Grendel's Chancler

To hell he would go, swept groaning and helpless
to the waiting hands of still worse fiends.
Now he discovered-once the afflictor
Of men, tormentor of their days-what it meant
To feud with Almighty God: Grendel
Saw that his strength was deserting him, his claws
Bound fast, Higlac's brave follower tearing at
His hands. The monster's hatred rose higher,
But his power had gone. He twisted in pain,
And the bleeding sinews deep in his shoulder
Snapped, muscle and bone split
And broke. The battle was over, Beowulf
Had been granted new Glory....

Air ripped into my lungs, panic causing me to bolt out up in bed a cold sweat running down my back as I pushed away past memories. A groan of annoyance tickled up my throat as I looked at my alarm clock, the bright numbers flashing red in my dark room.



I wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, I'd always been a night owl, but my mother's threats at missing another meeting rang in my head like the sounds of a distant drum.

Damn that drum! The constant beating, and drunken sounds of laughter caused me to clinch my teeth pushing sweaty palms to my ears trying to shut the ghost sounds from a past life. The drums like the dreams had always been with me, a curse to all those whose blood ran thick with ink and history.

"Gren, are you up yet?" my mother's voice echoed from down the hall easily slipping through my door, commanding and sharp like her tongue. The sound of her heels clacked outside my door, the knob jiggling for a second before her aggravated sigh signaled her retreat.

It was like this with us: awkward.

We had a relationship festered with secrets and mistakes, changed and altered with time, our original stories changing like the leaves in the fall. A moan escaped from my throat; lips pulled back into a snarl as I clicked on my bedside lamp. Rolling my shoulders in frustration I yanked on a clean T-shirt from my pile of clean cloths mounded mountainous by my closet door.

Today was Thursday, meaning I would have to spend an hour: 11 am-to- 12 am (to be exact) talking about my feelings and how I can use my literary life to enhance my second chance. Because, all in all, this miserable life was my second chance. Being a Chancler is suppose to be a good thing, it's suppose to be an honor, being the essence of a legendary figure... Frankly all it is- is a pain! Sure if I'd been born with the Inkling of that self righteous, jerk Beowolf I'd be screaming praises right now, instead I'm the nut job poster child .

The past 17 years have been a hell mythology could hardly describe, even in my epic... I may not have the claws and fangs my Inkling honed but being a Chancler of Grendel's no picnic either. Going through adolescence as a monster was hard, sharing a Biology class with my arch nemesis was much-much worse.

I say 'was' because as of last week I am no longer a member of Chancler's British School of Excellence.

Apparently you get expelled when you stab the student body president with a fork. In my opinion Beowulf got what he deserved, an eye for an eye, he did take my arm in the poem after all.

My stomach twisted with worry as my fingers grabbed for the knob, knowing once I stepped out the door, I'd be stuck with my little therapy group for longer than I'd like. Taking a deep breath I turned it quickly, walking out of my safe little den after my mother who would be overjoyed at my participation in her little group of freaks.