of wall-building continued, Lucero found that he appreciated the small comfort that this new flower brought him. Each day, he found the courage to venture a bit closer to its place in the corner. But he always did so with a rock in hand. Just in case. And yet he began to talk to it––casually and without passion at first. The flower’s small, coiled bud was never imposing and always open (almost in the shape of an ear) like it wanted to hear his words. So, he spoke, and the flower absorbed his words and grew ever so slightly with each one.

The two became friends, more or less. And Lucero began to sit and sleep beside it when weary.

One night, Lucero fell asleep beside the flower, and when he awoke, he found that it had leaned over to lay across his chest as if listening to the beating of his heart. Lucero was touched by this small yet significant act of trust shown by the flower. So as the sun went down the next day, he decided to kiss it tenderly goodnight, and he gently placed his arm around its stem just before he drifted off.

The next morning, Lucero awoke with terror to find that the flower had wrapped itself tightly around his outstretched arm and was now closing in on his throat. He began scrambling for a rock with his other hand so as to free himself, but he found no loose stone within reach. So, he began frantically tugging at the hardened stem of the once harmless flower, yet the more he struggled the more it hurt. And then he noticed that the flower had sprouted thorns during the night, and they were now preventing him from breaking free. In his trust, the thorns had hooked his softened flesh, and with every jerk he made to get away, his skin tore further and further away from the rest of his body.

By the time Lucero had completely freed himself, he was missing nearly a third of the flesh from his right arm, and the bone by his elbow was glistening in the sun. The relief of being free soon vanished as Lucero realized that many of the thorns had lodged themselves deep within his arm, having disconnected from the stem. Guilt and shame soon fed the burning pain. Lucero, you should’ve have known. Your weakness of desire has made a fool of you again. Another ornamental friend has seduced and betrayed you. And a trembling Lucero embraced it all as his fault, and with each thorn he pried out from the aching tissues, he would remind himself of every flaw in his defenses.

Now, all the higher did Lucero build his walls. All the thicker too, and he made sure his floor was at least 10 layers thick. No more decorative distractions. No more pain. The only thing that could potentially hurt him now was a boulder. He knew he could not stop the boulders from coming, but he was determined to keep them from breaking through his wall. And he felt quite confident that his defenses were solid enough to hold.

But alas, Lucero knew not the density of the boulders that came down the hillside, and even a million small stones were no match for the speed and size of the stones that might come rushing down that hilltop at any moment.

And no more than a day after Lucero had connected all four walls with a roof, (almost as if it had been waiting in patient anticipation to ruin what one poor creature had worked so hard to create) another boulder came rushing down the hillside and destroyed every layer of Lucero’s protection. Every stone was displaced, and Lucero lay broken in a heap of rubble.

Lucero felt the tears begin to come again, blending in with the warmth of his blood. But he quickly pushed his tears back in his eyes and began rebuilding.

And every time Lucero built his walls, they were destroyed. And always his kinsmen watched him with pity in their hearts as he tried to desperately reassemble the strength of his life.

Lucero and his tiny hands, with helpless persistence, built and rebuilt his wall until the rubble claimed his life and flowers ate his body in the sharp glow of the sun.

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You like courtroom dramas? You like it when one dude nails another dude with a biting, screamed, and convicting remark? No? Well, do you like dudes? This week’s long-belated episode of the continuing Tod and Bob saga is for you.

Yes, this is the sort of thought-provoking question you can expect no answers to.

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After a long, long waiting period, Unwed Sailor’s new album Little Wars is finally available for pre-order over at Burnt Toast Vinyl. The official release date is March 18th, and I have yet to receive my copy, but I imagine that soon enough I’ll be posting MP3 clips at the band’s official Web site.

Cover art from Little Wars.

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