Tabula Rasa

Something Different

2011-02-21T19:24:00.001-07:00

Tonight I thought I'd offer you something different from the last snippet. This one is the beginning of the suspense I've been working on over the past couple years. It's written from start to finish, but I never edited it all the way through. Its temporary working name is Nano (short for Nanotechnology) and it's the book I've chosen to work on in this time between new projects.

I hope you enjoy it.

2/27/11: Sorry. I took it down because it needed a total rewrite - a fact I didn't realize until after I posted it here. When I get it fixed, I'll put it back up.

Excerpt - Blink of an I

2011-02-10T07:40:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been about a year and a half since I posted anything over here. I totally meant to keep up with this, but life has a tendency to get in the way. This being the year of change for me, though, I think I'll try again. So, in honor of that, I'm posting the beginning of a book I finished a couple years ago.

To make the posting of this a little more poignant, the other day my teenage nephew asked if he could read one of my books. I offered my most recent, and asked him what he liked to read. His answer: "Anything, but I'm kinda picky about my literature." No pressure there, eh? Since my most recent finished project is more commercial, I sent him the manuscript I call "Blink of an I" - a dystopian that skirts the line between YA and adult. This is what I'm offering you today...

The twisted hulk stretched into the air above her like a man straining to grasp the hand of a loved one being pulled away. On the opposite side of the strait, Mary could almost make out another someone reaching through the fog.

Or maybe she was only remembering that it was there. Every chance she got, she trekked the many blocks to stand on this strip of land between the ocean and the bay to wait. Unsure of what she was waiting for, and yet still waiting. On sunny days, she could see across the thick belt of water where a twin husk reached toward the city. The two corroded towers between rose from the waves—silent guardians of a past she would never know.

Her fingers traced, yet again, the strange symbols rising off the brass plate at the base. They probably told what the expanse was for, but their meaning was lost to her. Below her the surf crashed against the rocks, and silently slithered back into the bay, whispering secrets in a language she wished to understand.

Turning her back to the mystery, she cast her eyes across the bay toward the hills and wondered if the upper castes who lived there knew what any of it meant. Surely someone up there had been taught these things. At some point someone thought this structure was important enough to build. It ought to be important enough for someone to remember, even after all the years that must’ve passed.

But if anyone still understood, she knew they would never tell someone like her. She was nothing to them.

Trailing her fingers through the rust, she tried to let go of the pain struggling against her station always brought. In this place, her caste level didn’t matter. The structure behind her didn’t care if she was a lowly Indigo or a lofty Red. After her years in the foundling home, she found structures were better company anyway. The wasted creation above never pointed and laughed at her questionable parentage. It never shunned her because her jumper was a coarser cloth or a poorer color. The warped and corroded metal simply stood, making her feel that maybe once upon a time people didn’t care about such things either. Clearly if men could build such mysterious monuments, they wouldn’t have had time to dwell on origins and castes.

Her gaze drifted partway along the coast and a few blocks in. Nestled inside the grid of streets was her other favorite place in the city. Nothing more than sandy brick and dusty windows, without any outstanding characteristics to draw anyone’s attention, the building—whatever was within—was still prominent amongst the surrounding derelicts surrounding. Like its brethren, it was worn with age. Unlike them, it wore age proudly. Though there was a cracked window pane here and a crumbling brick there, those minor details did nothing to associate the structure with the stolid sentinels around it. None of the others would ever rise to the grandeur it must’ve once been wrapped in.

She never saw a pair of bright eyes peek from between the heavy draperies, but each time she watched, she was sure they were there. Somehow she just knew there was a warm body tucked away, secure behind their folds. She couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Maybe tomorrow she would visit. Perhaps then she would summon the courage to quench her curiosity.

If there was time. Between work and sleep, there was never enough time.

I hope you enjoyed that. As always, feel free to comment, but this isn't posted for critique or review. It's just an offering for those who stop by. =o)

To Prologue or Not to Prologue

2009-08-18T15:13:00.003-06:00

Migrated from The Writing Spectacle - with comments. Originally posted on July 7th, 2007.

There seems to be something of a disagreement in the writing world about the dreaded prologue. From what I've read, prologues are a no-no. (Which is why I said 'dreaded'.) I've even had people tell me to drop the prologue from Caldera. But no real reason has been offered beyond the 'prologues are bad' argument. Oddly, one agent I queried loved the prologue and thought I should write a non-fiction piece based on the prologue. Unfortunately, he didn't like the premise of the novel itself. Ack. But I digress.

That's one side of the disagreement. On the other side, many of the books I've read lately have had... :drumroll: Prologues. Hmmm. Some of those books have been bestsellers. Now, you don't hear about those authors coming out in favor of prologues. They just write them.

While I'm sure people are out there writing prologues that do little more than give backstory or drag the beginning with unnecessary information, I don't think a wholesale ban on prologues is the right way to go about addressing the issue. Any more than a wholesale ban on slang or incomplete sentences would be appropriate. Just because some people use these devices improperly doesn't make them evil.

Having said that, however, I am considering dropping my prologue. Don't get me wrong. It's sets the whole book up rather nicely. It's only two pages, and I think it helps to be in there. How much it's helping, though, remains to be seen. And whether it's hurting Caldera's chances to be published remain to be seen as well. Right now, it's a coin toss. No one who has read the book in its entirety has had a problem with the prologue - or if they did, they never voiced their opinion about it.

So, I'm leaving it in the hands of my blog readers. The prologue is below. For those of you who haven't been reading along, the underlying plot of Caldera is about a scientist with a plan to control the impending eruption of the Yellowstone supervolcano.

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Prologue

It has happened before.

Six hundred thousand years ago, death and destruction rained from the Rocky Mountains to the Mississippi River, from the plains of Saskatchewan to the Gulf of Mexico. Seventy-five thousand years ago the sun disappeared beneath a haze of ash, killing the majority of the human race in the ensuing global winter. Fifteen hundred years ago, the most notorious of human eras—The Dark Ages—began in a shroud of gray volcanic dust.

Early in the 19th century, the center of a tiny island in the Dutch West Indies swelled and trembled and burst. Fiery boulders fell from the sky; ash blanketed both land and ocean for hundreds of miles as it spewed into the atmosphere. More than ninety thousand people died as the sky became clogged with soot—soot so thick that the year of 1816 was to become known as ‘The Year Without a Summer’.

Later in that same century, a mountain rising from the depths of the East Indies exploded and then collapsed. The sea rose twelve feet that day, pushed up suddenly as tons of rock dropped into its murky depths. Thundering walls of water swept toward Java, Sumatra, Bali; tens of thousands drown as the ocean broke over their homes and villages.

In each instance a caldera has erupted, and in each instance the world has born the brunt of its destruction.

So far, many of these types of events occurred before the ascension of man; so far, they have all occurred in sparsely populated areas. In the scheme of human disaster, these events remain insignificant. In perspective, the death toll has been minimal. But still, the tiny native children who shivered in fear as Tambora thundered down upon them thought it more than minimal. The tribal women who screamed their last breaths as Krakatau choked the sound away considered it from a different perspective. The peasants who endured The Dark Age’s endless years of starvation and suffering certainly thought it significant.

They all must have prayed for whatever god they knew to make it stop. They must have offered sacrifices and tributes to appease the wrath that cascaded upon them. But even amidst their fruitless prayers and hopeless offerings, they must have believed in their hearts that nothing could stop nature.

In the mountains of western Wyoming, a caldera lays in a fitful sleep—churning and gurgling and smoking like some great evil dragon—and mankind dances around it as if it has been caged for their amusement. The sparkling geysers and the boiling mud are merely an interesting diversion right now, but the dragon is bound by no man’s chains and it has overslept by twenty thousand years. When it awakens, no man will think it amusing, and no man with think of it as a mere diversion.

Pompeii was a firecracker. Mount Saint Helens, a birthday candle. When Yellowstone makes up its mind to blow, the people in its path will wish they’d been at Hiroshima instead.

Will they be praying on some sprawling ranch in Montana? Will they be screaming in some sparkling penthouse in Denver? Will they be choking under a layer of ash on the bustling streets of Houston?

Perhaps nothing can be done to stop nature. Or perhaps, just maybe, something can.

It has happened before. Perhaps it doesn’t have to happen again.
---------------------------------------

If it never gets published with the rest of Caldera, at least it's here. Barring any feelings about the writing style of the above excerpt, what are your thoughts on prologues? Do you use them when they're necessary, or do you shun them entirely?

Posted by B.E. Sanderson at 7:35 AM
Labels: excerpt, Writing

4 comments:

Anissa said...
I love this prologue of yours. It provides such great tension to kick off the novel. But I hear you on the industry's prejudice. I haven't used a prologue myself. Haven't really felt the need, and then with all I hear about NOT doing it, I just haven't. That's not to say I wouldn't if I felt it necessary. ;)

Maybe just query with chapter one. Then, if a full is requested, include it. Good luck!

July 7, 2007 10:59 AM
Tia Nevitt said...
I like it but I would consider making it much shorter. I think the Year Without A Winter example is one that you should keep. Also, in the first paragraph, it is not clear what you are talking about. Although I knew it was a volcano because I know something about your story, it almost sounded like a meteor strike.

Just my opinion . . .

July 7, 2007 6:09 PM
ERiCA said...
I admit, I'm usually one of those anti-prologue folks. But that's because I see so many prologues that are really just the first scene of chapter one separated as a prologue for no good reason, or that show a random chunk of backstory that's really unnecessary at that point in the plot.

In your case, it's different. At the very least, it explains what "Caldera" means and why the explosion would be so deadly. Seems important to me!

July 26, 2007 2:23 PM
Andrew said...
I like prologs. They are the underlying menace that keeps you reading through the character development.
Here's the first line of my prolog: Two of the most massive super-galaxies in the history of the Universe collided.
And from that one line I've written an entire novel. It's about the only place in your novel where you can explain without resorting to awkward "know-it-all" character soliloquies.
On top of that, I have a "quote" that even comes before my prolog, providing addition perspective on what you're about to read.
Unless someone dies in the first paragraph of the book, it's hard to generate that kind of tension without a prolog.

September 18, 2007 11:22 PM

Caldera Excerpt

2009-08-18T15:11:00.002-06:00

Migrated from The Writing Spectacle. Originally posted January 7th, 2007.

As an example of how memories can be woven into your fiction, below is an excerpt--based loosely on my own experience--from my second novel, "Caldera". The movie mentioned below really does exist somewhere in the dark recesses of some elementary school vault.
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Growing up in the countryside with neither siblings nor neighbors, Myke had spent many solitary days outdoors, running through the fields and woods that surrounded her home. Free to discover the world without gaining a fear of it, hers had been a dreamlike existence. She made friends with the squirrels, and the birds, and the rabbits; she grew to love every rock and shrub and tree. Looking back, she knew it was that sincere childlike wonder about nature that had made her such an easy target.

She’d heard whisperings about man’s destruction of nature throughout grade school. They came in seemingly harmless storybooks, and on various children’s television programs, and in snippets of the news that she would catch as she played in the living room each evening. Still, as she looked back over her life, she’d come to the realization that her real indoctrination came in earnest during her third grade year.

Many times since, Myke recalled that incident and realized that in any other country if she had been exposed to information of that nature in that form, it would have been denounced as propaganda. That it came to her in an American public classroom in the form of a short film made it education. Looking back, she could only think of it as repulsive.

The movie had seemed innocuous enough, clicking along on its rickety projector as all such films did. It could have easily been about Nanook of the North, or about the Grand Canyon for all the notice her classmates took of it. For them, movies were just another form of recess; for her, they were another means of gaining knowledge. She loved them all, but movies about the outdoors were her favorites. Though she never could have known it, it had been her downfall. Sadly, at eight years old, she had been ripe for the picking.

By that age, she’d already been subjected to many such films about the beauty of untouched nature. This one seemed to be no different. At first the film showed a great sweeping primeval forest with a gentle meadow in the forefront; a babbling stream and marsh grasses filled with birds, alongside. She could remember leaning forward onto her elbows in rapt attention at the splendor of it all. When suddenly the camera panned in closer to show men standing in the field, she had felt a rush of disappointment. Men had no place there, in her mind, and she had resented their intrusion.

The men seemed to be making plans of some sort. They were wearing hardhats and pointing from blueprints they were holding to the landscape around them. The voice-over had reflected Myke’s own thoughts as it spoke of the men and her own indignation had been apparent in the script. When the scene shifted to show bulldozers pulling down trees and plowing through the meadows, she had only nodded her head.

At barely eight, she’d already understood that it was a bad thing for man to use nature to suit his own purposes and that man was bad because of it. The next scene, though, had sealed the lid on her perception of mankind as wanton destructor. The scene showed men starting a fire to burn off the marsh grass, and in a very graphic display, that had made little Myke feel lightheaded and that haunted her adult self still, the camera showed nests full of baby birds being burned alive.

On that day, Myke learned to hate mankind.

------------(End Excerpt)--------------

May the makers of that movie rot in hell for what they did to hundreds, if not thousands, of impressionable 8 year olds.

Spectacle Excerpt

2009-08-18T15:07:00.002-06:00

Migrated from The Writing Spectacle. Originally posted December 14th, 2006.

This excerpt from my first novel dovetails nicely into what I have been blogging, so I thought I would share it. Enjoy.

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“From what I understand, many of you have been waiting for a long time and what you have been waiting for has not been forthcoming. No, I am not simply referring to the comet. What you have been waiting for, and waiting much longer than I’m sure even you realize, is to be told the truth.”

“You have heard what you might call one man’s version of the truth, but what you have never been told is that the truth has no versions. There is only the truth; all else is falsehood.”

“You have been told truth is relative; that truth is dependant on who you are and on what you perceive, but the men who taught you that had reason to keep the truth from you, to keep you from recognizing the truth when you saw it. Those men thought they could bend the truth to suit their purposes and to fit the occasion. What they didn’t tell you and what they never wanted you to find out is the truth once bent is no longer the truth. Truth is not elastic and it is not flexible. It simply is what it is.”

“Throughout your lives and the lives of those before you, you trusted that someone somewhere would tell you the truth. This is perhaps your only mistake, but it was the worst mistake you could have ever made. You made the mistake of giving up your ability to recognize the truth and by doing so gave that responsibility into the hands of someone else, someone you thought knew better than you and would therefore be honest enough to tell you what was true. You made the mistake of thinking those people would have enough respect for the truth, and enough respect for you, to give you the glimpse of reality you no longer wished to discover for yourselves.”

“The instant you ask someone else what he thinks, not as an exchange of ideas but as a way to avoid having to judge for yourself, you have given up your responsibility to recognize the truth. Do it enough times and you give up your ability to know the truth. Once you lose your ability to know the truth, any charlatan has you in their grasp. You only have to look around at the world right now to see the results of that.”

Fire

2008-08-25T08:22:00.003-06:00

Fire

Ni awoke.

The tiny hut was dark, but the shadows were beginning to retreat in the purple light of the coming day. Soft scratching sounds came from a corner of the single room. Another rat sneaking in to escape the daylight predators. If the day’s hunting went poorly, he would kill it later and they would not go hungry.

Beside him, his mate slept. He traced her form with his thick fingers, hovering for a moment over her ripe belly. It rippled beneath his hand. Ni grinned at the strength of his unborn child. Before long, his son would see the world outside Ta’s sheltering body.

His son kicked again, reminding Ni of the need to start his day. Ta could sleep until the sun was above the horizon, but he had work to do. His son would need fur to stay warm in the coming snows; his mate would need meat to stay strong for the coming birth.

It was his job to provide these things.

Creeping as carefully as the stalking cat, he moved from the mat of woven grasses. Ta stirred slightly and then slept once more.

Through the tattered pelt doorway, Ni could see the sky brightening and strode forward. Soon, the animals would be stirring from their sleeping grounds, and he had to be hiding along the path before they passed. If he missed his chance, the remainder of the day’s hunting would be long and hard, requiring more energy than he could spare.

Near the entry was the thick stick he’d sharpened to a deadly point, and he grasped it firmly as he pushed the pelt aside. It was a good weapon—much better than the rocks his old clan had used—and it had helped him bring down many animals. It took too many men to bring down a single meal with rocks and Ni hunted alone. He had needed something more, and the stick had made his work so much easier. Hardly a hunt left them in bed at night with an empty belly. Soon those barren hunts must never come. His son could not live if he did not bring home food each day.

A short walk brought him to the trail, and he was happy to see no fresh tracks upon the ground. He was not too late; the animals were still bedded down. Tonight his mate would have a large beast to fill her belly, and his son would grow to be strong.

Settling into the crotch of a towering tree, Ni waited.

And he thought.

He made a vow when Ta first told him of the coming child. His son would not know the hungers he had known. Even in the clan, many hunts had been fruitless. Great bands of men would set out in the morning, boasting of their prowess. Humbled bands of men would return with the setting sun, boastful no more.

Ni had watched his father lead those bands. Quiet and careful, the man had been. Strong and wise, his father had fought for his right to lead those bands. At night, Ni would listen to his father grunt in the caves, talking of those most boastful men and how none of them had the skill to track or to kill. Ni had seen the hateful glares of those men, after his father had gone to his furs for the night.

And Ni had heard the whispering.

One day, the men went out and the worst among them were very quiet. At night, they returned empty handed and leaderless. To hear them tell the tale, his father had been gored during the hunt, but Ni knew in his heart what the truth of it was.

A new leader stepped forward the next day, unchallenged. He stepped into the place Ni’s father had held in the clan, and he stepped into the place the old leader had held in Ni’s home.

Like so many other predators, when a new leader stepped forward, the offspring of the old leader were set upon—to be killed or driven away. So it had been with Ni.

He had only seen ten summers when the men of the clan came at him, beating him with sticks while the women shrieked and jeered—his own mother among them. He was a stout and sturdy boy, not far from joining the hunt even at that tender age, and he warded off their blows as best he could.

So many summers had passed since that wicked day, when he’d been forced out of the caves and into the world beyond. So many winters, when he’d barely lived through the cold and the damp, had come and gone.

After many summers, he had found Ta. Living with a band of wanderers and outcasts, she had never known the comforts of the caves, nor the warmth of a dozen bodies piled together in sleep. She had been hardened by the wind and browned by the sun.

Near a gentle stream, he had hidden and watched her trying to hunt the creatures beneath the waters. One rock and then another went into the cold clear depths, until finally she had reached down and pulled a flopping meal from beneath her feet.

He had loved her in an instant.

When he had stepped forward to show himself, she had growled her fear at him and turned to run away. He’d called to her, but his grunts had meant nothing to this wild thing. She’d screamed back at him as she leapt through the tall grasses, and the chase has been on.

Hunting her like any other of his prey, he had used more brains than brawn. Soon, she hadn’t been able to see him behind her, and she’d assumed he had gone away. It was then that he’d been upon her. She’d snarled, and he’d growled; she’d bit and he’d shaken her teeth away, laughing. She had been perfect.

She still was.

On the path below his tree, Ni could hear the approach of a beast making its way to the feeding grounds. He bared his teeth in pleasure. It was a large male, already fat for the coming winter, and lazy without the urgent need for food.

When the buck was beneath him, he sprang from the tree and on top on the animal, driving his stick into the beast’s side. He pushed and the beast bucked. It jumped and he held tight to its neck. He squeezed the place where the breath of life flowed through it and it thrashed, trying to gore him. Its sharp antlers ripped through the flesh of his arm, and his weapon gouged deeper into the flesh of its flank. He shoved until the stick was driven into the beast and the beast squealed its death cry.

Afterwards, Ni lay panting on top of the animal. The battle had been harder than he’d expected, and his torn arm burned with pain. If he could just rest a moment, the burden of dragging the animal home would be so much easier.

But a growl from the bushes ceased all thought of the task ahead being easy. Ni slowly rose to his feet, standing over the carcass of his hard-won prize. Nearby was the cat or the wolf, and either would not hesitate to take both him and his meal.

Ni gathered what little strength he had, and slowly began dragging his prey home. He had no choice. If the hunting creatures caught him here, in the open, and weakened from his fight, he would lose. If they followed, he could fight them better from his own lair and with the help of Ta. Even round with his child, she was as fierce as the day they had met.

He pulled, stumbling a few steps at a time. He dragged, gaining so few feet of ground he felt like he was standing still. Still, the growling beast never showed itself, and after a while, the growling faded into the morning mist.

The sun was high above him when the hut came into view. He stopped. Ta would come to help him move the beast closer to their home. She would help him skin the beast and ready it for eating.

He called for his mate.

When Ta stepped out into the sunshine, his breath caught. As tired as he was, he could still admire how valuable his mate was to him. She was strong and sturdy, like a deer after the long and bountiful summer. Standing there with her belly rounded by the weight of his son, he could remember exactly what had drawn him to her that day by the river. She was a good mate, and she would be a good mother. She could not be otherwise.

He barked out a command, and she lifted her head in laughter before she obeyed. Na had never ruled this one, and he never would. His own deep laughter joined her own as they labored beneath the weight of his prey.

The skinning took little time, and each of them picked the choicest meats to eat immediately, before the heat of the sun soured their flavor. Ta grunted to him, indicating the beast was too big and the bounty would soon be no more than offal. He shrugged, waving aside her concerns. If too much meat existed for them to eat, he would hunt again when this carcass went bad. Hunting was nothing to him.

She rubbed her precious belly lovingly. Her hand drifted to the clotted line along his arm—too much closer and it would have been his chest, not his arm, pierced and bloody. He knew she meant for him to think about the days and weeks to come. With his son soon to be born, he must think before he risked himself on too big a prize, especially one that would not last long enough to warrant the danger. She needed him now, but she would need him even more once the birthing was close upon her.

He must no longer take the chances like he took today.

Looking down at the bounty before him, he wished for a better way. The meat, if kept from rotting, would last them days. When the snows fell, it would last longer, but it would be too hard to eat without staying in the warmth of the hut, and then the problem of rot returned.
He would think on it another day.

Every morning, Ni hunted while Ta gathered water from the stream and bounty from the fields. Some nights, he would come home empty-handed and they would chew the grains and roots to quiet their bellies. Some nights, he would come home dragging a beast for them to share. Never again did he try for the biggest beasts, but never again would his hunt last them more than one day’s meals.

The cold wind blew through their tiny hut, and each day Ta would add some mud here or grasses there to keep the chill from their sleeping furs. It never seemed enough.

One morning, long before the winter sun had reached above the earth’s line, Ni sat in his hunting tree waiting for a stout beast to take home. His mate was nearly bursting with the son he’d planted there, and she could no longer fetch the water for their home. Already the streams were thickening with ice and the plants were readying for their long sleep. Soon, the hunt would be all they could expect for sustenance, and soon he would be unable to hunt too far from their shelter for fear Ta would need him.

He had to catch something big today, and he had to find a way to make the meat last until the birthing was over.

The wind blew harder, stiffening his thick fingers. He rubbed them together and he blew his hot breath over them to keep them warm.

He stopped. A kernel of thought drifted through his brain. He rubbed his hands together, and they stayed warm.

Grasping two of the dead branches from around his hiding place, he rubbed them together. Nothing happened. He rubbed them together faster, as with his hands on the most blustery of days. They felt warm to his cold fingers. He rubbed them together as fast as he could, and the warmth spread through the wood in his fingers.

If he could take that warmth home, Ta would not need to worry about the chill of the hut. She would be warm as she gave birth, and their son would not be born into the cold world after all. Ni rubbed the sticks together with such ferocity the sound startled a beast wandering up the path toward the hunting spot. As it ran away, Ni saw his first white puff of air.

When the storms came and the jagged white light from the sky landed on the trees, the light would spread and this white air plumed upwards from the spot. He sniffed the air cautiously. It smelled the same. He shuddered. The light from the sky spread in great living tongues of unbearable heat, and the clansmen believed it was a warning from the gods. No one would dare go near the light as it spread over the ground, eating everything in its path.

Suddenly, Ni was very afraid of what he held in his hand. If the clansmen were right, the gods would rain their fury down upon him for touching what was theirs. It was for the gods to create, not Ni. Still, one thought of his son, shivering in the drafts of their hut, and Ni renewed his fury upon the wood.

The gods be damned. His son would be warm. He would make their light, and he would hold it in his hand. Then he would bring it to his mate, as a gift.

Ni rubbed at the pieces of wood until his muscles ached with the motion. Never could he manage more than the tiny white puff of air, and the warming of the wood as it turned to a brownish black. His hands ached with the motion, and his skin became raw with the rubbing. It wasn’t working.

Leaping to the ground and sitting with his back against the tree, he focused all his energy on rubbing at the wood in his hands. Near to giving up, he set his latest attempt down upon the ground beside him, and laid his head in his hands. The sun was dropping low in the sky, far from where it had started its journey, and still he had no meal to bring home for Ta. Shuddering, he thought of another night spent with no food in their bellies, and the cold winds blowing all around their sleeping furs.

A soft crackle, like the step of a mouse through dried leaves, brought his attention to the sticks beside him. The tiny puff of white air from his work had grown, and the hunger of it was beginning to consume the twigs around it. He watched in amazement as first one dry, crumpled leaf caught with a red light and then was gone, followed by another and another.

He picked up a larger stick and set it amongst the hungry puffs. The red light caught hold of the stick and began eating it, too. Setting the stick down, he rose from his hiding spot and scanned the earth for a larger branch to feed the light he’d created.

Just as he spied the perfect food for this new thing, he felt a curious prickling along his foot. He shouted and jumped. The thing had tried to feast upon his own flesh. He kicked at the dirt around it, until it was once again a small thing, and under his control. Grasping the large stick, he thrust it up against the hungry light and it licked along the wood.

Once the stick was glowing with the tongues of red hunger, he kicked the dirt again, killing the last of the light he’d created. The child of it would live on the branch he held until he could get it home, and then it would live as he chose to let it live.

It was only fitting that the child of his creation would serve his own child.

Thus, Ni’s son was born into a warm hut while the snow swirled outside, and while the child’s cries mixed with the snarl of the winter wind, the wind touched him not. While Ta slept, Ni wrapped the squirming boy in the best of his furs, and carried him closer to the fire. This was my greatest creation, Ni thought looking at his son, and now it shall serve you who have taken its honored place.

In the weeks that passed, the snow fell thick and buried the ground beneath it. The tracking of the animals became easier, and their hut was filled with the smells of cooking meat.

And their son, Ka, grew as fat and round as a bear cub.

Every day, Ni would leave for the hunt, slogging through the mounds of snow, while his mate and son remained nestled in the warmth and safety of the hut. Every afternoon he would return, pulling his prize over the drifts.

One morning, as he was on his way to his hunting spot, though, he noticed a track of the sort he hadn’t seen in many years. It was the long flat track of another man. Ni growled his displeasure. This was his territory to hunt. He had claimed it with his blood and his sweat; he would not have another man taking what was rightfully his.

Sniffing the wind, he could just catch the scent the other human, and somewhere in his mind, the smell was familiar. He hissed. This other must be stopped even if it meant returning home empty handed. At the hut, there was enough meat to miss a day’s hunting. He followed the track.

It lead him far away from the trail where he hunted every day. It lead him even farther away from his hut and his family. The track seemed to have no purpose, leading first one way and then another, but always, always, away from his home. Ni paid no attention to the distance he was covering; he only knew he must stop the other one. When the sun was high above his head, Ni could almost smell the man around the next bend, and he quickened his pace.

The memories had faded to a dim gray, but the pain of his beating and the death of his father were still fresh in Ni’s mind. Behind a tree stood the one human for which Ni would kill himself, if only to see the other die. Before him stood the murderous leader of his former clan.

Ni screamed his fury, and leapt toward the hated thing. He would kill it, and like every other beast before, he would drag it home as a prize for his mate and son.

The man laughed and crouched to take Ni, expecting to face the child he’d nearly killed so many winters before. He did not expect to face Ni’s sharpened stick.

Ni stabbed, and found his mark. The crude leader howled in pain and fury, bringing his hands up to protect his remaining eye. Like a wild thing, Ni stabbed again and again while the man beneath him squirmed to get away. Ni would have nothing of it. Each thrust of his weapon a punishment for the death of his father; each drip of blood a small return for the drops of his own blood shed on the day he was driven from the caves.

When finally, the old leader of the clan shuddered once and fell away into the snow, Ni was covered in the thick red retribution he had not known he wanted. Now that it was over, and Ni looked at the old man he had beaten, he was ashamed he had killed so old and frail a thing. It was not a prize to take proudly home to his mate.

He left the crumpled thing lying in the snow and trudged home.

The sky was washed in the blood of his kill by the time he stepped back into the clearing. Ni was tired; more tired than he had ever been from the hunt. All he wished was to wipe away the remnants of his foe, and fall into the arms of his beautiful Ta.

He didn’t notice the stillness of the clearing, but his nose caught the smell he never thought he’d find around his own home.

He shrieked for his mate.

Ta did not come.

He looked toward the shelter where Ta should be cooking, but no smoke drifted forth from the hut. Frozen with fear, he strained to hear the sounds of Ka’s robust cries. The only sound was the whistle of the wind. Racing across the clearing, he hoped for the best, but feared the worst.
His fears were not unfounded.

The hut was dark and cool inside. Nothing had changed since he left for his hunting trip. Even the rat was still scratching at its hole in the corner. Ni’s brow furrowed. If some horror had taken his family, some sign of it should be present, but his eyes weren’t seeing it. Eyes that had served all his life to track the beasts he hunted, were now failing him in the most important task of his life.

He called to his mate again. No one answered. His eyes darted to the sleeping mat, and the furs piled high there. Jumping toward the pile, his hands went forward to the lump curled within them.

The furs were piled, but nothing was wrapped within them.

He ran outside, and called for Ta—louder and longer. Turning to face in each direction, he bellowed his frustration and anxiety to the winds, praying to the gods that his mate would answer. Only the wind rustling through the trees called back.

Running into the hut once more, he focused his careful hunting eyes to the walls and the floors. No signs of battle were visible within the hut. Racing outside, he scanned the ground looking for traces of the answer in the snow. In his fear, he had trampled over the strange footprints, but they were there. Many, many men had come, crushing the snow beneath their fur-covered feet.
The exhaustion slipped away from Ni, and the terror clouding his vision disappeared. His mind became clear and the events that had occurred in his absence were suddenly obvious.

Ni became the hunter once more. His nose caught the scent of a dozen men; his sight fell on the myriad of tracks. Kneeling to the ground, he brushed his fingertips along the curve of a footprint and felt the snow. Not long after he’d left for the hunt, the outsiders had snuck into his camp.
He searched for more clues. The hut was empty, but so were their stores of meat. The fire he’d worked so carefully to build had grown cold. The tiny bed they’d made for their son… His face grew hot with the thought of the outsiders and his son. His blood began to burn again, and he began to lose sight of his tasks.

He cried out in the darkness of his empty hut. If they’d harmed one inch of skin on his son, he would kill them all.

Gathering his furs, and his hunting sticks, he strode from the dwelling Ta had always kept so well. He would find his family, or die trying. And if he must die, he would take the clan with him into hell.

Tracking the band was easy. They had stampeded through the forest like a herd of injured beasts. While his eyes stayed focused on the trail, looking for some sign of his mate, his mind drifted back over the morning. The old leader had been the trap to lure him away from his home. Of that, he was certain. If he’d hunted in his usual spot, he would have heard the commotion, and the old leader had drawn him further away so he could not defend his family.

He sneered at the ways of his former clan. They had behaved like stupid old women, and now they were without a leader. Instead of facing him like men, they had snuck in like rats, stealing from him those things they could never achieve on their own, and now they would die.
It would not be hard to kill them. The stupidest of beasts was always the easiest to kill.
In the gathering darkness, the trail became harder to follow. The clouds, present all day, covered the light of the moon, and he cursed his gods for aiding the thieves. Still, he pressed on. If he could not follow their trail, he at least knew the way to the caves, and they would have no other place to hide.

He sniffed the wind. From somewhere beside the trail, a sickening smell drifted to his nostrils. It was the smell of blood—human blood. Fearing to leave the trail and lose precious time, yet afraid of not knowing the source of the smell, he tentatively followed his nose. His brain screamed that he must not go; the smell was too familiar. One foot and then the other ignored the screaming voice.

He found her just beyond the trail. The dark lump of her furs stood stark against the whiteness of the snow; the dark stain of her life’s blood spread out in a pool around her soft hair.
Falling to his knees beside her broken body, he scooped Ta into his arms, and held her close against his chest. She was cold, but the stiffness hadn’t crept into her limbs yet. He smoothed the sticky mass of hair away from her face, and softly kissed her cheeks. A single perfect teardrop fell across her pale lips.

He howled into the night.

Laying her gently upon the ground once more, he walked slowly back to the trail of his enemies. Hardened to the grief, he put one foot in front of the other. Slowly at first, and then each step quickened his pace until he was running. His mate was gone, but they still had his son. He must save Ka.

And then he must kill the clan.

The darkness was nothing. The snow was nothing. He ran like a devil through the forest, and nothing stood between him and his anger. Before the dawn broke, he came within sight of the caves, made bright and brilliant by the gift of his fire; a gift he would never have given them.

He had another gift they could take, and his fingers tightened around the weapon in his grasp.

He could hear the gleeful cackling of the crones, and the strident cries of his son. He ached to run to Ka, but the coolness had retaken his heated brain. If he ran to his son now, he would surely fail, and he would not fail in this.

As he crept toward the caves, Ka’s screams grew louder, and then fell to silence. Failure or not, Ni broke into a run, and was within the caves before any of the clansmen could move.

He stabbed the first moving thing he saw, and felt the blood spurt along his hand. He kicked at another body and heard the crunch of ribs beneath his heel. Like the devils of their nightmares, Ni was everywhere and the clansmen were afraid. He struck at them, and they cowered before him.

Ka! He could not see Ka. As he attacked the objects of his anger, his eyes searched for a glimpse of the tiny bundle; his ears strained for the hearty shriek of his son. Nothing.

Recovering from their shock, the clansmen returned the attack, leaping at him from every direction. He fended off their blows with his sharpened stick, gouging and rending the bodies that fell within his reach. Like a great cat—blood-crazed after the hunt—he flung himself among them, a high-pitched mewl upon his lips. Like frightened birds, they flew away from his bloody grasp.

In the light of the fire, with the blood of their clan dripping from his hands, he appeared to be some avenging god. First one, and then another, fell prostrate before him, whispering prayers. He laughed at them. Stooping, he picked up a brand from the fire they had stolen and brandished it in their faces.

He called for his child. The people of his childhood family cowered further, sweeping the cave floor with their dirty, matted hair. He bellowed for the child to be brought to him, and they trembled in fright.

He raised his fiery weapon above his head. He would burn them all with the gift they had taken, if they did not give him his child.

An old and scraggily woman crawled forth from the mass of whimpering bodies. Clutched to her chest was a furry package. She held it forth, and from within the folds of animal hide, a single tiny hand pushed forward.

Setting down the fire, he scooped the child away from the crone’s twisted fingers. The babe was safe. He raised a single, meaty fist to crush the female who had kept his son from him, and saw a look of recognition in her eyes.

Staying his blow, he cradled Ti within the folds of his own furs, and turned away. His anger spent, he could not muster enough of his fury to strike down the woman who had taken his son, because she was also the one who had given him life.

Quietly cooing to his greatest achievement, Ni kicked dirt over the fire, snuffing it into embers and then grinding the embers into cold black soot beneath his heel. It was his to create and his to destroy.

As the first pink of the morning sun chased away the darkness, Ni took his child and walked away. The people he once knew lay crying in the darkness of their cave, whining for him to bring back the treasure they had stolen from him.

The fire was dead in the cave, and it was dead in his home, but he knew the secret to creating it again. It was a secret not one of those other creatures would ever discover. As his steps lead down the trail and away from the caves, he whispered the secret of fire to his son.

Tom Sheldon

2008-07-22T06:29:00.004-06:00

Hi. It's been a while since I posted anything here, so I thought I would leave another couple of snippets cut from Fear Itself. Below is what basically amounts to a character study of network executive Tom Sheldon. I love this, and maybe it will make it back into the book should it ever get published, but for now, it's snipped.

I hope you enjoy it.

------------------------

Tom Sheldon

Tom Sheldon was a self-made millionaire who’d been born into money. As the son of an industrialist who’d had to work to pull himself out of the gutter, Tom wanted for nothing but earned everything he had. While working to rise above his background, his father had also worked to instill that same ethic in his only son.

At the age of fourteen, Tom used an alias and applied for the job of day laborer at his father’s largest factory. He spent his summer sweeping metal shavings from beneath the feet of lathe operators and from between the cracks of large machinery whose purpose he could only guess at. At the end of the summer, his means of giving notice was walking into the plant manager’s office and telling him what he thought was wrong with the way the plant was run. Tom was dead right on every point and he knew it, but he was fired immediately. He could still hear the loud ranting of his former boss as he punched out for the last time and headed for home.

That night he strode into his father’s study and laid the entirety of his summer earnings on his father’s lap. “I’ve been working at the Rouge plant since I left school. That’s the money I earned, minus a bit I spent on myself. Consider it a down payment on the rent.” Unsurprised, his father gathered the money and nodded. Tom finished with, “From here on out, I pay my own way,” and walked from the room. His father slowly tucked the money into his pocket and went back to reading the newspaper.

Tom never told his father of his means of resignation, but word spread quickly from the plant floor into the executive office. Given two weeks to comply with the younger Sheldon’s plans or face the consequences, the plant manager chose the latter and was easily replaced. No man ever went against a business plan of Tom’s again.

Never once did he shirk his self-imposed rent, despite his mother’s protestations. She insisted he needn’t work and he needn’t pay his parents for his keep. Once, in the study after dinner, she went so far as to say everything they had was his without asking. His father silenced her with a single look and the subject was never broached again.

Upon graduation, his father presented him with a check for $50,000. He indignantly refused the perceived handout, but his father assured him it wasn’t a gift. His father then explained how he had taken every penny of rent Tom had ever paid and invested it. The check was strictly the profits from the investments. His father assured him he had kept the rent plus a minor broker’s fee, which suited Tom just fine.

His grandfather offered to pay his way through college, but Tom refused that as well. Irreverently, he laughed at the old man and his thought of higher education. Tom knew there was more to be learned in the world than one could learn in a lifetime of classes. Then, sensing he had somehow deeply offended his mother’s father, he apologized. He noted then something was deeply wrong with a man who would offer another money and then be offended when it was refused. That was the last time he spoke to his grandfather, and it was the last time he apologized to anyone for his own integrity.

Taking his own $50,000, he left home—principles intact.

... (several chapters later)...

When he left his father’s home all those years ago, it had been to fight the first battle of his war to the top. His father had unknowingly given him the key when he’d given him his stake—the key was the stock market. If Thomas Sheldon, Sr. could take the pittance his son paid in rent and turn it into fifty-thousand dollars, then surely Tom Sheldon, Jr. could use the same plan to make a much larger fortune. Heading east into New York with a plan in mind, he vowed to take the first job he could find, strictly to keep himself alive while he learned his trade.

Tom planned to hold his stake until he’d taught himself enough to trade and trade wisely. Working as a day laborer at a factory in New Jersey and as a night watchman at a high-rise in Manhattan, he scraped along quietly and was able to keep himself nicely, but it wasn’t enough. He discovered he missed the opulent lifestyle of his father’s home, and he buckled down to achieve it.

In the hours between his day job and his night job—working weekends when he could find the work—Tom took whatever work he could find. Soon he began pulling in more money than he’d ever earned. The increase in money allowed him to regain something of the lifestyle at his father’s home—a spacious apartment in a high rise, the best foods, and the best wines.

Unfortunately, his work schedule didn’t allow much time for studying the markets, and he could feel his stomach twist each time a penny stock jumped while he was busy grinding out a living. Taking the chance he knew he had to take to truly succeed, he quit his jobs and his nice apartment. With the last of his wages, he paid two months rent on a tenement in a somewhat seedier part of town and knuckled down to earn the skills needed to turn his small stake into his fortune.

Studying the markets hard, he looked for trends in the stocks. Diligently watching the news, he studied the behavior of corporate executives. Within a month, he found just the right stock in which to invest his money—all of his money. He’d never cared much for doing things by half measures.

He watched and he waited as the stock hovered, wavering slightly up one day and slightly down the next, always within mere cents of the price he’d paid for it. The company was on the verge of bankruptcy, the papers said. They said it was only a matter of time. If the company went bankrupt, his investment would be worthless and his money lost, but he was unafraid. He had an instinct about this, and he knew his instinct was born of knowledge. As the rent on his apartment was overdue for the second week in a row, and the landlord was threatening eviction, Tom’s knowledge was born out.

The company had been a small venture with a simple product—a venture too small for the company to rise without assistance and a product too brilliant to escape the notice of a bigger enterprise. When the little company was bought-out by a much larger conglomerate, Tom walked away with his first million. It was a lesson he never forgot: knowledge and hard work always wins.

Benjamin

2008-05-13T08:25:00.003-06:00

Below is a scene I snipped from Spectacle (aka Fear Itself) - my first book. I still love it, although I admit it has some flaws. (Of course it does, it was my first work.)

The premise of Spectacle is that a comet is headed for Earth. The general populous believes it's going to wipe out life as we know it - because the truth about it's harmlessness has been kept from people. Fearful people are easy to control, and that kind of thing.

Anyway, the book was never about the comet. It's about the panic that ensues after a glut of bad information is perpetuated by people we trust to tell us the truth. This scene shows one example of the mindset of people faced with their own destruction.

Without further ado, I give you...

------------------------------

Benjamin

In a bright and airy house on Postcard Row in San Francisco existed a cheerful, plant-filled living room where a small group of acquaintances gathered to discuss their plans for the future. Unlike previous discussions they’d had while they were still college students, discussions when they talked about how they were going to change the world, they now talked how their world would end.

In one corner of the room, perched in an overstuffed easy chair, was a skinny, pinch-faced woman of thirty-four. Her hair was drawn back in a tight ponytail she’d hoped would give her a youthful air but instead gave one the impression of a sour old spinster. When in public, she often expounded on the evils of technology and then went home to thoroughly enjoy her luxury apartment with its genuine imitation fireplace and its air conditioning—often at the same time.

On the couch lounged a vibrant, trendy couple in their late twenties. The couch was upholstered in a quaint pattern meant to imitate the art of patchwork quilts; the couple was upholstered in a fashionable statement meant to indicate how little they cared about their appearance, but which made it glaringly obvious that they cared a great deal about their looks and how they were perceived by others. This couple spent their days shaking their heads in disgust at the world around them, dreaming of going back to the old ways—to the ways of those nice Mennonites they’d met on a vacation the summer before—although the man had never done a hard day’s labor in his life and the woman couldn’t envision ever doing her own laundry.

Slouching in a chair by the window was a willowy girl who was easily mistaken for a precocious teen, but who was, in reality. twenty-three. She had always wanted to be a dancer, but had never bothered to apply to the better dance academies. She made it clear she thought ballet was boring and refused to learn it, preferring instead modern dance which allowed her to interpret what the music meant to her.

Sprawled on the floor was a handsome man whose flawless features and chiseled physique made one think of Greek sculptures until one discovered he was painted from shoulder to crotch with tattoos, and then one could only imagine how graffiti would look on Michelangelo’s David. He had been taught the human body was somehow ugly and disgusting, and so had thrown himself into the task of changing it in an effort to fight against that image.

Each of the guests in the house had designed themselves to be very different from some aspect of the norm, and thus each of them succeeded in becoming a caricature of someone else’s ideas. It was the only thing they had in common, other than the bond that brought them to the house each week. The bond was only their dogged worship of the house’s owner.

The owner of that palatial home stood leaning casually against the wall listening to their conversation and smiling softly to himself. He was a tall thin man with a shaved head and black Van Dyke. Normally a man of his age and standing would have been considered both handsome and distinguished, but this man had adopted a sardonic look and sarcastic attitude that made him neither.

He had been teaching for nearly twenty years when the news of the comet broke. Seeing his end-of-the-world philosophy finally coming to pass, he felt there was no more he could do in the classroom. He preferred instead to open his house to those of his students who needed him, and he found that after years of his teaching, most of them did. Over the years, there had been many such gatherings in his house, where he’d listened to and encouraged groups of people such as this to express their opinions. More often than not, the opinions they espoused weren’t their own but were, in fact, ideas he had carefully planted in their heads. It filled him with great satisfaction to know these people would come to him now—seeking reassurance from his home and his presence, seeking sanction for the ideas they thought were their own but which still held a tinge of his work, seeking an escape from the world he’d made sure they would never belong to and would never understand. The man had been a professor of Philosophy at Berkeley and each of his guests had, at one time or another, been one of his students. The day before there had been a different group of former students. Every day the individuals units changed, but the whole remained basically the same.

This night, the professor said little and watched the interplay of his guests from his chosen place, slouched against the doorframe as if he could casually walk away at any moment, but giving the impression he was glued to the spot. He was guarding the room against something, although his guests would have said otherwise, and the something he had appointed himself to guard against was any glimmer of independent thought.

Looking up from his post, the professor noted the would-be dancer was crying again, but the others were paying her little attention. She cried every time she came, and most of the others were beyond caring. The spinster was saying mankind was at fault for the comet and if man had only been a little kinder to his fellow beasts, nature would not be so cruel as to take its benevolence away. The couple was nodding in agreement. The young man on the floor was looking at them all in an odd way, as if he couldn’t understand the language they were speaking.

“Benjamin?” their host inquired. “Is something wrong?”

“No, sir. Just laying here and minding my own business like I always do,” the man replied.

Thinking back, the professor noted Benjamin was never one to lie quietly and mind his own business, but he let it drop. The professor reflected on how Benjamin hadn’t been acting like himself the entire evening but why should Benjamin be any different than anyone else? “It’s the comet. It has everyone acting out of character these days,” he thought. Benjamin had not graced them with his presence for a few weeks now and, adding to the sum total of the boy’s behavior, he had chosen to dress heavily despite the balmy temperature outside. Not a tattoo was in sight, and Benjamin usually liked to show them off. The professor dismissed Benjamin’s strangeness as just another quirk in the boy’s psychology and resumed a watchful gaze over his disciples.

It was late into the evening when the conversation began to wind down, and the guests hesitantly took their leave. Playing the gracious host, the professor saw them all to the door and turned to begin the task of tidying his house for the next night’s gathering. It was then he noticed Benjamin still lying on the floor, hands behind his head and legs crossed at the ankles. For the first time all evening, Benjamin was smiling.

“Why, Benjamin, I would have thought you would join the crowd. I heard them say they were going for espresso. If you hurry, you can still catch them.”

The guest smiled wider from his position on the floor. “But sir, I thought we might have a few words alone together tonight. There is something important I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Never before had the professor felt like his storybook home was closing in on him, but tonight, with that odd smile on his face, Benjamin was making him very uncomfortable. “Not tonight, son. It’s late and I have people coming for breakfast in the morning. You understand, I’m sure.” The professor motioned toward the door, but his guest made no move to leave.

“Professor,” the student proceeded as if he wasn’t being ushered away, “let me at least ask you this. Did you understand what it was you were doing all those years?”

Confused, the man shook his head. “I don’t know what it is you’re talking about, Benjamin. I really don’t have time for games this evening. If you’d like to come back tomorrow night, perhaps you can ask your questions with the rest of the group.”

Shaking his head, the former student just smiled. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back tomorrow night, sir. So, please just answer the question.”

“I don’t understand what you mean by your question.”

Benjamin had always been a bright student, brighter than any of his professors had ever imagined. Since the news of the coming Armageddon, he had thought very carefully over the premises he held and the actions he had taken in his life based on those premises. He had put two-and-two together and didn’t like the answers he came up with. Looking back over his life, there were many of his teachers—both in school and out—who had been responsible for the ideas that had overwhelmed his mind, but when he tried to pinpoint the worst of those, his mind kept coming back to the same person.

“I think you do, professor,” he countered. “How many students have you taught in the past two decades? You’ve been teaching the same dogma all those years, haven’t you? Of course you have. It was working perfectly for you, so you had no reason to change. How many minds did you touch during all those classes where you taught your version of the truth? You had the perfect podium for your own agenda—hundreds and thousands of young men and women coming to you for guidance. Oh, God, and we paid you for the pleasure!” Benjamin choked out angrily, his calm demeanor fading beneath painful memories.

Gathering himself once more, he proceeded more calmly, although a muscle along his jaw twitched from the strain. “And we paid for it dearly,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. “How many minds, like mine, were clean and healthy, but all too trusting, when they stepped into your classroom? How many minds, like mine, were dirty and twisted when they stepped out?” Gazing at his surroundings he hissed, “If tonight was any example, I’d venture to say almost all of the naïve fools who walked into your classroom walked out programmed with the filth you peddled.”

The professor was shaking his head as if confronted with a truth he had never allowed himself to consider. “You’re mistaken, son. I never… Those minds you saw tonight were healthy and normal. I didn’t do anything to them. If they’re a bit off-kilter now it is because of the fear of death. I am not to blame for their own frailties. Look at yourself, Benjamin. You’re a bit off-kilter yourself tonight. You should take a walk and think about all this. You’ll feel better when you’ve had some air.”

It was then Benjamin noticed the professor had begun a slow retreat toward the door. Still, he continued to lie in the center of the living room, willing his calm to return so he could finish what he had come there to do. “Not leaving are you, sir? But I have so much more to say to you before we part.”

“Why no, Benjamin. I was just thinking we could step outside and chat in the fresh air.” A bead of sweat trickled slowly down the professor’s forehead and he wiped at it angrily, knowing it betrayed his anxiety.

“I would rather talk inside. Fresh air isn’t the proper atmosphere for this discussion, sir. I prefer the closeness of your home, don’t you?” Not waiting for the professor the reply, Benjamin began once more. “Do you remember Alise, professor? She was my girlfriend.” The professor was hastily shaking his head, either to indicate he did not remember or to remove all traces of the memories creeping into his consciousness. “Oh, professor. How soon we forget. It wasn’t that long ago. You remember, surely. You suggested I encourage her to attend one of your classes. It was only her sophomore year. She was bright and glowing and alive, and I loved that about her. She sparkled when she entered the room, and I sparkled when I was with her. I followed your suggestion and encouraged her to sign up for your Philosophy 101 course because I believed you would help her to understand how she could use that spark of life within her to help the world.”

“Oh, yes, I believe I do faintly remember her,” the professor lied. He could remember every awful detail of that year. “I certainly hope I was able to help her.”

Benjamin’s smile changed to a sneer. “Oh, you helped her, sir. She began to see the world for the first time through your eyes. In a matter of weeks, she became as cynical and bitter as you are. She began to see your view of the world, you see, and it twisted something inside her. Mid-semester that something in her took one final twist and then…” the young man motioned in the air, “…snapped.” The professor flinched and shrunk away from the thought of a horrible night all those years ago. Lost in memories of his own, Benjamin paid little attention to the professor as he continued. “She hung herself from the window in her dorm room. I should have been there with her but I was here… listening to one of your inane discussion groups. The note… the note said, ‘If this is the way the world is, then I can’t live in it any more.’ Surely you must remember it, sir. It was in the papers. I think I even saw you at her memorial service.”

The professor had frozen in place, his lips moving without sound as if he were silently praying. Benjamin continued. “I believed then that the joy and the life in her was just a façade to cover the overwhelming pain she must have been feeling all along. I know now she didn’t feel any kind of overwhelming pain until you showed her your version of the world. I never noticed because it was the way I had come to see the world, and it never occurred to me the horror to which I had come to be numbed would have any effect on her. I was young and foolish then; I was easily misled. I’m only sorry it took me this long to see you for what you really are, and I’m sorry I don’t have enough time to make it right again. At least… I don’t have enough time to make it right for anyone but myself. It will be made right tonight, sir. Every inch of it will be made right tonight.”

Benjamin began to grin as if remembering the punch line to a joke told long ago. Shivering in place, the former teacher could only stare at what he perceived as mental deterioration, but Benjamin was feeling more mentally alive than he ever had in his life. To Benjamin, this was the final irony, and the humor of the situation was becoming more poignant with each passing second. As he lay there in the center of the Persian rug, in the middle of the professor’s meticulously decorated living room, Benjamin found this entire thing too funny for words, and his twinkling eyes locked onto the shining, frightened eyes of the man he once thought of as a mentor.

If the professor had been able to find the strength of will to move from the steely gaze of his student, it would not have been strength enough. By the time the pretty painted house on Postcard Row exploded, Benjamin was laughing.

An Experimental Story of Sorts

2008-04-13T10:11:00.003-06:00

Below is an experiment I tried last year. It is a story told completely as a series of digital voice recordings. In a way, it's a horror story. I know it certainly gave me the willies when I read it just now.

I did try submitting this to a SF lit journal, but the response was pretty-much what I feared. He didn't get it. *shrug*

You see, "Haudego" is the story of a scientist obsessed with eradicating selfishness. Sounds like a good thing, right? Well, you know the old saying: "Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it."

--------------------------------

Haudego

“Oliver? How do I tell if this damn thing is on? Oh, I see… Well… Yes… Hello. Today’s date is January 29th. I am Doctor Manny Kanton. After years of searching for the answer, I believe have finally found it. A single chemical chain in the cerebral cortex holds the key. Therefore, this set of recordings shall serve as my journals for the trials of the experimental drug to be known as ‘Haudego’, and may they serve as the testament for years spent in the search to solve the one problem behind all other problems known to man—selfishness. Understand whatever I am about to do has been done strictly for the sake of my fellow man.”

“February 12th: The university has given me the go-ahead for implementing my research. I am happy to know that they understand the importance of this project, although I am not fooled. Some members of the board certainly see this as a means for financial gain. I gave them only the barest of information for that reason. All notes and data will be guarded closely from this point onward. No single person will benefit from my work. It is for all of mankind.”

“February 18th: We began with the usual rodent test subjects today. All have been given the same dosage and the blind trial is in place. I expect to see results within a week.”

“February 22nd: Initial tests using rodent subjects for Haudego have proven fruitless. I had hoped the chemical chain in these lower animals would be suitably similar to our own, but when combined with the drug, these chemical chains become unstable causing immediate death. Curious. There is no indication for this result.”

“February 24th: Hypothesis of chemical chain instability in lower mammals incorrect. After biopsy, no data can be found to support that conclusion. According to my initial theory, nothing about this drug should cause such an immediate and fatal a reaction. I see now I was right. I’m looking at this the wrong way. Perhaps the dosage is too high… Yes. That has to be the answer. A lower dosage should suffice.”

“March 1st: New tests with lower dosage show promise. Rodent subjects no longer exhibit respiratory failure immediately following administration of the drug. I expect to see great improvement in these subjects over the next few days.”

“March 2nd: Initial subjects for test with lower dosage have begun to exhibit extreme loss of appetite and rapid dehydration.”

“March 3rd: Second test has failed. All subjects from the initial test but one have expired. Last subject shows no ill effect of Haudego, and tomorrow, remaining live subject will be tested to ascertain the drug’s desired effects.”

“March 4th: Final subject from initial test has proven immune to lower dosage of Haudego. All tests show no effect on brain chemistry… Hmm… This is actually promising. If I can eradicate this immunity, I should be able to insure Haudego’s efficacy.”

“March 4th (addendum): Earlier, I increased the dosage to gauge its effects on the immune subject, but regrettably, the subject expired in the same manner as the initial subjects. Subject not immune. Tolerance was higher… Nothing to suggest a possible way to increase the positive effects of the drug while diminishing the fatality rate, but it must be there. It has to be.”

“March 7th: I am now certain my failure with the rodent subjects was strictly due to the difference in anatomy between species. Closer examination of the exhumed brains of my subjects shows total atrophy of the cortex area, to the extent that many brain cells necessary for the successful function of the organism have ceased to exist. This can only be due to specie.”

“March 8th: I have convinced my superiors of the need to utilize subjects closer in makeup to mankind. Tomorrow, we begin work with a small sample of rhesus monkeys.”

“March 15th: Primate subject tests are all failures. Same basic cause of death as the rodent subjects. I can only assume the monkeys are still too far away from the chemical makeup of the human brain. I need a human subject. There is no other way. I am certain that if I could work with just one man, I could prove my theory is correct.”

“March 18th: My request for a test sample of volunteers has been denied. Damn them. If they had any idea what they were preventing… It’s madness. The board… Men and women who never once thought about their fellow man… They are apparently not convinced I am correct. They do not understand. Even if a small number of volunteers are lost, the importance of Haudego is worth it. Millions will be saved once this chemical chain is eradicated from the human physiology. I have to convince them. They have to listen.”

“April 9th: I located my first human subject tonight. A male of fair health and medium stature. He jumped at the chance to make money so he could buy his next fix. Heh. I think that once Haudego succeeds, however, he will be so grateful, payment will become unnecessary. This subject is perfect. The track marks along his arm are classic. Once my drug takes effect, he will no longer feel the need for narcotics of any kind.”

“April 9th (addendum): Impossible. The first test subject expired at 10:02 p.m… I don’t understand it. Ten minutes after Haudego was introduced, he… The subject gasped once and then stopped breathing. My assistant, Oliver, administered CPR and breathing resumed briefly. But each time the subject was resuscitated, he took one or two breaths and ceased breathing again… Oliver is now readying the corpse for further study. I need to know why this is happening.”

“April 11th: Just as I had suspected! Autopsy shows no ill effects of the drug upon the respiratory system. I knew it! Oddly, it was almost as if the lungs received an order from the brain to cease function, but… that cannot be so. The chemical chain involved has no bearing… none at all, on the respiratory system. However, this bears further study. When Oliver returns from disposing of the remains, we will go over the data together to determine a solution to the problem… Oliver is a good man… It was his idea to hide the remains. He understands the importance of this discovery, and he understands any negative light shed on our experiments will jeopardize the success of the project... This project must succeed… for the betterment of humanity.”

“May 10th: We have hit upon the possible cause of Sub1’s untimely and unfortunate death. A single molecular chain in the drug’s chemistry affects the subject’s autonomic systems. I will adjust Haudego and resume testing as soon as possible.”

“May 27th: Our second subject was acquired, and we administered Haudego without delay. I remained in the lab tonight for the observation of the second subject. He experienced no ill effects, and after three hours, I left him asleep in the lab. I am confident we have finally resolved any issues with the autonomic system, and the test will be successful. I will run further tests tomorrow to see if Haudego has accomplished my goal.”

“May 28th: Success! Sub2 has shown vast improvement from his former state. All tests have been passed, and the subject has been released with instructions to report back to the lab in the morning. My assistant showed concern for the subject’s return, but it cannot be helped. We do not have adequate facilities to house a human subject for too long, and I cannot afford to have rumors of my tests leaking to the advisory board. This experiment cannot be jeopardized for any reason. Oliver’s concerns are duly noted, however, and I took the precaution of offering some additional financial incentives to the subject. I am confident the man will be prompt in his delivery of his body for further testing.”

“May 29th: Sub2 did not return as expected. I sent my assistant to retrieve the man from his place of residence. Perhaps this is another indication of the drug’s success. No other man in his position would have stayed away from the fee I was offering.”

“May 29th (addendum): My assistant arrived this evening with the unfortunate news of Sub2’s expiration. At first I feared Haudego was the culprit, but my assistant assured me that Sub2’s death was purely accidental. It appears the man was killed on his way home from the lab. Vehicular homicide… Stepped in front of a freight van. Curious. One would think a man in his position would have been paying closer attention.”

“June 21st: I… I went into the lab tonight. We… That is, I… have been unable to locate any appropriate test subjects for nearly a month now. Oliver has been overly concerned that the delay would impede our research, and delay the chance of Haudego reaching the market in a timely fashion. I tried to explain that sometimes trials of this nature can take years, but being young, he didn’t comprehend my words. I went into the lab tonight and found Oliver. He couldn’t wait. He used himself as a test subject.”

“June 21st (addendum): I disposed of Oliver’s body. What a horrifying task. Upon my return I went over his notes… His notes were flawless. Right down to the instant of his death. Every sensation; every thought carefully recorded. But his observations cannot be so. I refuse to believe Haudego has any ill effects. I have tested and retested the drug’s composition myself. Nothing is present to indicate this kind of reaction… I have no choice now. I must explore his observations for myself.”

“June 22nd: As of ten o’clock tonight, I am under the influence of Haudego. As foolhardy as it may seem, I had to know what happened to Oliver. I have to know where I went wrong. I must… Curious. It doesn’t really make any difference what I think I need to know… But Haudego is for the betterment of humanity… I should care about the completion of our work if only for that reason… But what does it matter? I… I don’t understand… What is happening to me?”

“June.. 23rd… This… will be my last… recording… I have destroyed… every last vestige… of this project… save for this… final epitaph… to my own folly… Even now… I have to fight… against the drug… to do even this… last small thing… for myself… Haudego… was designed… to spare mankind… from the one… malady… the one cause… of suffering and war… of hate and depression… since… the dawn… of humanity… I… created… Haudego to… save humanity… I… We… were taught… all along… Selfishness… is so… wrong… How… can it… be possible…? Selfishness… is… self… preservation. How… can… I… have… failed…? How… could I… have failed to see…?”

Thus ends the transcription of recordings found with the body of Dr. Manny Kanton. The only punctuation for his final recording: the exclamation point of a gunshot, and the final ellipsis of a soft, heavy object falling to the floor.

A Morphed Beginning

2008-03-11T07:23:00.004-06:00

Below is a piece I had originally started as one story but which morphed into the book I called 'Blink'. Now that Blink is finished, it's so far from this beginning I'm thinking about using this to begin another story I have simmering on the back burner. *shrug* We'll see.

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Title Redacted

“Two and two are…? Anyone?” asked a young woman with long curly blond hair. Many of the small children seated at the circular table around her stopped their eyes from wandering about the large and brightly colored room and attempted to focus their attentions on the adult standing in their center. Several of the children continued with other pursuits as the teacher patiently waited. One tiny girl sat looking thoughtfully at her teacher as if she were also patiently waiting for something to happen; the teacher could feel herself beginning to squirm beneath those dark eyes. She felt unreasonably relieved when one of the other children was the first to speak.

“Five!” a chubby boy with thick glasses called from a space on the teacher’s left.

“Very good, Evynstyn!” The teacher said with a good-natured smile. “Does anyone else have an answer?”

A small hand shot confidently skyward just as another of the children yelled out, “Seven!”

“Very good, Taffinia!” The teacher nodded approvingly. “Anyone else?”

Once again, the small hand raised and the young girl beneath it wiggled in her seat as if the answer were alive inside her and trying to wriggle free. The teacher scanned the group from her position in the center of the circle, her eyes hastily jumping past the eyes of her most animated student to land on a girl to the right.

“Jennifrika? Do you have an answer?”

The chosen girl blushed and timidly whispered out the word, “One?”

“Oh, Jennifrika!” the teacher cried, “That’s perfect!” The teacher clapped her hands joyfully. “What a bright girl you are!”

The wiggling little body could stand it no longer and she rose from her seat. “Ms. Blandingsworth?” she said boldly, “The correct answer to the question is ‘four’. Those other kids are wrong.”

At first the teacher went white, but then her face quickly reddened and she shouted, “Mary Jones! I should’ve known that you’d be trouble. I don’t know what your last learning group was like, but this learning group isn’t like that. We don’t talk that way here.” She quickly passed outside of the circle and stood beside Mary’s spot on the bench that surrounded the class’ oblong desk, her arms crossed almost protectively before her chest. “You will apologize to your fellow learners right now.”

Mary stood silently defiant. As she ran over the whole thing in her mind, she could not think of a single thing that she needed to apologize for, even if she could hear the beginning sniffles of the timid girl next to her.

The teacher’s hand quickly raised and Mary could almost imagine that this woman would strike her for her disobedience, so angry was her demeanor, but the teacher stabbed a finger toward Mary’s tote bag and then stabbed again toward the doorless opening of the classroom. “Very well, young lady. If you refuse to apologize for hurting the feelings of your groupmates, then I have no choice. You will pick up your things and march right up to the office right this instant,” the teacher commanded shrilly. Mary carefully gathered her belongings and made her way toward the hall. Just as she exited the room she could hear the woman call after her in a tone that sounded too much like glee, “And don’t be surprised if they call your parents!”

As Mary walked down the gleaming corridors of her new school following a path of purple dinosaur tracks that she had been told would lead her to the office, she pondered the reaction of the woman they had chosen to be her teacher. Neither the reaction of her teacher nor that of the timid girl made any sense to her, but she was sure that this would all be straightened out once she spoke to the principal; she was certain it would.

Sitting silently in the hall outside the opening for what was obviously an office, despite its lack of a sign to that effect, Mary gazed about her new surroundings. The walls were covered in pastel butterflies and there were images of happy looking bugs painted at intervals along the baseboards. If the surroundings were any indication of the school, then the teacher had been right in suggesting that this wasn’t anything like her last school, but she hadn’t expected it to be that way. Her last school had been more concerned with what the children were learning than with what the children were feeling. There had been no butterflies or smiling bugs flittering along the walls; her last school didn’t need any illusions of happiness because it had made the learning itself fun. Her last school had been run by her father.

A voice interrupted her thoughts. “Mary?”

While she had been lost in her memories a rather strange looking woman in a garish t-shirt and blue jeans had walked up to her. Mary acknowledged that she was the girl in question, and the strange woman ushered her into a room. After a few moments Mary realized that she was now in the principal’s office, although it was like no office she had ever seen; there was no desk and the only furniture seemed to be a group of comfortable chairs nestled together in the center of the room. The woman quickly flopped into one of the chairs and indicated that Mary should take another. Quickly Mary realized that this person was the principal.

“I’m Ms. Lovinghouse, Mary… but you may call me Lovey. After you’ve been with us a while you’ll learn that all the children here call me Mama Lovey, though, but I will wait until you feel comfortable enough to call me that. Now, honey. Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, Mrs. Lovinghouse.” Mary said politely.

“It’s Ms., dear, and remember to call me Lovey.” The principal corrected.

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary replied.

Patting Mary’s hand, the principal told her, “No need to be so formal, sweetie. We’re going to be good pals, you and I. I’m good pals with all the children. You’ll see.”

“Yes, ummm… Ms… ummm… Lovey.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard now was it?” The principal reassured her. “Now, my dear, the reason you are here to see me today is that your teacher said that you were being disruptive in your group room today.”

“How?” Mary asked.

“Well, darling, Ms. Blandingsworth said that you stood up in class…”

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll apologize to her ma’am.”

“Mary, we don’t have any rules about standing up in class, darling. You were just expressing yourself, and that’s wonderful, but, Mary… You told the other children that they were wrong.”

“But… But they were wrong and Ms. Blandingsworth was acting like they weren’t. She was letting them think they were right.”

“Mary, honey, I know that you think that you were helping your groupmates to learn, but your teacher knows better ways of teaching than you do, doesn’t she?”

“But they were wrong…” Mary insisted.

“We don’t teach that way, Mary. Maybe your last learning facility did, but that doesn’t make our way of teaching wrong, dear.” Noticing the look of consternation on Mary’s face, the principal quickly added, “And it doesn’t make your old learning facility wrong either, dear. Just different. When you’re older, you’ll understand. After all, you’re only seven…”

“I’m six.” Mary corrected.

“Well, Mary dear. I can see what the problem is now. You’re obviously in the wrong group.” She said cheerfully and then mumbling, added, “Funny. Your transcript shows that you were being taught at the first learning group level…” Lovey drifted off as she contemplated the situation she was now faced with. Finally her gleaming smile returned and she beamed down at Mary. “I’ll take care of this right away, dear.”

Mary was led quietly back to her bench in the hallway to await her new group assignment. Oddly, her new school wasn’t really a school; she could hear the woman answering the phone, calling it State Learning Facility number 10045. And her class hadn’t really been a class; they’d called them by the name of learning groups since she had arrived. This was a strange new place that she’d been brought to and she wasn’t quite certain that she liked it one bit. However, her father had always taught her to embrace new experiences and to learn from them, so she made up her mind to make the best of it.

Several minutes passed before her principal returned bearing a clipboard and a pencil. “Are you ready to go to your new group, Mary?” The principal said cheerfully.

Mary nodded as a grin spread slowly across her face. She was excited. The lessons that she’d experienced that day had covered material that she was already familiar with and the other children had seemed a bit slow to her. Happily, the little girl tramped after the principal as she was lead to her new learning group, knowing in her heart that this woman would make things right. That’s what grown-ups did.

“Here we are Mary,” the principal proclaimed. “Mrs. Christiansen’s class.” The principal pushed the door open and a wave of noise swept over Mary. Children were running around a large room with brightly colored walls, shouting to one another and barking out cries of glee as they ran. There were no desks present—not even the large circle that her last learning group had to work upon—and the room seemed to be devoid of even the few simple books that group had offered. She clasped her tote bag to her chest as the principal prodded her to enter.

Stunned, Mary looked up into the face of her principal, unable to form the words that bubbled up in her mind. The principal merely beamed down at her. “Welcome to kindergarten, Mary,” she said.

Before Mary could even respond a large, round-faced woman scurried up to them amidst the chaos. “A new student!” she cried with obvious glee. “Let me take those things.” She then snatched Mary’s belongings out of her tiny grasp. “Everyone will be so thrilled that we have new things to play with!”

Mary opened her mouth to speak but her words were lost in her throat. Her things were not for everyone else to play with—they belonged to her. Powerless to stop this new intrusion into her life, she watched in horror as her papers and books were distributed throughout the gathering herd of children who were clamoring for their chance. The books were grabbed and hastily chucked aside, and Mary gasped in horror as her copy of Black Beauty was carelessly trod upon.

Mistaking the cause of the tears in her eyes, the principal knelt down next to her and pulled her close into a hug that Mary neither wanted nor understood. “It’s okay, dear. Kindergarten can be a scary new experience; go ahead and have a good cry.” Mary struggled against her grip, but the woman only squeezed her tighter. Finally Mary gave up the struggle and swallowed back the tears of frustration that clouded her dark brown eyes. When the woman finally released her, it was to hold her at arm’s length. Looking into Mary’s face, the principal said, “I’m sorry that you’re having such a tough time today, Mary. Please tell your parents that I’m terribly sorry about the mistake, but if they had only pointed out your age when they registered you, then this never would have happened. You would have been placed where you belong and all six year olds belong in kindergarten. They never really should have taught you beyond the kindergarten level anyway, you know. You were too young, and in teaching you beyond your age group your parents have really only made your adjustment here more difficult.” Adopting a look of insincere sympathy, the woman tousled Mary’s hair and patted her on the back. “Now run along and play, darling. You’ll want to get to know your group-mates before recess.”

Mary stood in front of the entryway long after the principal had skipped back to her office, wondering how she was going to fix this, and then it occurred to her that this was the way her life was now, and she was just going to have to accept it.

#

Mary awoke with a start to realize that once again, she had fallen asleep in the middle of her studies. With a sigh, she carefully marked a place several pages back where she had last understood what she was reading and then set about the task of getting ready for work. A glance at the clock on the wall showed it was fast approaching midnight, and she was probably going to be late—again. As quickly as she could, she pulled on an orange jumper and raced out the door, cognizant that she’d missed yet another meal as she attempted to combine a full night’s work with a full day’s study, and had once again succeeded at neither. Shrugging as she climbed aboard a cross-town bus, she acknowledged that it was only par for the course; her teachers had always intimated that she wouldn’t succeed at much in her life.

As usual, the bus was jammed full of bodies; people pressed in one upon the other like so many pickles stuffed into a jar. Shuffling into a space near the back, Mary pondered her latest analogy and decided that the smell of dozens of humans packed into a plastic alloy shell was faintly reminiscent of vinegar and dill. Yesterday, the best she had been able to come up with was the old standard of sardines, although she couldn’t remember ever have seen a can of the little fish. She sighed. Some days were better then others, but it was her only amusement—finding new ways to describe the world around her.

Lurching to a halt at each stop, the bus slowly unloaded its stale lot of passengers to acquire a fresh batch. People shuffling off the bus on their way home from second shift; people scurrying onto the bus on their way to clock in for the third. Every night Mary went through the same ritual, but the mornings she chose to wander the streets, soaking up the architecture of the city and wondering who the great men were that had created such grandeur and beauty as could be found in the oldest of the buildings, wondering if there were any great men left.

Time Stops Here

2008-02-18T18:22:00.006-07:00

Below is a story I wrote for a theme lit mag called The First Line. They give you the first line, you write a story from it. (This submission period's first line is in italics.) Needless to say, I didn't get this one published. (If I had, I wouldn't be able to post it here.) I suppose I could've reworked it and submitted it somewhere else, but for me, it's had its run.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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Time Stops Here

In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. So, my guess is when the factory shut down, time couldn’t help but stop.

Don’t it seem like nothing ever stops all at once? This place really ain’t any different. What happened here was more like the last puddle in a drought, though; it just gets smaller and smaller until there ain’t nothin’ left but mud. One month the trucks were flowin’ by—headed west with steel and wire and crates of who-knows-what; headed east with big boxes of stuff from the factory. The next month, the trucks were only headed east. Last time a semi went through here, it didn’t carry anythin’ but the innards of a man’s gutted future.

Pigwell never was great or sprawlin’ by anyone’s standards, but after the factory went belly-up, this town rolled over with it. Since pretty much everyone who lived here worked there, it wasn’t really any big surprise. At least not to me it wasn’t. I saw it comin’. All those people without any money, and the stores couldn’t help but dry up and blow away, like the dust of a ruined riverbed.

You know what they say: “Last one out’s a rotten egg.”

Looks like I’m gonna be the rotten egg in this one.

If I didn’t own the only bar left in this town, I probably woulda blown away like all the rest of ‘em. But no matter how tight a man’s pocketbook gets, it’s never so empty he can’t squeeze out a little cash to get himself tight, too. Like my daddy always said, “Booze don’t make the hurtin’ go away but it sure does lubricate the trip.”

I suppose when the money dries up completely, I’ll be outta here myself.

When Frank Petrie came here a dozen years ago and built his factory out in the scrubby fields, I bet he never saw this comin’. Of course, the Frank Petrie I met years ago wouldn’a been able to see it. He was so damn full of life then, he fairly crackled with it. The whole mess is too damn bad if you ask me. A man puts everythin’ he is into buildin’ his dream—into breakin’ out on his own—only to see it crap out on him; that, sir, is a horror no man should hafta face. Frank faced it for as long as he could, I guess, but finally, he couldn’t take it no more. I saw him leavin’ town a while back. He stopped in here for one last belt.

He wasn’t cracklin’ anymore; he was crawlin’.

The other day, Danny Watkins—he was Frank’s foreman once upon a time… Well, Danny was in here, sittin’ at my bar, doin’ his best to crawl into the bottom of one of my whiskey bottles. All of a sudden, he started goin’ on and on about how Frank Petrie was a crook, and how he’d screwed Pigwell. Before I knew it, I was mad as a wet cat. I cut him off of my booze, then I told him to get the hell out of my bar. That shut him up, and he got real sorry then, but he shoulda known better than to talk that kind of trash in my place. He’s banned for life. Well, he’s banned for as long as I own this place, which don’t look like it’s gonna be too much longer.

Don’t get me wrong. Danny was one of the only people left in town with money, but no amount of money from him or anyone else is ever gonna be enough for me to put up with that crap. Especially not in my own place.

After all, Danny Watkins’s kind of thinkin’ is what got folks into this mess in the first place, only they don’t know it. Don’t shake your head at me. I’ve had more than my fair share of time to think about it. It’s what killed the factory, and this hole some idiot christened Pigwell along with it.

What most folks don’t know is that a man can work himself damn near to death buildin’ something for himself and while he’s doin’ that, other people can work along with him—each profitin’ from it in their own way. Frank worked his ass off for that place. All the folks here, as long as they were willin’ to put in the work, got pretty comfortable off Frank’s place. Everything was goin’ fine until one day, those fools got to thinkin’ that because they worked so hard and all, they were entitled to somethin’ more.

Old foreman Danny got them all together and decided they were gonna ask the owner for a cut—their share of the money, they said. The damned fools didn’t know they were already gettin’ a cut every time they got a paycheck. I mean, Christ, half of them guys didn’t even graduate high school and they were makin’ more than some college fellas I know.

Well, this little… uh… idea of theirs came right after they’d all gotten their fat yearly raises, but the money still wasn’t enough. They saw the owner driving a Mercedes while they were driving Chevys; they saw him living in a big house in the valley while they were living in town. So, they figured they deserved a bigger piece of the pie. Of course, when they asked Frank he said ‘not yet’. He wouldn’t have minded, but it wasn’t the time for spendin’ money. Seems he was waitin’ for a big order to come through, and he had to sink every spare penny into buyin’ raw materials.

Did anyone here think of that? Nope. Everybody at that meeting came back to town and what they’d heard him say was ‘No’; he didn’t say ‘No’, mind you, he just said ‘not yet’, but that wasn’t what they heard. Or maybe they heard him right and just didn’t care.

The next day, the whole lot of them got together—right here in my bar—and after a dozen beers, they hemmed and hawed and belched and burped, and when it was done, they’d voted to go on strike. Then they all patted each other on the backs and staggered home to sleep, or to pass out, or whatever those idiots do when they’ve drunk themselves stupid.

Now, they didn’t strike right away. No, they waited until the moment was perfect; when they could do the most damage. It was right about the time when the factory was due to fill that really important order, actually. Then, the whole crew walked away from the line. Before Frank even had a chance to blink, they sent Danny up to the office with a list of what they said they needed, and one demand: pay up or else.

What the hell was Frank supposed to do when they had him by the short hairs like that? He melted quicker than a snowman in April. The whole lot of them got raises, better bennies, longer vacations. Jesus, they were livin’ like kings. Some of them guys were makin’ twice what I was makin’, and I owned my own place.

Lucky for them, the order got out on time, and the company got paid for it. But in the end, the company paid for it—if you know what I mean.

Before anyone knows it, the factory is slowly bleeding to death, and I’m ashamed to say, a lot of their blood was seepin’ into this place. I’m not complainin’ about that part, mind you. I’m just sayin’.

Then, all the boys from the factory start showin’ here up at any time of the day. I asked Hank—he worked on the assembly line—what he thought he was doin’ playin’ hooky in the middle of the day, and he just winked at me. Another one of the boys told me they could do whatever they wanted and if Frank had a problem with that, they’d make sure to hold up some orders, just to teach him who was really boss.

It wasn’t long after that the trucks stopped and time petered out for Pigwell.

I don’t expect to be here much longer. Most folks who had any sense have headed out, looking for wetter places to put down roots. Hell, I heard even Danny went east to find work. And old Hank? Last I heard, he’s moppin’ floors at some place up near the city, makin’ half of what Frank was payin’ him, even before the big strike-raise.

Me? Oh, I’m headed out, too. Time is stoppin’ in too many places around these parts. Too many other Franks are getting’ showed who’s boss, I guess. I heard tell of a place somewhere up in the mountains where things aren’t so bad. Maybe I can open another bar; put down roots of my own, you know. Maybe I can go up there to wait it out, and hope time starts back up again.

Spunky the Bunny

2008-02-05T22:38:00.000-07:00

I wrote this years ago (so long ago, I can't remember exactly when), but suffice it to say, this is the final incarnation of a story I wrote in 1986 - for my sophomore English class. It's really morphed since then, but so have I.

This story was written as a children's story (at least I think that's what the assignment was). I realize some of the language is above the intended age-range, but since I don't plan on ever seeing this published, it no longer really matters.

Enjoy.

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Spunky the Bunny

Being a bunny takes a lot of effort, but Spunky was a bunny who loved to work at being the best bunny he could be. Spunky ran fast, but sometimes the other bunnies would run faster. That didn’t stop Spunky. He would practice and practice until he could be the fastest bunny. Spunky jumped high, but sometimes the other bunnies would jump higher. That didn’t bother Spunky. He would practice and practice until he could be the highest jumping bunny.

One day Spunky met Roger the squirrel. Roger was the best squirrel he could be. He could climb any tree quicker than all the other squirrels. Spunky watched as Roger climber the tallest tree in the glen and Spunky was very impressed. Later when Roger went home with the other squirrels, Spunky tried to climb that tree. He tried running up the tree but he didn’t make it very far before he fell on his fluffy white tail. That didn’t stop Spunky. He tried jumping up the tree, but he didn’t make it very far before he fell on his fluffy white tail again. That didn’t stop Spunky.

He sat under the tree and thought about how to get up that tree. Then he remembered how Roger had climbed the tree. Roger didn’t run up the tree. Roger didn’t jump up the tree. Roger dug in his little claws and pulled himself up with his own effort. So Spunky used his little bunny claws and his big bunny brain. Slowly but surely he climbed up the tree. Little bit by little bit he inched up the bark. Once, he slipped and slid down the trunk just a little, but that didn’t stop Spunky. He dug in tighter with his little bunny claws and pulled a little harder. It took a long time but Spunky finally reached the first branch of the tree. Only then did Spunky stop and rest.

He looked out across the glen and saw his burrow far below. Spunky was very proud of himself. He looked up to the top of the tree and thought about all the work it took to reach only the first branch. That didn’t stop Spunky. After he rested and created a plan, Spunky started up the tree once more. He couldn’t wait to see the view from the top.

A Stab at Writing for Kids

2008-01-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

Below is the beginning of my almost attempt at writing for the 8-12 crowd. Too bad I don't remember where I was headed with this, because I think it's a good beginning. *shrug* Every single thing we write is a learning experience. Good thing I learned to put more of a plot down for the stories I start.

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Summer Vacation Story

Julia couldn’t believe her ears. Her whole summer vacation was ruined! The entire class went from raucous enthusiasm over the last day of school to stunned silence. Mrs. Fitzhugh was still talking but few of the students were actually listening.

“… due the first day of school next year. Since I’ve been reassigned to teach sixth grade, it will be no problem to pick up where we’ve left off. Provided, of course, that you keep your minds sharp during summer break. That is the point of the assignment I’ve decided to give you for summer homework – keeping your minds active while you’re out of school.”

“Active?!” Julia thought, “My mind is active during the summer. I have a whole list of things I was going to do this summer. Homework was NOT one of those things.”

Mrs. Fitzhugh started passing out piles of paperwork. Each of her fifth grade students grudgingly took one from the top and passed the rest back to the unhappy individual behind him. As she was handing out papers, she continued, “Now I’m sure you all have plans for the summer,” almost reading Julia’s mind, “so this is going to incorporate your summer plans with your summer homework.”

Julia looked down at the sheet in her hands. The words were all a blur swimming in her thoughts of the beach and the park and the library. “Ahhh, the library,” Julia sighed under her breath, “Maybe the assignment has something to do with researching things in the library. I hope it’s not one of those lame ‘How I spent my summer vacation’ sort of things.” Julia focused her eyes and read, “How I spent my summer vacation” in big, bold, underlined letters at the top of the assignment. Groaning, she laid her head on her arms in defeat. The teacher was still talking but Julia no longer cared to listen. Minutes later she was roused by the sounds of her classmates pushing their chairs into place and gathering up their belongings. The last day of school was over.

Julia sullenly followed her classmates out of the school and toward the buses. Everyone was abuzz with excitement, but Julia was too lost in thought to even notice. She was sorely disappointed in her teacher. All year long she had given such interesting and thoughtful assignments. This was totally uncalled for. Every year some teacher or other had given Julia the exact same assignment and it had the exact same results – utter boredom. Julia thought Mrs. Fitzhugh was different.

Amy, Julia’s best friend rushed over and tapped her on the shoulder. “Ohmagawd, this is so exciting!” She gushed. Amy had a way of gushing when she was excited, but Julia didn’t mind because most of the time Amy was pretty sedate and thoughtful. “Can you believe that we get this to do all summer? I’m so glad we’re getting Fitz again.” All the children referred to their teacher as Fitz in conversation – it was shorter and Mrs. Fitzhugh didn’t mind as long as they addressed her properly at any other time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Julia. “I can’t believe that we have homework to do this summer. Well, I’m telling you, I’m going to whip out something quick and get it over with so that I can enjoy my break.” Pulling her backpack farther up on her shoulder, Julia started to walk for home. “I’ll catch you later. I’m going to get started on this thing right away.”

Amy stood watching in disbelief. This wasn’t like Julia. Usually things like this got Julia more excited than even Amy could manage. Maybe Julia was having an off day or maybe she was grumpy because Amy would be leaving that night to spend the summer at her aunt’s house in the country. “Oh well,” thought Amy, “I’ll write her a letter once I get unpacked and maybe she’ll let me know what’s wrong when she writes back.”

Of course, Julia had forgotten that Amy was going away for the summer. Julia’s mind was on other things and she was feeling quite sorry for herself by the time she arrived home. She could hear whistling in the kitchen which told her that her father was home, but Julia didn’t feel like conversation so she tromped right upstairs and flopped herself down on the bed. Her mind was racing with thoughts of her summer plans and with how she was going to word her 3 or 4 paragraph essay summarizing those plans. She could do the essay now and then she would just do what her essay said she had done. A little backward, true, but the best plan that Julia could come up with. Julia was an excellent writer and it would take her no time at all to make up details of she was going to do. All that it took was putting it into past tense. Since it was what she was going to do anyway, it wasn’t really a fib.

Movie Review

2008-01-04T09:25:00.000-07:00

Way back when I was gainfully employed, I was asked to do some articles for the company newsletter. (Co-editor number one asked me, but number two and I didn't get along, so nothing was ever published.) A couple of the articles I wrote were reviews of old movies I thought my fellow employees might enjoy. Since they will never read these, I thought I would share one with you.

In the words of Rocky Squirrel: "And now for something we hope you'll really like."

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Silverado (1985)

Cast:
Kevin Kline, Kevin Costner, Scott Glenn, Danny Glover, Brian Dennehy, Linda Hunt, Rosanna Arquette, John Cleese, Jeff Goldblum

Directed by Lawrence Kasdan

Before Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer could clean up Tombstone (1993) and before Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster could gamble on Maverick (1994), a band of men rode onto the streets of Silverado and into the ranks of classic movies. This disparate quartet of cowboys – and virtually unknown actors at that time – showed America that the classic western was not dead and that Hollywood could still make a movie that was both entertaining and thoughtful.

The year is 1880 and the opening scenes follow Emmett (played by Scott Glenn) as he heads west to “meet a guy and go to Silverado”. On his way, Emmett stumbles upon Paden (Kline) in the desert and agrees to help him get to a town. However, they make it to town only to find that the ‘guy’ Emmett is supposed to meet is not only going to hang for murder the next morning, but also that the man is Emmett’s little brother, Jake (Costner). With some timely assistance from a stranger (Glover), the four men are rapidly on their way to their destination. That is when the fun really begins.

When these unlikely looking heroes ride in, Silverado seems like any other peaceful western town – plenty of pretty girls, horses and saloons – and it is peaceful, too, as long as the townspeople ignore the corruption going on around them. No such luck for them, though, as the heroes get embroiled in fighting for their lives, their property and their integrity.

Silverado is a movie with big vistas, big stars and big guns, but it goes beyond all that with big ideas – the big ideas that made the old westerns such an important part of America. Silverado shows that the only way for evil men to succeed is for good men to sit and do nothing. It also shows what happens when good men decide to stand for what is right – no evil is powerful enough to stop them.

The King's Crown - Chapter Three

2007-12-26T20:59:00.000-07:00

This is a short chapter, written before I knew what chaptering was all about. Hell, it was written before I knew what writing was all about. Like so many others, I figured I could crank a book out in no time and as soon as I finished it, they'd be crawling all over each other to publish it. Easy as that, right?

Heh.

At any rate, writing doesn't work out quite like that.

Here's chapter three of The King's Crown. I hope you enjoy it.

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Chapter Three

Alex met Paul during her first semester at college. He was a Senior finishing up his degree requirements by taking a beginning computer course. They met in one of the computer labs where Alex was working. He was cute and charming. She thought it was romantic the way he called her Alexandra, so she began concentrating on helping him in the evenings when she was supposed to be helping everyone. One night he had a project that was due the following day, and she let him stay after she locked up so he could finish it. One thing led to another that night and they began seeing each other.

Thinking back Alex could see it was anything but a normal relationship. They met in the back of the library or at a small coffee shop just off campus. Paul never took Alex back to his dorm room. When they ran into each other on campus, neither one spoke. Paul convinced Alex that meeting in out of the way places and not acknowledging one another in public would be exciting and would keep them out of the rumor mills that were a large part of campus life. They saw each other in secret nearly every day for two months.

One day in particular stood out in Alex’s mind...

"I love you so much, Paul.” Alex looked over at the fair haired man sitting next to her. “I can’t wait until we can finally be together.” She grinned into his sparkling blue eyes. They sat under a tree in front of the Student Union building. They didn’t touch. Sitting a small distance apart, they held books and did their best to appear to be studying separately. Occasionally Alex would turn to talk to Paul but when Paul replied he spoke into his text book.

"I love you too, baby. We won’t have to wait much longer. After all, I graduate next month.” Paul turned the pages of the book he obviously wasn’t reading.

Alex sighed, “But then you’ll be going to graduate school. Paul, I need to talk to you about us.” She gave up the pretense of studying and turned to Paul in earnest.

He didn’t even look her way, although you could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t appreciate her dropping her end of the act. “Oh, baby. Don’t be such a worry wart, I’ll only be an hour away and by the time you get your degree here I’ll be graduating there. We can be together then.” Paul took a highlighting pen out of his book bag and began marking sentences randomly.

Alex snatched the pen out of his hands, “Paul, I said I need to talk to you.”

"Alexandra, please, you’re making a scene. We can talk later. Now I’m going back to my room, and I suggest you do the same before somebody sees us.” Paul began to gather his books. He began stuffing them randomly into his book bag.

"Paul, I said I need to talk to you and I mean now. I’d prefer if we don’t talk here but if you insist...” Alex began.

"Really Alex, can’t this wait. I told you we could meet later...at the coffee shop...we could get that booth in the back.” Paul glanced around nervously, “Alex people are beginning to stare. I’ll see you at 9.” And with that Paul turned to walk away.

"I’m pregnant.” Alex stated.

That little phrase stopped Paul dead in his tracks. “YOU’RE WHAT?!” He shouted. He grabbed Alex by the top of her arm and jerked her closer to him. “How did this happen?!”

"Paul, you’re hurting me.” Alex cried as his fingers dug into her. “And you know very well how this happened. You were there too, you know.” Alex tried to pry loose of his grasp.

"Don’t get smart with me you bitch.” He growled, “This will ruin everything. Why weren’t you more careful? I thought you were on the pill for Christ’s sake.” Paul began to shake Alex. “What will happen to my studies? Did you think of that? I can’t very well support you and pay my tuition too. My God! What is my wife going to say?!” He stopped and physically shuddered. “You conniving little bitch! You did this on purpose. You with your big lofty talk about how you wanted to concentrate on your studies and how nothing was going to get in the way of that. Bull shit. Boy, what a liar you turned out to be.” He screamed. “Give it up for adoption, get an abortion, get hit by a truck for all I care. Just don’t expect to get a cent out of me. It probably isn’t even mine, you little slut!” And with that Paul pushed her away from him.

Alex remembered stumbling for a few feet and then her feet seemed to drop out from underneath her and she was falling. Too late she remembered the stairwell leading to the underground amphitheater. Her ankle turned on the first step causing her to fall down the remaining twelve. She hit the landing with a sickening thud and everything went black.

When Alex awoke, someone had carried her to the grass at the top of the stairs and there was a crowd of people standing around. Someone was patting her hand. She tried to push the hand away and stand up but the hand held her in place. “No honey, you must try to lie still.” a woman’s voice said, “The police have been called and an ambulance is on its way.”

"I don’t need an ambulance.” Alex denied and she sat up. It was then that she noticed the pain and the sickening wet feeling between her legs. “Oh my God! My baby!” She cried. She could feel herself getting dizzy and she heard the sirens in the background. She tried to keep alert but the pain was too great. The last thing she remembered of that day was the sight of Paul being pushed into the back of a police car.

*****

Alex shook herself and went back into the house. The memories of that day still haunted her after all these years. Alex spent a few days in the hospital recovering from her miscarriage and the infection that followed. Paul spent a few months in jail for assault. The results of that day left Alex infertile. Paul’s legal career ended with a that push and his life ended with a leap off a chair in a jail cell. She wasn’t sorry that she had pressed charges against Paul. She was sorry that he wasn’t man enough to take the punishment for what he’d done.

As she wandered through her big empty house, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a china cabinet. She saw the face of the girl she had been then - haunted and empty. The tell tale traces of her tears could still be seen on her cheeks but for the moment she was done crying. 11 years she had spent most of her time crying. She cried for the baby she had lost; she cried for the man she had lost. She didn’t cry for Paul. He wasn’t the man she thought he was; she was in love with the lie he had created. Paul’s wife, it turned out, was living back home in Ohio - waiting for her devoted husband to finish school and come back to her.

The only thing about that incident that Alex was thankful for was that her parents never found out a thing. Her mother commented on Alex’s dropping grades that year, and on her lack of communication for about a month of so, but after that she never thought about it again. Alex threw herself into her studies. She completed her bachelor’s degree in only three years. Everyone who knew her at school told her she was driven but they never once mentioned the reason why. Her father exclaimed to his lodge buddies about what an over achiever his daughter was; her mother lied to her bridge club that Alex was finishing school quick so she become an eligible and sought after single woman. Alex never talked to a soul about the whole disaster, even though friends tried to get her to open up and her doctor recommended counseling. She buried herself in her work and tried to forget.

Now, after all these years she met someone who ignited a spark in her and it brought all the old hurts back to the surface. And the old fears. Here was a man she knew nothing about; a man who charmed and surprised her, just as Paul had. She shook her head and walked into her work room. Computers were her life now and she thought that she’d come to terms with that years ago. Computers didn’t require an ounce of emotion; they never lied and they never betrayed.

Being a freelance consultant gave her the freedom she required. Working with computers allowed her to keep her distance from humanity and that was just how she liked it! She thought angrily. “How dare this stranger, this man, barge into my life and destroy the careful walls I spent years building!”

"Well,” she said to herself, “That’s the last I’ll see of him.”

The King's Crown - Chapter Two

2007-12-07T11:07:00.000-07:00

Per a request from Janime, here is the second chapter of my romance novel, The King's Crown. I've only written 41 pages of this book, so at some point you're all just going to have to be frustrated, but for now...

Enjoy! =oD

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The King's Crown

Chapter Two

Two weeks later, Alex was deeply engrossed in building a complicated database for one of her new clients when the sound of insistent knocking pulled her back to reality. She rolled herself back from the workbench and headed toward the front of the house. As she neared the front door the knocking ceased. Just as before, Alex looked through the peephole at a broad back. She smiled.

Pulling the door open she shouted “Wait!” and was rewarded with a glimpse of one of the most gorgeous men she had ever laid eyes on. Michael was as tall as she remembered, but somehow the low light and barely veiled anger of their previous meeting had over shadowed how incredibly handsome he looked. Alex inhaled sharply.

“Hi! I was beginning to think you weren’t home.” Michael said, “Let me guess, you were deep in thought again.”

“I’m afraid I get that way. I was working. Is there something I can help you with?” Alex asked. She thought about the morning after when a flatbed tow truck had come and hauled his car away. That was the last she had thought about that awful night.

“Actually, I was thinking that there may be something that I could help you with.” He replied.

“Help me with? As I remember the last time I saw you, you were recovering from a couple of accidents caused by my dog. I can’t think of any reason why you should want to help me with anything. In fact I am quite surprised that you never sued me for the damages.” Alex looked at Michael suspiciously. “Now, why did you really come here?”

“Really? Well, I’d say I was in the neighborhood, but you don’t really live on the way to anywhere. So I guess I’d better come out with the truth. I wanted to repay you.” Michael grinned at the disbelieving look on Alex’s face.

“Repay me for what?”

“Repay you for letting me use your phone that night and for not calling the police to come get me when I was done.” The two of them stood on the front steps of Alex’s three story Victorian mansion staring at each other. “But I would like to request one more favor from you.”

Alex nodded her head as if she were sure her suspicions were confirmed. “And just what would that be?” The tone of her voice was designed to turn away the most insistent of men, but Michael just smiled.

“I’d like for you to tell me your name,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to call you for the past couple of weeks but in the morning after the accident it occurred to me that I had never asked you your name. So, I drove up here on the first opportunity I had to ask you for your name and to repay you.” Michael stated.

She shook her head, “Alex.”

“Just Alex?”

“Alexandra McKenzie. Alex for short. Al for very short, but there are very few people who call me Al. Look, why don’t we talk inside where we can sit down?” They moved up the steps and into the foyer. “We can walk back to the kitchen if you’d like something to drink.”

“No, that’s all right. I only came here to ask you to dinner tonight.” Michael looked Alex up and down; he liked what he saw. From her long dark hair, to her green eyes, to her long shapely legs, she was every bit of the dreams he’d been having about her every night. “I know a little out of the way restaurant that serves the best steaks.” Alex shook her head. Misunderstanding, Michael said, “Of course, if you’re a vegetarian, they also serve very good salads.”

Alex continued shaking her head, “It’s not that. I can’t join you tonight. I have a great deal of work to do. I’m under a dead line and I’m afraid I can’t spare any time until after I’ve completed the job. Maybe I can take a rain check,” she said doubtfully.

“Nope. No rain checks.” Michael said quickly and pushed past Alex. She watched his figure stride down the sidewalk, like some great cat. She was so dumbfounded by his reaction that he made it all the way to his car and down the driveway before she came to her senses. She called for him to come back, but it was too late. Dejectedly, she shut the door and wandered back to her work room. Eight computers gleamed at her from the interior of a large room. At first the room appeared to be dark and foreboding, but she walked to the far wall and pulled a cord allowing the afternoon rays of sunlight to bathe her. She sighed. She really didn’t feel like returning to her work but then she thought about the consulting fees that her clients were paying and she sat down at the nearest monitor.

Shortly after nightfall, Alex was shocked to hear faint footsteps from the interior of her home. She cursed herself for not locking the doors and crept around the workbench toward the phone located at the far side of the room. She tiptoed the few yards, hoping that one of the old boards wouldn’t creak. It did.

Alex froze in terror. She could just imagine some common criminal walking into her house, going through her things, stealing from her, thinking she wasn’t home. She cursed the fence around Cargo, wishing he were inside with her. Slowly the footsteps came closer to her. Standing in the middle of a bare room, Alex knew she was a perfect target. As the workroom door was pushed open, Alex dropped to floor and scurried for the one phone at that end of the house. She could only pray she’d make it before they caught her. As a hand closed around her upper arm, she could almost here them chuckling cruelly. She came up screaming at the top of her lungs face to face with...Michael.

He was laughing softly. “Its okay. Its just me.”

“Its not funny.” Alex sulked. “And how dare you break into my house in the middle of the night.”

Michael slowly shook his head, “Its only eight and I didn’t break in, your door was unlocked. I knocked, but when you didn’t answer the door I guessed that you may be working so I let myself in. I was looking for the kitchen when I heard movement back here and came back to let you know it was me.” Michael smiled, “Next thing I know you’re commando woman, crawling across the floor to call in the cavalry.” He wrapped her still shaking body into his arms. “Its okay. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t want to disturb your work again.”

She pushed herself out of his arms. “I am not scared.” she denied. “Why did you come back? I thought it was no rain checks.” Alex walked over to her workbench and began the task of bringing her computer systems down.

Michael walked up behind her and watched as she went through the slow process of shutting down each program and logging out of the network. “Why don’t you just turn them off?” He inquired.

“Because I could lose valuable data and disk space that way. Its a long story, but the computers are just happier if you shut them off properly.”

Michael chuckled, “The computers are happier?” he said. “I always thought they were just machines.”

“They are.” Alex replied, “But it helps to personify them a little bit, you get a better understanding of them that way. I mean, I haven’t given them names or anything.” She said, catching look on his face that meant he was beginning to doubt her sanity. “They just have glitches and quirks sometimes that make them seem almost human.” Alex shut down the last system and turned to Michael. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“There are no rain checks, that’s why I didn’t wait for another night. But in deference to your work schedule, I thought I’d compromise. Follow me.” Michael turned and walked out of the work room. Alex followed him as he meandered through her house toward the kitchen. She was amazed he managed to find his way in her maze of a house. As they neared the kitchen, the smell of oregano and tomato sauce was almost over powering. She smiled at the thought of a meal cooked by someone who actually knew what they were doing. Tonight’s dinner would be a huge step up from her usual burnt grilled cheese or cold cereal.

“What is that glorious odor?” She asked as they entered her spacious kitchen.

“Baked mostaciolli, fresh spinach salad with a light vinegar and oil dressing, garlic breadsticks sprinkled with parmesan cheese, and a light Chianti.” As Michael spoke he pulled various take-out containers out of a brown paper bag and laid them out on the counter. “I have certain connections who assure me that the sauce is made from scratch by little old ladies from a tiny village north of Venice.” Smiling, he began to open the cupboards. “Where is your tableware located?”

Alex pointed to the left of the sink and walked around the cutting block to assist him in the preparation. Giggling she pulled out her finest red checked picnic table cloth. “I hope this will do. I let the maid have the day off and I can’t find a thing.” She joked.

“Of course it will. I found some paper cups for the wine. I guess your ‘maid’ must have hidden the champagne flutes too.” He jested in return.

Together they settled down to her dining room table. They enjoyed the finest Italian food in upstate New York out of Styrofoam boxes and paper cups. Laughing all the while, they ate until they were both too full to move.

“Ugh! I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Michael groaned pushing away an empty mostaciolli container. “Luigi’s is too good. I eat like this every time I go there, then I have to do two thousand push-ups just to get rid of the weight.”

Alex looked at the broad chest of the man across from her. With his muscular build, she could never imagine an ounce of fat having the nerve to stick to him. “I’ll bet.” she scoffed, “You have never spent an overweight day in your life.”

“And you have?” Michael spent a moment in stern appraisal of Alex’s lithe figure. Boy, she had curves in all the right places. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually undressed a woman with eyes but he was getting to the point of mentally unbuttoning her blouse.

“You bet I have. I remember when I was sixteen, I was madly in love with the drum major in our high school band. When he backed out of a date with me to take the captain of the debate team to the homecoming dance, I spent the evening with a gallon of ice cream, a can of Hershey’s syrup and a spoon. I must’ve gained ten pounds that night. I spent my whole sophomore year with people like Betty Crocker and Sarah Lee.” Alex shook her head at the thought of those days. “You wouldn’t believe what first disappointment can do to a young girl’s ego.”

Michael frowned at the thought of how hurt Alex must have been all those years ago. “I understand. And that’s why you spend your time now with IBM and Compaq. Nice guys.”

“Yeah.” Alex smiled, “And don’t forget Packard Bell.” Michael smiled in return. They sat for a while in companionable silence. Marveling at how easy it was to be with each other, they began chatting. They talked for hours about their lives, their jobs, and any number of topics.

“So you own your own publishing house. I’ve heard of Crown Books. You stick mainly to popular fiction, don’t you?” Alex remarked. “I don’t get much of an opportunity to read books, Well, except for computer manuals, that is.”

“You should give yourself some time to sit down and relax. Read a book just for enjoyment.” Michael thought about that statement for a second and chuckled softly. “Actually, I should take that advice myself. Since I opened Crown, I only read books to evaluate their marketability. I can’t remember the last time I read for enjoyment.” He smiled and Alex marveled at how smiling lit his face up. She remembered the night they met. The scowl on his face then and the smile he was wearing now almost made him into two completely different people.

“I like this you.” She said.

“This me? I didn’t realize there was another me.” He said laughingly.

“There is. The you that showed up on my doorstep that night was too gruff and foreboding. I much prefer this you.” Alex spoke softly, as if she wasn’t sure how he’d react to her revelation.

“I’m glad you like this me. But you know, that guy you met two weeks ago is as much the real me as this is. I can be a real bear.” Michael looked into Alex’s eyes, “I sincerely apologize for my behavior that night. It’s no excuse, but I was rather shaken up that night.” He took Alex’s hand in his and started caressing the backs of her fingers with his thumb.

“I understand. Anyone would be under those circumstances.” She looked down at their hands. It was nice to hold hands with someone again. She really liked this man. If she wasn’t careful she could easily fall in love with him. Love! She hastily pulled her hand free. Embarrassed, she babbled, “Would you look at the time! I can’t believe we’ve been sitting here for so long. I really should be getting to bed. Tomorrow’s a work day for me, you know.”

She began picking up there dinner dishes and tidying the room. He assisted in carrying cartons to the kitchen. He didn’t know what had gotten into her so suddenly but he would abide by her wishes. After they finished cleaning, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“Well... I had fun tonight. Thank you for letting me treat you to dinner.”

“Yeah. I had fun too. Thank you for treating me to dinner. It was nice to take a break and eat a good meal.” Alex grinned and opened the front door for him. He hesitated and looked at her for some kind of reassurance. She smiled at him, but he could see that something was holding her back.

“Well, have a good night...” he said as he walked through the door.

“Yes, you too. Have a safe drive home.” Alex watched as he walked to his car, got in and backed down the driveway to the road. She watched his car until she could no longer see his tail lights. She watched him drive away and then she sat down on her front step and cried.

The King's Crown - Chapter One

2007-12-04T09:25:00.000-07:00

Sorry it's been so long since I stopped over here, but I've been scattered between life and various projects.

As a way of apologizing, I thought I'd offer you the first chapter of a romance novel I started writing back in 1996. I haven't touched it since 1998 or so, but I still like it. Maybe someday I'll finish what I started.

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The King's Crown

Chapter One

“I am never getting married!” Alex said with an emphatic shake of her head. “Give it up, Mom. I swear, every time you meet someone new at the club, she has some unattached son that you try to pawn off on me.” She tossed her long waves of soft brown hair over her shoulder as she cradled the phone to the other ear. “I’m seriously thinking of becoming a nun, just to get you to leave me alone.” Alex stalked over to the picture window overlooking the winding road on which she lived and took a deep breath. Her mother could be a wonderful woman but this conversation was always a major strain on their relationship.

As her mother rattled on about the latest ‘perfect husband for her little girl’, Alex took a mental refuge by gazing out to the calm of her tree-lined front yard. In the six years since she’d bought the old mansion, she had spent many evenings just staring into the darkness. Decades before, the quiet winding road had been a busy highway and tourists from hundreds of miles around would take the highway into the mountains to their shady summer hideaways. Since the interstate was built, however, hardly any cars passed her house. It was the peaceful woodland setting of which she’d always dreamed. Tonight, though, with the sound of her mother’s droning lulling her into a daze, she could almost imagine that headlights were winding their way up her road.

“But honey, I only want to see you happy,” said the voice on the phone. “Your consulting business is going so well, but really, you can’t live your life with nothing but computers to keep you company. And you going in and out of office after office, day after day, I’m sure you get all kinds of unwanted advances from the wrong kind of man. Heaven forbid you should succumb to one of them in a fit of desperation. You know... your biological clock is ticking...”

Alex watched as a car actually did materialize out of the darkness and pass her lonesome old house. The shock of seeing a real car shook her out of her dream long enough to catch the last bit of the conversation. “Mother! I can’t believe you would even think such a thing. There is no way and I mean no way, that I am going to ‘succumb’ to any man in ‘desperation’. And, as for the clock thing again. Listen, I’m only thirty. I have plenty of time to raise children. I just read an article about a 60 year old woman who adopted twins from Guatemala.” Alex grinned at the thought of the two shy smiles she’d seen in the paper - looking up at their new mother for the first time. “ I know you don’t like it, but I just don’t see myself giving in to the ‘bonds of holy matrimony’.”

“But honey...”

“Listen, Mom, I have to go. Uh, I can smell the meatloaf burning. I...I’ll call you back next week. I love you. Bye” Walking away from the window, Alex slumped back into her overstuffed easy chair and hung up the phone. She didn’t have any meatloaf cooking and her mother knew it. Her mother knew that the only thing Alex cooked with any great accuracy was gelatin, and that was after years of practice. “Lying again, Alexandra Marie.”, she said to herself, “You ought to be ashamed.” But Alex knew that, when it came to her mother and the 45 minute marriage lecture, she’d do it again, in a heartbeat.

The “lecture”, as Alex always referred to it, was a regular occurrence in the past few years. Shortly after her father passed away, her mother felt the burning need to experience grandchildren first hand. So, whenever the occasion arose, or even when it didn’t, she would start into the “biological clock” thing and the “you must be so lonely” thing.

Alex was so deep in thought that it was several minutes before she heard someone banging on her front door. As she neared the entryway, the pounding stopped. She looked through the peep hole just in time to see a broad back striding away, down her sidewalk and towards the street. Hurriedly, she swung the front door open. “Wait!” She shouted as the stranger turned onto the street. It took only moments and a quick glimpse at the scowling features for her to rethink her decision to call after the large man. From what Alex could see he was humungous. At least 6’9” with the build of a small battleship, he did little to ease Alex’s fears when he strode past her and right into her house.

“I need to use your phone.” He growled as he walked into her living room. As large as her living room was, this man managed to make it seem tiny by comparison. “Blast! Where is the damn thing!” He turned and his ebony eyes seemed to bore right into her.

“Excuse me, sir. But I don’t believe I asked you into my home...”

“Oh, there it is!” he exclaimed as he flopped down on her couch and reached for the cordless set that she had just put down. “I’ll only be a second.” He stabbed out what looked like a long distance number and leaned back as it rang. With every ring Alex’s blood pressure rose another point or two, until finally someone picked up on the other end. “Roger! Great! I need for you to come get me. I was on my way up and I thought I’d take a short cut, when this great mangy hulk of a dog jumped out in front of my car.”

“Cargo!” Alex said in a strangled gasp, “Oh my God!”

The man looked up at her in disgust, “No, Roger, I didn’t hit it for Christ’s sake. But in swerving to avoid it I managed to neatly wrap my car around a tree... No, No I’m fine. Yes, I had my seat belt on. If you could just come get me, I’m at...” He looked questioningly at Alex.

“4335 Maple Grove”, she answered.

“4335 Maple Grove. No, its not the way I usually come out but I thought I was taking a shortcut. Yes, I’m calling a tow truck right after I hang up with you. Listen, could you call Jeannine and tell her I’m running late. Don’t give her the details; I don’t want her to worry. I’ll see you in about an hour. Thanks.” The stranger hung up and began looking around again. By about this time Alex’s blood pressure hit the boiling point.

“I don’t know what you’re looking for this time, and, frankly, I don’t care. You have been nothing but rude since the moment you pushed your way into my house. You nearly ran over my dog, then you barge in my house, without asking or introducing yourself and now you’ve made a long distance call on my phone, and you...you... OH!” Finally, Alex’s anger made her speechless and she stomped her foot for emphasis.

“Listen, lady. I was nearly killed out there missing your hairy monster. As far as barging into your house goes, I was standing there pounding on your door for nearly five minutes when I could plainly see you sitting on this couch staring off into space doing nothing. And here,” he said pulling out his wallet, “is ten dollars to cover the cost of the phone call.” And with that he threw the bill in Alex’s direction. “ Now, if you don’t mind ma’am, I need to use your phone again to call a wrecker to come and unwrap my car from around a tree out there. Now, where, if I may ask, is your telephone book?”

Alex stooped down to pick up the crumpled bill and stuffed it into her pocket, she glared at her unwanted guest and stomped out of the room. A couple of minutes later she came striding back and plopped a thin book on the table. “It’s not much but it works for us.” She walked over to the couch and sat down, propping her legs up on the table in front of her. “And by the way, there’s only one wrecker service in town and I happen to know that Rex is out of town until Monday.” Smiling wickedly she laced her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. She didn’t know why she was suddenly so mean spirited, but she felt satisfaction in knowing that this rude bully wasn’t going to get what he wanted immediately.

“What!? Its only Thursday! I need to get my car back to the city and in to a mechanic by tomorrow. I need to have my car back by Monday! I have meetings all day! This is unbelievable!” He ran his fingers through his short black hair and turned to look out the window. He stood there for a long time, just staring into the gathering blackness.

With the stranger finally standing still and giving Alex a chance to relax, she took advantage of the time to get a good look at her visitor. Her initial impression was right. He was huge. He was wearing a light spring jacket; it was a little crumpled but she could tell it was of quality material. His trousers were dark and conservative, more like ‘business casual’ than ‘weekend in the country’. His hair was jet black and cut short - as conservative as his attire. As Alex watched, she could almost visibly watch the tension drain out of him. It almost transformed him.

When the darkness had completely engulfed the world outside, he turned and looked at her. “I can see headlights coming up your road. I assume that’s my friend Roger since it seems you don’t get much traffic out here.” His voice was warm and almost friendly as he finally introduced himself. “My name is Michael Kingsley. I apologize for my behavior earlier. I was a bit shaken by the accident and I honestly did believe that you were being rude by not answering the door, but that’s no excuse for barging into your house. Now I better head outside. I never told Roger where I was.” He turned and headed for the door.

“He’ll probably assume you’re here,” she said, “Mine is the only house for about mile around. And...I’m sorry for my behavior too. You must admit you pose a pretty intimidating picture. I mean, it being dusk and all. And you were pretty angry.” She shrugged. “I also apologize for my dog. Cargo has broken every chain I put him on. The car chain was my last vestige of hope and now it looks like he’s broken that too. I guess I’ll have to put up a fence now.” She smiled and got one in return.

“A cyclone fence with guard towers, if that dog was as big as he looked. Well, thank you for your hospitality. Even though I took it without it being offered.” Michael pulled the door open and headed down the sidewalk toward the road.

Alex decided to be neighborly and, after turning on her outside lights, started after him. Neither of them made it very far when they saw the headlights stop near Michael’s wreck. They quickened their pace and trudged up the hill towards the new arrival. Suddenly, they heard a shout and a crashing of brush. Shortly afterwards, they heard another flurry of activity and barking.

“Cargo!” Alex called.

“Roger!” Michael shouted.

“I’m all right.” A voice shouted back. “Just call this monster off of me.”
They both ran toward the sound of the voice. It seemed to be coming from just off the road past Michael’s car. They hurried through the undergrowth. A few yards in they spotted what appeared to be a moving mound of loose white hair and barely visible underneath was the figure of a man.

“Cargo! Down!” Alex commanded. The mountain of fur turned two black eyes toward her and shook itself. Then it stepped over the body of its victim and rushed towards Alex. As it approached it stopped short, sat down and wagged its big fluffy tail. Alex reached forward and patted its head. “Stay.” she said softly. She then proceeded to the prone figure.

Michael was already crouched next to his friend, Roger. “Are you okay Rog?”

“I’m fine. A little startled when the ‘hound of the Baskervilles’ rushed me, but, other than nearly being drowned in dog drool, I’m just fine.” Michael leaned out of the way and Alex got her first glimpse of Cargo’s conquest. He was a small man in his early to mid-sixties. His full head of white hair was in complete disarray and was slightly wet around his ears where the dog had shown his affection. His clothing was covered in dirt and she could see a few tears here and there

Alex was horrified. “I’m so sorry. First Cargo causes this car accident and now he chases you and knocks you down. Are you hurt?”

The gentleman looked at her as Michael helped him from the ground. “It’d take more than your bundle of fuzzy energy to hurt me, I assure you. I’m quite all right.” He shook off Michael’s steadying hand. “ I told you I am not hurt.”

“As long as you’re sure.” Michael said uncertainly.

“Positive. Now, if you still want to see Jeannine tonight I suggest we get on our way.” saying that Roger straightened and brushed the loose grass off of his trousers. He turned to face Alex and reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. Alex cringed at the thought that she was about to be paid for the trouble her dog just caused when she should really be paying for the ruined clothing and the wrecked car. However, she was both surprised and relieved when Roger handed her a business card. “Thank you for taking care of Michael, my dear. If there’s anything we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

“Thank you, but I should be the one offering my help if you ever need it. In fact, tomorrow I’ll contact my bank and have them make out a cashier’s check for the damage that Cargo has caused.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Roger and Michael said in unison.

“As long as you’re certain.” Alex said hesitantly. The two men nodded and the subject was dropped. Between the three of them they managed to get Roger looking presentable again. The two men then began walking toward the road.

Alex grinned as she caught the wry look on Michael’s face as he walked past Cargo, who was still sitting as instructed. He shook his head. Alex shrugged. “He really is well behaved, but you have to keep him within eyesight.”

“I’ll bet. Listen, thank you for letting me use your house and your phone. And what Roger said. He meant it...I mean it. I’d give you my card but I’m afraid they’re in my briefcase...in my car… which I’d really rather not go back into tonight. I’ll call the police and an out of town tow truck as soon as I get to Roger’s. Thanks again...Would you like lift back to your house?”

Alex thought about the short walk and the huge dog who needed tending to, “No, that’s okay. I need to herd Cargo home and I don’t think it’d be a good idea for him to get near either of you again tonight. Thanks for the offer. Have a safe trip.”

Michael turned and headed back to the road. Alex could hear Roger’s car ignition and she watched as the head lights turned back up the road. “Well, Cargo, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” The big dog rose to his feet and padded his way over to Alex. Together they headed for the bright lights of home.

Trapped

2007-11-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

Below is the beginning of a different kind of horror story. I haven't finished it, and I don't know if I ever will. Truth is, it scares the crap out of me, and I don't quite know how to finish it. I know what the reality of the situation is, but I like happy endings, and the only way to make this a happy ending is to fudge on reality. Definitely not my thing.

Anyway, it's the story of a woman trapped inside her own head after an accident. I met a woman like this while I was in therapy for my own accident. A couple years after I 'graduated', I saw her in the mall. Her husband was rolling her through the crowd; her children tromped dutifully behind. Nothing had changed. Nothing except her eyes, that is. The horror within them had died. All that was left was a sick resignation to her fate.

I turned and walked the other way.

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Trapped

“…car accident… her brain sustained massive injury… loss of voluntary motor control…”

I can hear you, you know. I’m right here.

“Will she recover?”

I’m okay, Chad. Really I am. It doesn’t hurt at all. If you’ll just get these people to untie me, I’ll show you. We’ll go dancing tonight like we always do, or we can take the kids over to Mom’s house and then I’ll show you when we’re alone.

"After time and therapy, she’ll improve… But Mr. Boyd? I want you to understand, she’ll never be the woman you married.”

What is this guy talking about? I’m fine. Tell him to be quiet, Honey. Take me home.

“When can I take her home?”

Now. Take me home right now. I don’t like it here and I certainly don’t like the way these people ignore me.

“I think it would be best if you checked her into a facility more suited to her needs right now.”

Will you please shut up? I’m going home with my husband. I don’t have time for this shit. Teddy’s starting kindergarten soon, and who’s going to take Lara to band practice?

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You tell him, Chad.

“Mr. Boyd. I’m sure you think you’re doing the right thing, but you don’t realize how much care your wife will need now. Someone is going to have to bathe her, and feed her…”

Bathe me? My ass someone is going to bathe me. I’ll bathe myself, thank you very much.

“There are going to be diapers to change…”

Did someone have baby without telling me?

“I work out of the house. I can take care of her. I won’t put her in a home.”

Of course not. There’s no reason to. Now will someone please untie me?

…

…one thousand, one hundred, ninety-two… one thousand, one hundred, ninety three… one thousand, one hundred, ninety-four! Who’da thought there’d be so many spots on the ceiling? Chad’s supposed to be here soon, if that silly girl is to be believed. I’d slap her if I could move my arm.

I wish I could still imagine I was tied down, but the first time one of those burly young men hoisted me up and into that damn chair, the illusion was shattered. Would have been nice if someone had said something. I felt like a fool those first few days, cursing them all for strapping me down.

“There’s my girl.”

And there’s my man. Damn, he looks so good. I miss him so much. If he could have only kept me at home, but that damn doctor talked him out of it. Not that I really blame Chad. After seeing what all the people here do, I wouldn’t want to do it either. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want my husband—the man I slept with for almost ten years—to have to wipe my ass. It’s disgusting. It’s degrading.

“How have you been this week?”

Time to try talking again. Nothing ever comes out, but I think it makes Chad feel better if he can see some kind of movement. If I could make words come out of my mouth again, I’d tell him I was as fine as anyone can be whose trapped inside their own head, but that would only hurt him. I’d do anything not to hurt him any more.

“I have a surprise for you.”

I wonder if I can still look surprised.

“The kids are waiting in the lobby. The doctor says we can take you for a little drive. I had to badger him, but he finally caved. I couldn’t let you spend Mother’s Day inside.”

The kids are here? Oh god, no. I know I’ve been praying to see them again, but I don’t want them to see me like this. I want them to see their mother, not the drooling husk I’ve become. Please don’t do this to me.

…

“We’re here.”

Oakfield Brain Injury Center? Not another one. I don’t know why Chad keeps dragging me to these charlatans. None of them can help me. I know that. Three years and nine miracle therapists later and I’m still a lump.

Roll me in, talk at me for a while, move my legs and my arms. Every day for weeks until Chad buys a clue there’s no improvement. Not that all of them don’t promise him he’ll see something out of me. Heh. Even that first doctor said with time he’d see improvement. What a waste.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Boyd. Welcome to Oakfield. I’m the director, Steve Winfield. We spoke on the phone. Our patients are just sitting down to lunch, so if you don’t mind, I’ll postpone the tour until afterwards. Why don’t we sit down and have lunch with them before we talk.”

Oh boy. I hope they have a blender and a straw. This is ridiculous. Didn’t Chad tell them I can’t chew?

Someone please tell these people brown and orange don’t go together. I wouldn’t be caught dead with those chairs.

“We don’t have a state of the art kitchen, but it works well for our purposes. Today, as with most days, the lunch has been made by our advanced kitchen skills class. Mostly the higher level brain injury patients.”

There are levels to this? Sounds like one of Teddy’s video games. Maybe if I roll over a magic turnip, I’ll move to another level. One where I can speak again.

“Good afternoon, Ella. May we sit with you.”

Oh, great. Let’s inflict my drooling on someone right off the bat.

Pretty girl. Too bad about the scar on her face, though. Heh. I’d trade my face if I could hold a conversation again. Then everyone can say, ‘To bad about her face, but she’s one heck of a witty chick.

Why isn’t she staring at me? Everyone stares at me. Why not? I look like a mannequin in a wheelchair. The only part of me that still looks alive is my eyes and no one can look into my eyes anymore. Even though they stare, it’s almost like I don’t exist. At least not as a human being any more. More like a curiosity. Like a two-headed cow at the fair.

“Hello, Ginny. Welcome to Oakfield. I hope you’ll decide to let these guys work on you.”

Ah. Marketing bitch. I should have known.

“Ella’s been a patient with us for a couple of years now.”

Okay, so maybe not completely a marketing thing.

“Two years, five months and twenty-three days, Steve.”

Smart ass.

“But who’s counting. Ella is almost finished here.”

“As a patient, anyway. I’m staying on as patient liaison.”

Stepford patient?

“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to you?”

That’s it, Chad. Get right to the heart of the matter. She probably fell off her chair and got a little shaken up. Two years and thousands of dollars later, she’s well again.

A Very Special Collectible

2007-10-18T10:22:00.000-06:00

This essay was originally written specifically for a small magazine for book collectors, but I never quite got it just the way I wanted for the publication in question. Still, I think it's a pretty good essay, even if it doesn't have a home. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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Whether one buys older books for their monetary value or for the sheer visceral pleasure of smelling the dust of ages past, an added joy can be found in the artifacts left behind between their covers. The impromptu bookmarks and scrolled inscriptions of the past, even if they lend nothing to the financial worth, can give books a simple and meaningful significance.

Throughout my college years, I uncovered many great treasures from that bargain bin—an undated Dickens, a forgotten Dumas, an ancient Defoe—but none was so precious to me as a copy of The Fountainhead found unwanted and overlooked at the bottom of a pile. Although it was not in the best shape—its cover stained, its title rubbed from the spine, signs of mildew creeping through it like some kind of cruel leprosy—I knew the book was something special. Without hesitation, I slapped down the three and a half dollars to make it mine.

Research told me that I had found a rare Bobbs-Merrill edition, but to my dismay, I also found that a single page had been cut from the middle of the book—the remnants barely apparent along the binding. Monetarily the book was valueless, but in my heart it was still the crown jewel of my collection.

Many years and many books later, it remained on the most honored of my shelves—nestled between a leather-bound volume of Shakespeare and a boxed edition of Cervantes—barely read yet still loved. From time to time I would take it down and simply caress the cover or flip idly through the pages, reveling in the smell of that far-away store. It was during one of these hedonistic pettings that I finally noticed its inscription; although how I missed it during all of those years still escapes me. The words scratched in faded green ink only told of a former owner, a man who had loved this book enough to ensure it would come home if ever lost.

My book, the writing told, had once been owned by a serviceman in the military. His name, rank, serial number and unit carefully written in precise handwriting: Sergeant George H. Normandin of the 351st Bomber Group. Curious, I took the information for my new compatriot, George, and quickly tried to hunt down information on the man and his platoon. I never found George, but from the bits I was able to piece together he and his men flew the South Pacific during World War II. The Fountainhead was first published during the war, and though I have no way to prove it, I can imagine George carrying the novel with him as he went to fight for his values.

To me the book’s stains and scars are now easily explained; its rubbed edges and its crumpled boards standing as a testament to spending life on a carrier while its owner was away on a plane. The missing page, which had been so carefully cut from the book, was accounted for as well. That page was taken from Roark’s famous courtroom speech; a speech which speaks of fighting for your values, of standing up for your freedom, of holding your own good as a paramount virtue. I don’t blame George for keeping that page. Of all the things to carry into battle, the weapon he chose would have served him well.

Collecting books for many years now, I have found many artifacts of the previous owners—news clippings and grocery lists left to mark pages where the reader paused, flowers and leaves pressed flat to preserve a memory, notes scribbled to mark important passages. Each piece of ephemera I find adds a definite personal value to a potential monetary one. Still, I doubt that I will ever find another piece for my collection so precious as the one left by George.

When Queries Go Bad

2007-10-09T21:07:00.000-06:00

Last year a group of writers at an online writing community got together and, as a gag, tried to write the worst query letter ever. Below is the best of my attempts.

And please PLEASE please, don't think it is supposed to be taken seriously. DO NOT use this as a template to send out for real. Remember, this was a winner in the WORST query competition, and is to be used for humor purposes only. (Although in some ways, it does reflect how many - including me - feel sometimes about the rejection process.)

Enjoy.

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Dear Great and Powerful Agent,

I'm writing to you as a last ditch effort to get someone, anyone, to read my first book. So far, no one has cared about my book but some place called P------ A------, and while I am getting quite desperate, I'm not insane.

I believe that I've written the greatest novel anyone will ever read, but if I can't get anyone to read it, no one will ever know how wonderful, thoughtful and insightful my book is. I'd crawl on my knees through broken glass to get someone other than my friends and family to read it, so please consider giving it a chance. I know in my heart that the world needs to read this book, and that once the public has a chance to buy it, they'll be flocking to the stores to get one.

I haven't submitted to any publishers, because frankly I'm scared sh*tless that they'll ignore me, too. Please don't step on my soul like everyone else. I don't think I could take that.

Enclosed is everything your website asks for, and nothing that you don't want. I can't afford to have you even the least little bit irritated with me because you hold my future in your hands.

I'm waiting by the phone for you to call, holding onto the last drip in my well of hope that it will be a request for more material and not the silence that precludes another rejection letter.

Pathetically yours,

A. Writer

Time Stops Here

2007-09-23T16:08:00.000-06:00

The following was submitted to The First Line last January for their very specific needs. If you're not familiar with this particular lit journal, they give you the first line and you have to write a story from there. Below is my attempt:

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Time Stops Here

In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. So, my guess is when the factory shut down, time couldn’t help but stop.

Don’t it seem like nothing ever stops all at once? This place really ain’t any different. What happened here was more like the last puddle in a drought, though; it just gets smaller and smaller until there ain’t nothin’ left but mud. One month the trucks were flowin’ by—headed west with steel and wire and crates of who-knows-what; headed east with big boxes of stuff from the factory. The next month, the trucks were only headed east. Last time a semi went through here, it didn’t carry anythin’ but the innards of a man’s gutted future.

Pigwell never was great or sprawlin’ by anyone’s standards, but after the factory went belly-up, this town rolled over with it. Since pretty much everyone who lived here worked there, it wasn’t really any big surprise. At least not to me it wasn’t. I saw it comin’. All those people without any money, and the stores couldn’t help but dry up and blow away, like the dust of a ruined riverbed.

You know what they say: “Last one out’s a rotten egg.”

Looks like I’m gonna be the rotten egg in this one.

If I didn’t own the only bar left in this town, I probably woulda blown away like all the rest of ‘em. But no matter how tight a man’s pocketbook gets, it’s never so empty he can’t squeeze out a little cash to get himself tight, too. Like my daddy always said, “Booze don’t make the hurtin’ go away but it sure does lubricate the trip.”

I suppose when the money dries up completely, I’ll be outta here myself.

When Frank Petrie came here a dozen years ago and built his factory out in the scrubby fields, I bet he never saw this comin’. Of course, the Frank Petrie I met years ago wouldn’a been able to see it. He was so damn full of life then, he fairly crackled with it. The whole mess is too damn bad if you ask me. A man puts everythin’ he is into buildin’ his dream—into breakin’ out on his own—only to see it crap out on him; that, sir, is a horror no man should hafta face. Frank faced it for as long as he could, I guess, but finally, he couldn’t take it no more. I saw him leavin’ town a while back. He stopped in here for one last belt.

He wasn’t cracklin’ anymore; he was crawlin’.

The other day, Danny Watkins—he was Frank’s foreman once upon a time… Well, Danny was in here, sittin’ at my bar, doin’ his best to crawl into the bottom of one of my whiskey bottles. All of a sudden, he started goin’ on and on about how Frank Petrie was a crook, and how he’d screwed Pigwell. Before I knew it, I was mad as a wet cat. I cut him off of my booze, then I told him to get the hell out of my bar. That shut him up, and he got real sorry then, but he shoulda known better than to talk that kind of trash in my place. He’s banned for life. Well, he’s banned for as long as I own this place, which don’t look like it’s gonna be too much longer.

Don’t get me wrong. Danny was one of the only people left in town with money, but no amount of money from him or anyone else is ever gonna be enough for me to put up with that crap.

Especially not in my own place.

After all, Danny Watkins’s kind of thinkin’ is what got folks into this mess in the first place, only they don’t know it. Don’t shake your head at me. I’ve had more than my fair share of time to think about it. It’s what killed the factory, and this hole some idiot christened Pigwell along with it.

What most folks don’t know is that a man can work himself damn near to death buildin’ something for himself and while he’s doin’ that, other people can work along with him—each profitin’ from it in their own way. Frank worked his ass off for that place. All the folks here, as long as they were willin’ to put in the work, got pretty comfortable off Frank’s place. Everything was goin’ fine until one day, those fools got to thinkin’ that because they worked so hard and all, they were entitled to somethin’ more.

Old foreman Danny got them all together and decided they were gonna ask the owner for a cut—their share of the money, they said. The damned fools didn’t know they were already gettin’ a cut every time they got a paycheck. I mean, Christ, half of them guys didn’t even graduate high school and they were makin’ more than some college fellas I know.

Well, this little… uh… idea of theirs came right after they’d all gotten their fat yearly raises, but the money still wasn’t enough. They saw the owner driving a Mercedes while they were driving Chevys; they saw him living in a big house in the valley while they were living in town. So, they figured they deserved a bigger piece of the pie. Of course, when they asked Frank he said ‘not yet’. He wouldn’t have minded, but it wasn’t the time for spendin’ money. Seems he was waitin’ for a big order to come through, and he had to sink every spare penny into buyin’ raw materials.

Did anyone here think of that? Nope. Everybody at that meeting came back to town and what they’d heard him say was ‘No’; he didn’t say ‘No’, mind you, he just said ‘not yet’, but that wasn’t what they heard. Or maybe they heard him right and just didn’t care.

The next day, the whole lot of them got together—right here in my bar—and after a dozen beers, they hemmed and hawed and belched and burped, and when it was done, they’d voted to go on strike. Then they all patted each other on the backs and staggered home to sleep, or to pass out, or whatever those idiots do when they’ve drunk themselves stupid.

Now, they didn’t strike right away. No, they waited until the moment was perfect; when they could do the most damage. It was right about the time when the factory was due to fill that really important order, actually. Then, the whole crew walked away from the line. Before Frank even had a chance to blink, they sent Danny up to the office with a list of what they said they needed, and one demand: pay up or else.

What the hell was Frank supposed to do when they had him by the short hairs like that? He melted quicker than a snowman in April. The whole lot of them got raises, better bennies, longer vacations. Jesus, they were livin’ like kings. Some of them guys were makin’ twice what I was makin’, and I owned my own place.

Lucky for them, the order got out on time, and the company got paid for it. But in the end, the company paid for it—if you know what I mean.

Before anyone knows it, the factory is slowly bleeding to death, and I’m ashamed to say, a lot of their blood was seepin’ into this place. I’m not complainin’ about that part, mind you. I’m just sayin’.

Then, all the boys from the factory start showin’ here up at any time of the day. I asked Hank—he worked on the assembly line—what he thought he was doin’ playin’ hooky in the middle of the day, and he just winked at me. Another one of the boys told me they could do whatever they wanted and if Frank had a problem with that, they’d make sure to hold up some orders, just to teach him who was really boss.

It wasn’t long after that the trucks stopped and time petered out for Pigwell.

I don’t expect to be here much longer. Most folks who had any sense have headed out, looking for wetter places to put down roots. Hell, I heard even Danny went east to find work. And old Hank? Last I heard, he’s moppin’ floors at some place up near the city, makin’ half of what Frank was payin’ him, even before the big strike-raise.

Me? Oh, I’m headed out, too. Time is stoppin’ in too many places around these parts. Too many other Franks are gettin’ showed who’s boss, I guess. I heard tell of a place somewhere up in the mountains where things aren’t so bad. Maybe I can open another bar; put down roots of my own, you know. Maybe I can go up there to wait it out, and hope time starts back up again.

Bad Fluffy Bunny

2007-09-13T07:04:00.000-06:00

Below is the pre-cursor to a cute sci-fi story I have brewing in the back of my head. It's the story of attempted conquest by a race of vicious conquerors, and how mankind is saved by one of its inventions.

Oh, and I forgot to mention... The vicious conquerors look like cute, fluffy bunnies.

Enjoy.

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Bad Fluffy Bunny

"I have achieved my objective. The atmosphere here appears to be quite breathable and I am outfitted for the long journey into one of their metropolitan areas. I will probably be out of radio contact for a short while and then I will contact you with my coordinates. Do you have any further instructions before I set out?”

The radio crackled once and then there was silence. Bob waited patiently; he knew that transmitting a signal through layers of atmosphere could sometimes be difficult. They would make the proper adjustments soon enough. Bob was right and the radio crackled into life. "Commander Bob, we have received orders that you must reach the metropolitan area by nightfall. It appears that some of the leaders are beginning to lose their appetite for this mission, and if you are not able to achieve some measurable and immediate progress on your own down there, they may pull the plug. Do you understand what is at stake in this?”

Bob shook his head. This was just like those lily-livered pansies. No guts for what needed to be done. “How many other worlds have I landed on and accomplished the objectives they’d set before me?” he thought. “This world with its backward technology will be like any other. Walk in. Set up base camp. Find a suitable area for landing the armada. Piece of cake.”

“I understand what is at stake, sir.” Bob said. “It will be no problem to reach the nearest metropolitan area and set up base. If research is as correct as it has always been then we should have control of this world long before the nay-sayers get any foothold with the world council.”

"Then go to it, Commander. And may the gods watch over you.”

More and more often, it seemed, the leaders of the world council were losing their stomach for this kind of work. Some of them seemed to think that they no longer had the right to take what they wanted, to do as they pleased. A few even suggested that they had never had the right to do it.

“Bah!” Bob said aloud as he stepped over to the airlock door. He could see the image of himself in the glass, and admired the handsome face looking back at him. The airlock buzzed and then opened onto a still and quiet morning in the forest glade he had chosen for his landing site. Bob walked forth and breathed deeply the clean fresh air. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brightly colored flash moving past him. He watched as it landed on a branch and began to sing. He quickly pulled something from his pack and then just as quickly replaced it. Humming to himself, he was walking out of the glade by the time the cardinal’s body dropped from the tree.

The travel was easy in the countryside, and he made good time. Bounding between the tall trees and over the moss covered rocks, Bob didn’t have time to notice the other creatures quietly watching him from their hiding places. He didn’t have time to wonder that some of them looked curiously like his own race. The long ears and twitching noses of any heathen impostors held no interest for him; he had work to do. His legs worked furiously and he covered the ground as he never had before.

When he stopped briefly to rest, he reflected that this world seemed as if it had been built for his people, and if circumstances were different it was a world upon which they could have lived quite happily for many generations, but that was not the plan. Soon, his people would have harvested everything they wanted from this world and then, like so many worlds before it, they would lay waste to those things they did not want. Bob smiled at the memories of the dozens of worlds that lay behind him—scorched and dead—and the hundreds more that lay ahead.

The sun was high overhead when he finally reached some sign of the civilized races that inhabited this world. “Civilized?” he thought as he reached a hard gray surface, painted down the center with parallel yellow lines. “Bah,” he exclaimed as his weapon appeared once more and blazed a hole through the center of the road. “These beasts will soon learn what civilization is all about. When my people come and take this world, they will see.”

"Ah was born to be a truck-drivin’ cowboy,” Hank sang from his perch over the 330HP diesel engine of his Mack. “Ah was born to be a cowboy drivin’ truck!” His voice filled the cab; his only accompaniment, the sound of the highway beneath his wheels. “An’ if Ah die today, pleeze let the good Lord say… Sunuvabitch!” His song stopped abruptly as he whipped the steering wheel harshly to the left, narrowly avoiding a sinkhole that had developed in the road ahead.

His brain barely registered the critter trying to get out his path.

“Mission Control to Commander Bob, come in Bob,” the radio at the ship crackled to life, but the ship itself was cold and silent.

“Sir. We have been unable to reach Bob for several weeks now. How should we proceed?”
Inside a vast metallic ball hidden safely behind the moon, a large gray rabbit stood thoughtfully scratching the fur between his ears. It was unlike Bob to stay out of contact with the ship for longer than it took to complete his mission, and his mission should have been completed within several days not several weeks. Although he was loathe to abandon Bob, he had to admit that if no word had been received from the commander by now, no word would likely ever come.

The captain stood in thought so long that the young communications officer was afraid the old buck hadn’t heard. “Sir?” he ventured. “About the mission? Homeworld is expecting an answer. We need to…”

“I’m well aware of what we need to do, young one,” the gray said quietly but firmly. He’d been at this game too long already, and he was one of the many who had lost his taste for the job of conquest. Still, he’d worked with Bob too long to just give up. On the verge of commanding another sweep of the surface, he stopped. He knew already what the answer would be. No sign of his advance officer. No sign but the soft crackle of a radio in a ship that would never be used again. After all this time, he had to finally admit to himself that Bob was dead.

"Tell Homeworld that the mission was a bust. Announce this world as unconquered and unconquerable.”

"Sir? Why? We’ve never had to do that before.”

"Any world that could take out Bob, is more world than we can handle. Initiate auto-destruct for Bob’s ship. We cannot leave any trace behind.”

Later, in his quarters deep within the metallic ball rolling quickly through the galaxy on its way home, the captain sat in thought. After some time, he began a job he never thought he’d have to do, and prayed he’d never have to do again. He needn’t have worried. This would be their last mission—their last attempt at conquest. The mission had failed and it was that failure that had finally swayed the great Homeworld council to leave behind the days of conquest and pillage.

But not only had the mission failed, a great warrior had been lost in the process.

"Let it be written on this day, that Commander Bob was sent forth to scout the fourth planet from the star in the system locally known as Sol with the intention of initiating a landing zone for our armada. Let it also be written that the commander was lost during this mission to forces on that planet which were beyond his abilities. The planet, known locally as Earth, is hereby posted as ‘Off Limits’ to all of our brethren and our allies.”

"If we cannot have this world, let no species have it. Bob would have wanted it that way.”

Upon the Stage

2007-09-07T18:21:00.000-06:00

This piece was written years ago, more as a recorded memory than a fiction piece. Think of this as flexing my writing muscles. This was one of the many first exercises before I completed my first novel.

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Upon the Stage

Peering through the crack in the door she could see the auditorium filling and she flexed her fingers. After four years, one would think she wouldn’t be so nervous before the annual Spring Concert. The year before she’d risen to the honor of first chair flute and had been the soloist. She’d been nervous then, but this was something different. Maybe because it was her last year; maybe it was because she was playing piccolo this year instead of flute. She wasn’t sure.

She turned away from the door again, but the band room didn’t hold any appeal. She could hear the various other instruments tuning up and practicing one final time. If she went over the piece one more time, she could make certain of those trills, but the thought caused the butterflies in her stomach to break mach 3. Maybe she could straighten her uniform for the millionth time.

As she entered the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself – blue trousers, blue suit coat, tuxedo shirt – complete with ruffles, bowtie. She looked awesome. Taking her brush out of her purse, she brushed her hair to a sparkling glow. It was time.

Back in the band room, her friends and fellow band members were lining up for entry onto the stage. She waved at Janine who shifted her oboe and waved back. Janine would soon be headed off to Michigan State. She nodded to Joe who smiled and went back to practicing fingerings on his sax. He would be off to U of M. Many of them would be leaving high school soon – off into the world and the future.

Taking her place, she turned to look at Don – the new first chair flute – and smiled. She thought about the day when he had won the chair position from her. He was good; he practiced hard; he deserved to lead the flutes. She hadn’t tried to beat him – which bothered her still – but she already had her sights set on taking the piccolo position. It was a simple shift, and she still lead the section. Tonight would be her first public piccolo performance of the one piece that had scared her four years ago. On the flute, it was difficult; on the much smaller piccolo, it was excruciating.

As they ascended the stage, she scanned the crowd. Far in the back, she could make out her other friend, Maria, who had come for moral support. She suppressed the urge to wave. Concert flautists didn’t wave and she was ‘in the zone’. In the middle to the left she spotted her parents. Dad was wearing that powder blue suit coat, which would have bothered her at any other time, but was strangely comforting tonight. Mom looked great.

The entire band took their places, standing straight and proud before their chairs. The teacher nodded and as one they took their seats. He raised his baton and the music began. Each piece sounded flawless to her ears and she was playing better than she had ever played in her life. But she knew that those pieces were nothing compared to what was scheduled for the last piece.

Finally, the program was coming to a close. It was nearly time. The conductor tapped his baton on the podium and they raised their instruments to their lips in one fluid motion. Her body was poised in the perfect shape of an L – back straight, head held high. And Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever began.

She was never so proud in her life. The notes were coming from the piccolo as if it had a life of its own, but she knew that she was the one who gave it life. Never before – and never since – had she played with such precision and such clarity. The trills, which had always given her trouble, were easy beneath her fingers.

When the final notes were still lingering in the air, the conductor lifted his arms and they rose again and bowed. He nodded and the senior members of the band walked to center stage. The crowd rose to its feet and the applause was deafening. She bowed one last time upon the stage and lead her band slowly down the steps.

Reflections of an Unpublished Writer

2007-09-03T21:34:00.000-06:00

Below is an essay I wrote for a writers forum I belonged to last year. This got mixed reviews. Some people thought it was uplifting; others thought it was depressing as hell. I fall in the former category. This business of writing can only get you down as long as you let it. This is the story of breaking free of the vicious circle of depression and writer's block, of moving forward past the pain.

I hope you'll find it as uplifting as I do.
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Reflections of an Unpublished Writer

After weeks, or months or years, sitting at your keyboard trying to get a story out of your head, you type those most wonderful words: The End. You’ve finished your first book! You feel like dancing around the house (and maybe you do, just because you can). You open a bottle of champagne (or a beer, or a bottle of Boones Farm) and bask in the glow of being amongst the few who started writing a book and actually finished it. Feeling pretty proud of yourself, you strut around your house like a god. (And why not? You should be damned proud of yourself because you have accomplished a great feat.)

But eventually, the inevitable question arises: What now?

Maybe you pick up The Writer’s Market and start attaching sticky notes to every agent who looks like they might represent you. You know you aren’t really sure what you’re doing, but you shrug and pick the one absolutely perfect agent who is certain to love your book as much as you do.

You read a little bit about what the agent wants you to send, mainly because you know there’s got to be some kind of procedure for this. Then you think to yourself: What in gods’ name is a query? You shrug and put together a reasonable looking business letter, and mail it off with a return envelope. (Assuming you’ve figured out what SASE stands for, that is.) Time passes and your envelope comes back. Your heart swells with expectation, never thinking its contents could be anything but glowing praise, only to find a nice letter inside telling you while your work isn’t for them, they’re sure you’ll find an agent in no time.

Bruised but not broken, you whip out your big book of agent names, and pick a few more. After all, Perfect Agent was sure one of his brethren would snap you right up. Same letter, different names and off they go into the blue box on the corner. And you wait.

A few more days (weeks, etc.) pass and all your little envelopes find their ways home with more rejections—all pretty much worded the same as the first. More queries go out; more rejections come back. You kick yourself, and cry a little maybe. You throw your big book of agents across the room, and curse the day they were born. You go through all the phases of loss: Anger, Denial, etc. until you get to the inevitable Acceptance.

You suck. Now you're cursing the day you were born.

Weeks go by, and dust covers your keyboard. You thought your words glowed like the sheen of love on a young girl’s face. Now you just think you’re a hack.

Finally, however, your creative juices reach their boiling point. You can’t take it anymore; you can’t NOT write, so you sit back down at your computer. You start writing your next book.

But your confidence is toast. When you started out the last time, you knew without a doubt that you could write. There was nothing to it, and the words flowed out of your fingers like a dam had burst somewhere along the Colorado River. Now, it’s like Death Valley.

Hopefully, a little light bulb goes off over your head. When you first started writing—way back when you were in 2nd grade and your teacher made you write about your summer vacation—you were learning how to put words together to make some kind of cohesive story. It was a learning process then; it is a learning process now.

Hopefully, a little voice in your head tells you to figure out what went wrong with the last book. You do some research. You pick a whole new list of agents who really do represent your genre. You find out what a real query letter looks like. You find out how to write something called a hook. You read everything you can get your grubby little hands on. When you’ve learned everything there is to know about the business, you try again.

In the meantime, maybe you realize your writing, as wonderful as it is, needs some fine tuning and a little more polish. While revising and editing your first book, you keep writing your second book, tweaking and shining until it really does glow. A short story or two come to mind, and you pour those words onto the paper while you mull over your novels.

You never quit. Because NOT writing would be like not breathing.

Maybe you’re still waiting for your acceptance letter to come. Maybe it’s waiting in line behind another slew of rejections. Or perhaps, it’s waiting because you just haven’t queried the right agent yet. But no matter what happens, if you’ve done your work, you have done your best to kick the obstacles out of your way. And you can come to realize no matter what has happened or will happen...

You are a writer.

Traveling in Armageddon Pt 3

2007-08-27T07:49:00.000-06:00

When the cab came to a stop Michael was just finishing up and tucking his papers back into his valise. He looked around him and noticed that they were in front of an apartment building on the upper west side of Manhattan. Looking over at Marisa, he noted that she was making no move to exit the vehicle and head toward the building. “If you’re worried that she may still be back at the train station waiting for you we would be happy to take you there to look for her.”

She shook her head slightly. “No. She’s here. She has to be; I’m hours overdue. I know Mother. She would guess that there was some sort of problem and come back here to wait. Besides,” Marisa craned her head to look up at the building, “I think I see a light on in the window. And even if I’m wrong, I have a key. She’ll be here sooner or later.”

Marisa adjusted her son, who had fallen asleep on her lap, but still made no move to leave. “It’s not that, really. It’s just that I… I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. Could you… No. I can’t ask that. You’ve already done so much for me.”

“Marisa? You have to ask yourself if you’re certain of the truth and if you’re certain of your decision to live now that you have the truth. I have provided you with as much information as I can, but you have to be certain of the truth yourself or you will never be able to convince your mother.”

“I’m certain, sir.” Josh chimed in from the front seat. “I can talk to her for Marisa.” During the course of their drive he had changed visibly, slowly reverting to a happier, more relaxed young man.

Michael smiled and shook his head. “I know you’re certain, Josh. Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think that will work. Marisa’s mother doesn’t know you from Adam. It will be hard enough for her to believe all this—think how hard it was for you—let alone believe this coming from someone who looks like you do.”

Josh looked down at his attire. His t-shirt had the logo of a popular rapper and his jeans were torn. Josh looked up at his reflection in the mirror. With his earrings and spiky hair-do, he had to admit to himself that he didn’t look at all trustworthy. He glanced at Michael and blushed. “Guess you’re right, sir. Who’d believe a punk like me?”

“Other punks?” Michael offered jokingly and instantly regretted his attempt to lighten the situation when he noted that Josh could no longer look him in the eye. “Listen, kid, I’m sorry, but that’s the way things are. News like this requires some serious thinking so it would be more believable from someone who doesn’t look like they dropped out of any kind of serious thinking a long time ago. It is fixable, of course, but we can talk about that on the way to the network. Okay?” Josh looked relieved but still disheartened. The boy would have to find his own way through this, and while Michael would help him as much as possible in the short time they would be together, there wasn’t much he could do for Josh. “Now, let’s take care of Marisa and Tyler before we get on our way.”

Both men got out of the cab. Michael helped Marisa and the baby while Josh gathered their belongings. Together, they got everything arranged and the trio crossed the street to the apartment building. Marisa stood in front of the door to the elevators for a long while deep in thought. After several minutes had passed she looked at each of the men in turn and politely thanked them for all they had done for her. Josh offered to join her as she went to face her mother, but she declined. She knew that this was something she must do for herself. In the end though, Marisa consented to let Josh wait downstairs for an hour and if he didn’t hear from her by then he was welcome to come upstairs and check on them. They all agreed.

The minutes dripped by like Chinese water torture and Josh squirmed in the posh lobby of the building, wanting desperately to ascend to the apartment above. However Michael held him back, allowing Marisa time to explain the situation as best she could. He was pleasantly surprised when, just forty-five minutes later, Marisa stepped from the elevator with a stately, well-dressed women in her fifties. Marisa’s head was held high and, although there were tear stains drying on her cheeks, she was smiling widely.

The woman strode directly to Michael and held out her hand. “I’m Eileen. I insisted that Marisa allow me to come downstairs and talk to you personally.”

As they shook hands, Michael looked into her eyes. They were honest and open eyes, and the face showed a hint of the wisdom that comes from having experienced the joys and sorrows that reality can bring. “I understand, Eileen. I appreciate that you are willing to listen to what I have to say. I have my papers in the car outside. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll collect them.”

Eileen laid a hand on his arm. “No, sir. I don’t really need to see those. That isn’t why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to come down to thank you for what you have given to us. Marisa told me everything. She barely took time to put down her bags and put Tyler to bed before she started explaining everything. We’re leaving the city tonight, once Tyler wakes up. I have some friends in Maine and I’m certain that they will allow us to stay with them until all of this blows over.”

“You’re certain that you understand it all?” Michael began.

“Marisa says that you gave quite a lecture in the cab on the way here and she also said that you were adamant about making sure she understood the information before you’d let her believe you. I don’t really need you to go over it with me. I know my own daughter, young man. That this was too important to even get settled spoke volumes for her certainty. If she were unsure of it, she would have hedged around the issue for hours and then presented it to me as a question. She certainly wasn’t behaving like she was uncertain. If she knows the truth of what you say, and she obviously does, then that is all I need to know. She’ll fill me in on your details later.” Michael could see the signs of despair and stress that lined the woman’s face beginning to ease. She was speaking the truth. “Do be quite honest, Dr. Montgomery, I was never all that keen on suicide in the first place. That has always seemed like the coward’s way out to me. This time, however, I just couldn’t see any alternative. You have shown me the only alternative there ever is—life. Thank you.”

Michael was touched by this woman’s forthrightness. He took her hand warmly and then raised it to his lips, gently kissing it. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

The older woman colored happily. If she had been a little younger she would have taken Michael’s gesture as one of casual flirting and she would have responded in kind. Instead she rose on tiptoe to place a light kiss upon his cheek.

Michael then stepped forward and enveloped Marisa in a hug. Despite their limited acquaintance, he had come to value the young woman. “Take care of that boy of yours. I have a feeling that in the years to come we’re going to need the likes of the young man that the two of you will raise.”

After Josh, too, had said his good-byes, the two men walked back to the cab. Stopping to look about them, they noticed that it was now fully dark and many of the windows that formerly would shine onto this street were black. In the eerie gloom they silently pulled away from the curb.

Too late to attempt entry to the NBS offices that night, Josh instead took Michael to an out-of-the-way hotel that promised both quiet and luxury. Josh felt that Michael could use a few days of rest and relaxation after all that his new friend had gone through, and Michael gratefully accepted the gesture on Josh’s part. The kid wasn’t ready for finishing school, but he had come a long way in a few short hours because someone finally had the courage to tell him the truth about himself. Along the way to the hotel, Michael gave Josh pointers on his appearance and language. Josh listened intently as he drove so that he would certainly be a more believable spokesman as he ventured away from New York, but also so that when the chaos was over he could begin to work toward making something more of himself. In return, Josh gave Michael pointers on how to get around in New York now that tensions and crime were high. They shook hands and departed. As Josh drove away, headed home to pack his belongings before heading south, Michael stood and watched the taillights disappear down the city streets. “The kid’ll be okay,” he thought.

:End Scene:

Traveling in Armageddon Pt 2

2007-08-24T07:48:00.000-06:00

As they began to pull away from the train station, Michael wondered at the state to which they’d been reduced. Receiving hazard pay to drive into New York City—it was like the punch line to some sick joke.

Turning to the window, he watched the people still departing from the train. Now that the cabs were full, some of the passengers were making their ways toward waiting cars and some were beginning to walk toward the ramshackle hotel near the tracks. Michael’s cab was nearly out of the station parking lot when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The young woman who had sat across from him with her baby was standing helplessly on the sidewalk. She didn’t look as if she were aware of where she was or what she was going to do now.

“Could you stop the cab?” Michael asked the driver.

The boy looked at him quizzically. “What for dude? You want to get the other cabbies pissed or something? Once you’re heading out they don’t like it when you stop.”

“I don’t care what the other drivers like or don’t like. Stop the cab.” Michael told the driver bluntly.

Shaking his head emphatically, the boy replied. “No way, dude. They’ll give me hell when I come back through later.”

“Stop the cab,” he roared. The cabbie slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt.

“Whoa, shit. Don’t do that!” the boy shouted. Turning slightly in his seat to face his passenger, he said, “What’s you’re major maladjustment, dude?”

“We need to pick up that young lady and her baby,” Michael said coolly.

“Oh, man.” The kid rolled his eyes. “That means I gotta back up and they really ain’t gonna like that. Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Something in the tone of Michael’s voice told the young man that he was not going to win this battle.

Huffing angrily the boy shifted his car into reverse and winced at the resulting chorus of car horns. “This is gonna cost extra, ya know.” Michael dug some more bills out of his wallet and when the cab came to a stop in front of the little family of two, he stuffed the money into the kid’s outstretched hand. As Michael was about to put his wallet away, the boy added, “Umm, dude? According to the new rules, you gotta pay for her, too. No cab sharin’.”

Michael glowered at the kid’s reflection in the rearview mirror and the boy’s head seemed to shrink down into his shoulders. “Tell ya what, dude. I’m feelin’ gen’rus. I won’t make ya pay for the kid… unless it starts cryin’ or sumthin’. I can’t handle cryin’ babies, dude.”

“Fine.” He assented as he handed the driver another fifty. Opening the door to the cab, Michael spoke to the young woman. “Excuse me, miss? I’d like you to share my cab into the city.” She immediately stopped staring off into space and turned to stare at Michael. “Miss?” He said softly. “Would you like a ride into the city?”

It was as if she were in a fog, looking at him but not seeing him, until the driver behind them honked long and loud startling her and shaking her back into reality. “I… I didn’t know the train would stop here.” She began without preface. “My mother is waiting in New York… The cabs are all gone. Not that I have enough money for a cab anyway… Thank you, sir, but… but… I don’t have enough money for a cab.” She stopped helplessly and resumed staring into space.

“It’s okay, miss. I’ve got it covered. Climb on in.” Then noticing the sudden look of distrust in her eyes he added, “I don’t want anything from you but a bit of conversation during the ride. Really.”

At that her face relaxed slightly, and she appeared as if she were going to accept, but the suspicion remained in her eyes. Finally she made her decision and said, “I guess that would be all right. Thank you.” She gathered her bags and with Michael’s help climbed into the cab.

A short while after they had resumed their journey, the girl spoke. “I really do appreciate this, sir. I didn’t want to accept your ride because I don’t have any way to repay you, but then I realized that I don’t have any other way to get into New York, so it was the only choice.”

“As I said, you’ll repay me by talking with me. It could take some time for us to get into the city.” Michael reassured her.

“Well, if you’re sure…” the girl began hesitantly, “…and the other reason is that I don’t know if I can trust you.” She spoke as if she were afraid that by saying this she would offend him in some way. “I’m probably being silly.”

“I understand. It would be sillier for you to feel that you could trust a complete stranger.” He said, and then jokingly added, “I probably wouldn’t trust me either if I were in your boat.”

The girl smiled shyly. Quickly she added, “But you look okay, and, like I said, I don’t have much of a choice…”

“If I look okay, I must be okay? You have to watch thinking like that. Some of the worst serial killers looked like average guys.” Michael warned, and as the girl’s eyes regained a measure of her earlier distrust, he continued, “But in this case, you thought right. I’m harmless, and if you’re still worried about me after a few more miles, I’ll pay the driver to take you back to the station.” At that statement, the driver groaned and Michael firmly added. “Whether he likes it or not.”

Relaxing considerably, the girl settled into her seat and turned her attention toward the child she had settled into her lap. After fussing nervously with the baby’s blanket and then its bottle, she spoke, “Listen, you said you would accept conversation as payment. I don’t know what I could say that would be interesting enough to repay you. You look like some sort of professor or something. I was never very good at talking with my professors.”

Michael looked at the young woman gently and smiled. “That’s okay. We’re even. I was never very good at making conversation with my students. However, I haven’t taught professionally in years, and you’re not one of my students, so we should be fine.”

She smiled, too. “Okay then. My name’s Marisa and this little person is Tyler.” She held her infant son up so that he could see Michael. The boy smiled and cooed at him.

Michael smiled back. “He’s a handsome little guy. He’ll be a lady-killer when he grows up.” Without warning, Marisa broke out sobbing. Stymied, Michael sat in silence for several moments. He patted her hand clumsily. He had never been good at dealing with people this way, and couldn’t think of what to say to comfort this young woman. “I’m sorry, Marisa. I know this is a hard time for you.”

She looked up and saw the confusion on his face. “Wha… Wha… What you said.” She stuttered. “About… Tyler whe… when he… he grows… He’ll never grow up! The comet… the comet is coming and… we… We… we’re going to New York… so we can… so we can… die… Die with… our family!” With a forlorn cry, she clutched the little boy to her chest and rocked in her seat. Michael was stunned into silence. When he looked up at the cabbie, the young man turned away embarrassed.

Struggling for the right way to approach this subject, the subject that so many had turned away from in the past few weeks, he started to comfort her, “I know this is hard to understand, miss, but it’ll be okay. Everything will be just fine…”

“No… it won’t…” She hiccoughed. “It’s over and there’s nothing that anyone can do about it. That’s all they keep saying on the news. The scientists can’t do anything, and the government can’t do anything, and we’re all going to die. Nothing can save any of us now.” Marisa sniffled, and her son buried his face in her neck as if to say that he had as little hope as she.

“Miss. I promise you that everything will be fine. I am certain of it…”

Something in his voice drew her attention and Marisa looked up at him disbelievingly, her eyelashes spiky and her cheeks stained with the salt of her tears. For an instant, those eyes held a glimmer of hope before they darkened with her thoughts. “Now listen here. I’ve heard this line of bull before and if you’re going to start… telling me that God will save us all… you can… stop the cab… and let me out. I… I’ll walk to New York before I listen to any more of that crap.”

Thinking that he was about to be relieved of the emotional tension in his cab, the driver started to slow down and Marisa grabbed her things in readiness for departure. Michael laid a firm hand on her arm and said calmly, “I don’t think that will be necessary. I don’t have any such intention.” He locked eyes with the cabbie in the rearview mirror. “Continue on, son. We’ve paid for a ride to New York and we’re going to get one.”

Once the cab had sped up and continued on its way, Michael turned toward his companion. “Now, Marisa, I tell you what. You tell me a bit about yourself and I’ll tell you a bit about myself and then after you know me a little, I’ll explain what I meant when I told you that everything would be okay.”

Marisa looked at him resentfully. “I don’t know. I’ve had about enough of your type lately.”

“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you,” he said firmly. “If I mention any type of deity, you are welcome to kick me out of this cab and take it the rest of the way into the city on my dime.” As she considered his offer, Michael took the time to look over his companion. She was a plain girl of moderate means, but his original estimate that she was very young was off base somewhere. Although when she looked scared and confused, there was definitely a child-like quality about her, now that she was angry and ready to stand her ground she took on a more mature appearance. There seemed to be a fire in her that wouldn’t be easily doused, even if it seemed to die down from time to time. The thought of that grit in her made Michael more hopeful that, once she had listened to him and looked at the data, she would understand what it all meant and that she would carry it with her to New York; that she would hold onto it and not give in to the hopelessness that was overtaking her now.

“Don’t think I won’t hold you to that,” she said decisively.

“I hope you will,” he replied, happily thinking, “Good. We need more people like her around.”

She eyed him uncertainly. “Well, what do you want to know?”

Michael shrugged. It didn’t really matter where she started or what she ended up telling him. This was more an exercise in building trust through mutual knowledge than anything else. “Where you’re from, what you do, anything… Just nothing about the comet right now. We can talk about that later.”

She nodded her agreement; she didn’t want to talk about the comet any more than he did. Hesitantly, she began. “Um… okay. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m originally from Manhattan, but after I graduated from NYU, I got this awesome job down in Charlotte and I’ve been working there for about four years.”

“What is it that you do in Charlotte?” he asked.

Proudly, she replied, “I’m the executive assistant for the VP of Ops of a large manufacturer of plastics.” Michael nodded and she continued. “My folks… well, just my mother now I guess… my dad had a heart attack after the… sorry, we aren’t talking about that… well, my mom has lived in New York since just before I was born. They used to live somewhere further west, but my dad got a job in one of the brokerage houses and they picked up everything and just moved.” She grinned, “Sort of like I did when I went to Charlotte. Like father, like daughter, I guess.” Her voice trailed away. Michael waited patiently for her to resume, but her eyes were looking at some point in the distance. When she turned to look at him again, he could see that she was near to tears again.

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I kinda miss him. Were you close to your dad?”

“I still am. Both of my parents are retired and living in Wyoming.”

Wistfully she mused, “I bet it’s pretty out there. I’ve seen pictures and documentaries about the west, and I’ve always wanted to go there. In fact, I was planning a trip to Yellowstone the summer before I found out I was expecting Tyler, but things sorta… well things got put on hold.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, will Tyler’s father be joining you in New York?”

She smiled wryly, “Him? I think the only thing he’ll be joining is a barmaid for a few drinks after she gets off her shift. Last I knew of him he was sitting in a bar looking for his happiness at the bottom of a bottle of vodka.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. It was probably the best thing that ever happened to me… when he walked away from us, I mean. But I don’t want to talk about that any more. It’s water under the bridge. Tell me about you now.”

“My turn?” He asked and she nodded. “Well, my name is Michael.”

She held out her hand and shook his heartily. “Pleased to meet you, Michael.”

“The pleasure is mine, Marisa,” he replied. “Now, let’s see. I’m thirty-eight and I work in New Mexico… but if you don’t mind I’d like to leave my employment there for right now. As I said, my folks live in Wyoming on the farm they bought after my father retired. Dad raises elk now. I grew up in northern Utah…”

“See?” Marisa interrupted, “I knew it!” She crossed her arms over her chest above the sleeping Tyler and stated, “You can stop right there, mister.”

Confused, Michael fell silent, uttering only one word, “Why?”

“Because you’re like some kind of Mormon or something,” she insisted, “and I knew you were going to start with the whole god-thing sooner or later.” To her surprise, Michael burst into helpless laughter. She grew more furious with every chuckle. “I don’t really see what’s so funny.”

Sputtering out a few more healthy guffaws, Michael took a deep breath and explained, “Because it’s been a long time since anyone made that assumption. I used to get that a lot when I was younger, especially when I started college, but it tapered off eventually. To settle your mind some, I’m not mormon. I’m not anything as a matter of fact, but that is neither here nor there. Remember our deal, Marisa. If I mention religion you can kick me out of the taxi. I wouldn’t have agreed to that if I thought it were a possibility. Trust me, I don’t relish the idea of walking to New York.”

Abashed, Marisa apologized. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m so used to being blindsided by stuff like that. I guess that it’s made me kinda jumpy.”

“Apology accepted. So, now that we’re settled on that you can relax a bit and we can talk without your having to read between the lines and wonder what I might be saying that I’m not really saying. Now, where was I?” He pondered.

“You grew up in Utah.” She offered.

Michael laughed. “Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten that point? The reason we lived in Utah was that my father was employed by a company that makes jet-propulsion systems and when they opened a lab facility up there, my father was the obvious choice to head the division. My family is originally from the Midwest. In fact, I was born in Columbus, Ohio.” Raising one eyebrow, Michael looked at Marisa. “You don’t have a problem with former buckeyes, do you?”

She giggled. “Only if a buckeye is some kind of cult fanatic.”

“Actually a buckeye is a kind of nut, but not the religious kind.” He explained. Marissa was now completely relaxed and bright-eyed, and Michael reflected on the contrast between her and the young receptionist at the Global Science Institute. Where Marisa had originally seemed very plain and mousy, she now appeared quite lovely.

“Tell me more,” she requested.

“Well…” he searched his mind for some other piece of information that the girl might find interesting, “…my mother is a romance novelist.”

He had chosen well judging from the way Marisa perked up. “Really?” she asked cheerfully. “I hate to admit it but I read tons of those things. Maybe I’ve read some of her stuff. What’s her name?”

“She writes under the name Madeline Brook.”

A wide smile broke over the girl’s face. “That’s your mother? I love her stuff. It’s very real, but also so very romantic.” Marisa sighed. “I’ve always been a sucker for the kinds of men she makes up for her books.”

Michael grinned, thinking that his mother had once told him that all her heroes were based on his father. “I’ll pass that along to her. Mom loves to hear that people enjoy reading her books as much as she enjoys writing them. By the way, her real name is Marjorie. You may have noticed that she hasn’t written much lately, but that’s because she is enjoying puttering in her garden now that Dad is retired and only writes when the mood strikes her.”

“Thank you, Michael. I’ll remember that. So, now that I know all about what your folks are doing, tell me what you do for a living.”

“I’m an astrophysicist.”

She giggled. “No. Seriously. What do you do?”

“That is what I do. Seriously.”

“Oh,” she said with a strange look in her eyes, less distrust than a sort of gentle sadness on behalf of her newfound friend. “Well, I can certainly understand why you didn’t want to talk about the comet. You guys haven’t been much help lately, have you?”

“My field hasn’t been any help at all lately. That’s why I’m headed for New York—to try and put things right. It’s also why I stopped to help you today. You looked so lost and afraid and you shouldn’t have to be.”

Her lips curled into a wistful smile. “It’s okay now. You helped me a lot. You see… I’m going to New York to die and I was afraid that my resolve would fail me. But you’re going to get me there and I can do what I have to do now.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“Oh, I know that. Come July, it’ll hit and we’ll all be dead, so I could just wait until then and take what’s coming, but I don’t want Tyler to suffer in the end, so my mother and I came up with this plan and now I’m seeing it through. It’ll be better this way… to die quietly in my old bed with Tyler in my arms.” Marisa looked almost serene, but Michael was reeling. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that this intelligent, vibrant young woman was going to kill herself, but it was true. How many others, like her, were ending their lives before the horror could overcome them? That the horror would never come made it doubly hard to bear.

“Marisa,” his voice had gained the hard edge of barely reined anger, “I know that you think this is the only way, but you cannot kill yourself when you get to New York. I know you don’t know me and have no reason to trust me, but this isn’t necessary. When you get to New York, I want you to take your mother and leave the city. Go somewhere away from people and wait it out. Please.”

Her mouth tightened and she shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t bear the thought of slowly dying inside over the next few months just waiting to be vaporized. I can’t do that. I’ve never sat around waiting for anything to happen, and I don’t want to start with this… not with the end of my life. Oh sure, I could spend the next two months partying it up somewhere like Tyler’s father and like some of my friends, but I couldn’t do that either. I’m not that kind of person. Nope, this is the best way.”

“Marisa? What if I told you that the comet will not hurt you or any of us? What if I showed you the proof of it and asked, not that you trust me, but that you trust reality?”

She looked at him disbelievingly. “If that’s true, why doesn’t anyone else know?”

“I don’t have the answer to that. I wish I did. I have been telling everyone who would take a moment to listen.” Michael shook his head at those memories. “I’m headed to New York for an appointment with NBS. I’m hoping that they will listen to me, and that they will help me to tell the public the truth.”

Marisa’s eyes had grown wide. “I don’t believe you. No one would hide this kind of information from people. There’s no reason to do something like that. No one can be that cruel.”

“I don’t know if they’re doing this deliberately to be cruel or if that’s just a by-product, but the fact is that they are doing it. I have the proof…”

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” she cried. “I don’t know if you’re sadistic, or insane, or just mean. I don’t care. This is wrong of you.” She was looking at him with a wild-eyed horror that slowly changed to disappointment. Michael waited patiently until slowly a sad sort of pity crept into her eyes and she very gently told him, “You have to stop telling people this. Why get people’s hopes up that way? We only have a few months, but we shouldn’t go around with our head in the clouds over nothing. I’m sure that if your proof were correct, someone would have listened and let everyone know. I don’t get it.” Shaking her head, she inquired, “Why would they hide something like that from us? Why?”

“I don’t know why, but what I’m telling you is the truth. Look, I’m not asking you to just believe me. That is exactly what they are asking you to do. I’m not basing this on conjecture, but they are. I ran tests—every test I could think of and then some—to check and re-check every single conclusion I came up with. They didn’t bother with tests; they didn’t bother to check anything. Someone said, ‘We’re doomed,’ and someone else said, ‘They must be right because they’re the ones who are supposed to know.’ And no one bothered to ask them why they thought we were doomed. I didn’t listen to their words. I looked at the data and the data proved them wrong. Maybe they’re afraid to be wrong. Maybe they are afraid to be alive at all. I don’t know. What I do know is that I want to live. Do you want to live, Marisa?”

“Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I’m beginning to have serious doubts about that.”

Michael heard a strange cough from the front seat. He looked into the eyes in the mirror and noticed that their driver’s cheeks were damp. “It’ll be okay, kid.”

The cabbie looked at him and Michael saw the face of a frightened child. “You serious, Mister?”

“If you’ll pardon the phrase… I’m deadly serious.”

The kid smiled. He looked like he’d just been released from prison—an innocent man given a pardon on his death sentence. “I believe you, Mister.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, kid, but I’d rather you believe the data. Unfortunately, you can’t read and drive at the same time.” The cabbie winked and turned his concentration back to the road. Marisa still looked wary, but she seemed open to the possibility that Michael may have the answers she’d been hoping for. “Maybe since you can’t read and drive, I could read the data to you both while we travel. I want you to understand it so that you can be certain of it for yourself. If you’re certain, you can help to pass the information along to your fares. Just in case.”

The kid shook his head and exclaimed, “Dude, you’re my last fare… ever! I’m beatin’ feet out of the city as soon as I drop you off. Hey, I’ll even give ya yur money back. You already paid me more than this drive is worth. We’re gonna live, Dude!”

“Keep the money. You’ll need it over the next few months.” Michael winked at the boy and he winked back. “Shall I begin?”

Both of his companions nodded silently and listened carefully as he laid out the information they would need to make their own decisions.
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Stay tuned for Part 3...

Traveling in Armageddon

2007-08-21T16:07:00.000-06:00

Below is the first full scene I cut from Spectacle. (Please head on over and read the blurb.)

Originally I wrote this scene to show how a world anticipating its own destruction would begin to decay, making little things like a trip from DC to NYC become a trial. I finally decided to snip it out because while it was interesting, it really didn't add much to the storyline, and wasn't even really necessary for its purpose.

To set the story up a bit, the nation has already begun to fall apart, and flying is only for those who have clearance. The only option left for the hero is a train.

So now I invite you to enjoy...

Traveling in Armageddon

Michael expected to have to wait for a seat on a northbound train, but oddly, there were plenty of tickets headed into New York. Climbing aboard, he took a seat and studied his fellow passengers. There was a young mother clutching her infant son and sobbing; a businessman sitting in a corner with his head in his hands; a teenage boy whose gaunt face reminded Michael of pictures of the victims of the Holocaust. These were people who were trying to continue their lives, but who had been told that their lives were about to end. Not even left with the hope for a potential cure, they were left to shuffle through their remaining days in blank terror. In their minds, the doctor had given them all only three months to live.

Turning away he tried studying the landscape to avoid their eyes; eyes that recognized the life in Michael and seemed to desperately want to cling to it. From the reflection on the glass he could see that the teenage boy had turned his glazed stare from the blurred countryside to fix on the solidity of Michael. The boy stood there for several seconds assessing Michael, and then, as if he had reached a conclusion, the boy ambled forth. Turning from the window, Michael heard the boy begin speaking.

“Mister? You got any money, mister?” The boy began abruptly. “I don’t got no money and when I get to New York, I’m gonna need money.”

“I’m sorry, kid.” Michael stated calmly.

“You gotta help me, mister. You gotta give me some money?” The boy begged loudly. “You look like you got money an’ you ain’t gonna need it no mo’ so you gotta gimme some.” His whole stance was defiant, with his fists stuffed deeply into the pockets of his too-loose blue jeans as if to belie the fact that he was demanding a handout.

Dumbfounded, Michael looked at the boy. “No,” he said firmly.

The boy’s face lost its soft and vacant look. He wasn’t used to being challenged when he made demands. “What d’ya mean, ‘No’?”

“I mean, ‘No, I don’t have to give you any money,’ and ‘No, I don’t have to help you.’” Michael replied calmly. The other passengers were slowly moving away from what they saw as a confrontation that could end badly.

“I said that you gotta help me,” the boy stated impertinently. “Just fork over a twenty or somethin’ to tide me over. I said I need it, so you hafta give it to me.”

“No.” Michael slowly repeated. “If you’ve got a knife or a gun, you are welcome to try and take it, but I will not be forking anything over to you.”

The boy’s demeanor changed from belligerent thug to petulant little boy. “You don’t hafta talk to me that way. I need help and you won’t give it to me. You know what you are, mister? You’re a selfish bastard.” The boy spat and then, as if he had said the magic words that would cow Michael into submission, he held out his hand for the money he was certain would be placed into it.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Michael calmly stated.

Glancing at his fellow passengers, the boy desperately looked for someone to back him up, but found each of them trying desperately to feign interest in anything else to avoid having to look at him. “You’re all selfish!” the boy shouted. When he noticed that no one was rushing to his side to acquiesce to his tantrums, he grumbled and turned back toward the window. Michael continued to watch him intently, but the boy was no longer any cause for concern.

The rest of the trip passed without incident and Michael had time to marvel at the coming spring. He had always loved this time of year, when the trees began to outfit themselves with their first bright green buds. The brown of winter was tipped with color for the first time in months, and the world was coming alive again.

Before too long, the train stopped. He looked at his watch and noted the time. It was obvious that they were still outside of the city, but according to the train schedule, they were not due to make any stops between Washington and New York. As the other passengers began to disembark, Michael reached out to touch the arm of a man who was making his way toward the door. “What’s going on?” He asked.

The man shrugged off Michael’s hand and said, “They aren’t allowing trains into New York anymore. You’d better hurry if you want to catch a cab. There usually aren’t enough to go around. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With that he scurried quickly through the opening and out onto the platform, disappearing into the gathering herd of people.

Michael collected his things and followed. True to the word of his unwilling informant, few cabs were left outside of the station. He chose the best of the ones remaining and climbed in.

“Where to, dude?” The youthful cab driver barked out. He didn’t look old enough to have a driver’s license much less the job of cabbie, but Michael could see that the only other taxicabs at the station were already departing with their fares.

Grudgingly, he accepted that he had no other choice if he wanted to get to the city by nightfall. “Times Square. The headquarters of NBS.”

The cabbie chuckled. “It’s double the usual fare to go into the city, dude. Fifty dollars, in advance.”

Michael reached into his wallet handed the scruffy young man a bill. The boy grabbed it in his grubby fingers and stuffed it into his jeans. “Sure thing, dude. Times Square.” When he reached forward and started the meter, Michael could see that it still had a fare on it from the boy’s last customer, but he did not feel like arguing over the amount. The boy misjudged his irritated look. “Jus’ so ya know. I ain’t gouging. They tol’ us we could charge double. Like, it’s haz’rd pay, dude.”
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Stay tuned for the rest of this scene...

A Hero of Novel Proportions

2007-08-18T08:58:00.000-06:00

The following short was first written in 2000, under the title Selene. It has undergone many revisions and a title change since then. It was, for all intents and purposes, the first short story I'd written and the beginning of this writing career I've entered into. I'm posting it here today because I don't believe this one will ever be published in any other medium. Not that it isn't good enough, but it is... Too personal a story, I guess, to be attractive to the lit journals. (This is just a guess on my part, since I've only ever submitted it once, and while the rejection was nicely worded, it was still a rejection.)

I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. (And before anyone thinks this is autobiographical, it's not. At least not entirely. The worst bits are fictional. The rest I'll leave to your imaginations.)

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A Hero of Novel Proportions

The waves thundered upon the shore, breaking with a clap and then whispering back into the ocean. A lone silhouette watched shivering slightly. Despite the overcast sky, she could tell the day was fading; another hour and it would be black as pitch, and she would be forced to stumble through the sea grass to her car. Still she stood and watched, gathering strength from the raw power of the elements. She would need it by the time morning broke.

When she could no longer see more than the faintest glimmer of white from the foam, she slowly turned. Her smart, gray suit clung to her, soaked with sea spray. Confidently, she strode back to where her car was parked alongside the coastal road, as if she had grown up playing amongst the dunes when in actuality she had never been there before. Her step was steady and sure.

She emerged on the road a short distance from her Lincoln. It glowed. It was then that she noticed the clouds were breaking up and a single shaft of moonlight was turning her car into a silver chariot. She laughed aloud. Perhaps her mother had been given a flash of insight at her birth when, as she had wailed her first breaths, she was named Selene.

As the car stretched its length along the ribbon of highway back to the city, Selene sat deep in thought. She remembered the day, 12 years before, when her life had turned so sharply. Sitting on a bench in Central Park reading, she could have been any number of other working girls on her lunch break. Could have been, if not for the text in her lap, and the fire in her eyes as she read. She hadn’t noticed the man casually watching her that day. She would have never noticed him if he had not strode between her and the sun, casting a shadow over the lines of Atlas Shrugged during the speech she so loved. Looking back now, she could almost believe that instant was a foreshadowing of things to come. Back then, however, with the light behind him, she could have sworn that the hero of the novel had stepped into reality. At the age of nineteen, she was ready to believe anything.

Selene shook herself and tried again to concentrate on the road ahead of her. The lateness of the hour made sharp concentration unnecessary though and there was little traffic to distract her from her memories.

She had married David a short year later. At first, he had been everything she dreamed he would be. He had seemed so strong and handsome. He had given every indication of being intelligent and thoughtful and somehow courageous. When they were married, he had been a lower-level engineering manager for an automotive parts manufacturer outside Cleveland, the youngest in the company’s long history. But he was rapidly climbing through the ranks; his eyes were set on heading the division someday. That ambition had been one of the things that had made him so attractive to her young and naïve eyes.

Beginning with that meeting in the park, they’d spent every one of the ten days left of his vacation in constant companionship. After the first two days, he had grown impatient that she had to leave him for work, and he insisted that she call in sick for the remainder of his trip. She had agreed because suddenly nothing was more important than being with David. After the third sick day, she’d been fired, but she had barely noticed—other than a twinge of disappointment at losing her first real job.

When he had suggested that she stay the night with him, she’d readily agreed. Never before had she given herself so completely to any man, but this was her hero and she had been willing to give him anything. When he’d suggested that she fly back to Ohio with him after such a short acquaintance, she had simply told her roommate that she was leaving. She hadn’t cared; David was a hero of novel proportions, or so she’d thought.

At her insistence, they had married quickly. It was the only way to quell the feelings of confusion inside her. His moods changed with the winds and she was becoming frightened that her love for him would dwindle in the face of the fact that he was no John Galt. Telling herself that she was no Dagny Taggert herself, she glossed over the cracks in them both and ran smiling up the aisle.

Six months later, she was pregnant, and she ran home from the doctor’s office smiling. Happy idiot that she was, she had presumed that David would be the proud future father she always dreamed her husband would be. She had been so very wrong. Despite his sudden silence, the disappointment and disgust on his face was palpable.

“It’s God’s will,” the doctor had said to her a few weeks later. At the memory of those ludicrous words, she laughed wryly. She had known it hadn’t been the will of any deity but the stress of dealing with David’s disappointment that had killed the growing potential inside her.

The lights of the city swam through her tears, as she pulled closer to their warmth. She had always loved the city and she regretted ever leaving its solidity for the wisps of a dream. As she looked back over the last twelve years, her resolve firmed.

For years she had been begging to go home, but David had desperately wanted to stay away from New York. They had not been back since those days so long ago. His own jealousy caused him to keep her from everything and everyone else she had ever loved.

Somewhere during their first meeting her beloved copy of Atlas Shrugged had mysteriously disappeared and he’d blamed the housekeeping staff. After they arrived in Ohio, she bought another copy, but David’s sullen looks quickly made her give up the written words that were her life’s blood. All of her books were carefully boxed and shoved into a corner of their attic; any book was a threat to David’s need for her undivided attention. She had accepted that. He was an important man—-almost everyone said so-—and he deserved her slavish devotion.

Over the years, she had accepted many things. Without question, she gave up her quest for employment; David made enough for them both to live on. Without hesitation she had given up her quest for education; David said that if she didn’t have to work, she didn’t need a degree. However, she hadn’t accepted completely the life of a dilettante. Her mind was as active as it ever had been. While he was at work, she poured over the only books available in the house—his old engineering texts. While he was sleeping, she studied schematics of his designs.

Laughing, Selene thought of the many mistakes she had found as she quickly grasped the technical aspects of her husband’s work. To her they were glaringly obvious, but when she attempted to point them out one night, he had belittled her. “What would a Bronx gutter-snipe like you know about engineering?” She let the comment pass. She knew that there was a flaw in his design. There had always been a flaw in his design. She forgave him. After all, she’d been taught to believe that she was flawed too.

Once at a company party, she found herself, by chance, in the company of the men and women who worked for David. Here were the technical minds behind the unflawed schematics David always brought home and corrected until they were like so many twisted monsters. She joined in their conversation delightedly. One bright young man, Jared thought to ask her who she was. “I’m David Cullem’s wife,” she said, and at once regretted her answer. The doors of communication quickly slammed shut, and she could see mistrust in their eyes.

Jared pulled her aside. “It’s nothing personal, Mrs. Cullem. You seem like an intelligent woman, and it’s been great talking to you, but your husband… Let’s just say that he isn’t well liked in his department. He’s gotten more than one of us fired. You understand, we’d rather our thoughts weren’t made available for Cullem to dissect and use against us.”

“But you have nothing to fear from David,” she had said quietly. “I’ve seen your designs, all of them, and they’re beautiful.” Even as she said the words, she remembered the miscarriages that David had made of so many of their drawings. Jared shook his head and walked away.

A short time later, she found David. He was chatting with a group of men, telling bawdy jokes and laughing louder than was necessary. “There you are, Sugar. I was wondering where you’d wandered off to.” He kissed her cheek and wrapped an arm about her waist. “Gentlemen, may I present the best wife a man could ever ask for—Selene.” For the rest of the evening a cheerful and attentive husband introduced her to vice presidents and managers. His 24-carat smile and his praise-filled words never quite reached his eyes, though. “I wonder if they see it, too,” she thought. Selene knew they did not. These were the men that had given David his prestige and his position. They were completely fooled.

That night was the beginning of the end, and that night was ten years ago. She could feel the disgust welling up inside her as the miles raced away—disgust for the wait, disgust for the wasted years, disgust for herself. “The lights of the city are blindingly bright,” she thought and then corrected herself. “No. The lights are illuminating now. I was blind before.” She felt stronger than she had in a very long time; the strongest she’d felt since that day on the park bench when David began sapping every drop of the woman she knew she could be. As she eased the Lincoln in front of a swank and luxurious hotel of David’s choosing, she glowed as if she had swallowed the light of the city.

David was livid. They had come to New York at her insistence. He’d railed at her daring to leave him and run off for two days without so much as a note. His face was rapidly approaching the color of the Merlot stain on their old linen tablecloth. Oddly enough, though, he had not called the police and reported her missing. He did not believe she was missing. Once they reached their sumptuous room, he let loose with the accusations he had hurled so many times before. “Who were you with while you were gone? An old lover?” She laughed aloud because the accusation was even more ridiculous coming from the man who had been her only lover ever. He reached out to slap her but stopped short. He had never actually dared to hit her, always stopping just close enough for her to feel the whisper of checked violence against her cheek—just enough to attempt to scare her, but never enough to mar her porcelain face. “Can’t damage the goods,” she had often mused. This time was different though. This time he had stopped because of the look in her eyes; it was a look devoid of fear, clear and bright with courage. The only fear evident in the room was in his eyes this time.

When David was finished ranting, she calmly set down the package that she had been clutching and moved toward the bedroom. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “To change out of these wet things,” she replied. Leering he began to follow her. He took her words as a sign that she would appease him with sex as she often had in the past. He didn’t realize that the past was over and that a new future had begun. Without looking back, she closed and locked the door.

She could hear him rattling the doorknob and yelling as she changed into a pair of blue jeans and a sweatshirt. They were the only things she owned that she felt at home in. Hanging in the closet were clothes of his choosing—slinky cocktail dresses and chic suits like the one she left in a pile on the floor; those things were little more than garments for David’s paper doll. The casual things were hers and she wrapped them about herself like a suit of armor. Calmly she pulled her waist long hair back into a boyish ponytail. David had always been so proud of her tresses, as if they were an accomplishment of his own and not merely part of a façade. Those tresses would soon be gone, too; she was slowly reverting back to the person she had been a dozen lifetimes ago, slowly reverting back to her own self. In the mirror was an image of an old friend she had not seen in years. She nodded a salute, and the figure jauntily nodded back. “Long time, no see,” she said to her reflection.

Her old armor intact and her Bronx polish in place, she strode over and unlocked the door to their bedroom. David burst through the door immediately, almost as if he had been leaning against it. She half expected him to fall flat on his face, but she no longer cared. She said little as she packed those things that belonged solely to her; he screamed, pleaded, and cajoled.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave me. I love you.” He could have as easily said ‘Please pass the butter’, for all the meaning his words had to her now. Selene continued as if he weren’t there and so he tried a different tack. “You stupid bitch. You can’t leave me. You’ll never make it without me. You need me!” Then something important—the last key to her husband—occurred to Selene. David had it backwards; he had always had it backwards. She had never needed him, but he had always desperately needed her. He needed her to prove to himself that he was somehow worthy of existing.

Shaking her head sadly, she headed toward the door. David was crying now, but she could not hear him, she was mentally unfolding the map to her life. On a small table in the foyer of their suite was the small brown package. Reverently she picked it up and gently she unwrapped it, as a mother would remove the blankets from her sleeping newborn. Inside was a book, long ago lost, but never forgotten. In its pages was the key to her freedom and her future. As she walked away from the past, she never looked back.

Welcome

2007-08-18T07:42:00.001-06:00

After reading how important it is to have your own branded blog presence, I made the decision to branch off from my main blog - The Writing Spectacle - and create a blog using my name.

Thus this separate blog was born.

I still prefer The Writing Spectacle, and will continue to do most of my blogging from that address. This blog will be kept mainly for those things I hope will either get me published, or once that is the case, will assist in increasing sales of my novels.

Here will be excerpts, deleted scenes, and unpublished shorts. Maybe even poetry on a rare occasion. Unlike my other blog, I don't plan on making this a daily event, but rather something every once in a while.

I sincerely hope you'll enjoy stopping by and reading my work from time to time. See you soon!