On 2018

This year... was a long one.

At the beginning of last year, while physically I was not much different from how I am now (something I plan to correct in 2019), I was mentally at a very different place. I was just finishing college, and experiencing the hurdles of that "final" chapter.

What has happened to me from that space until now seems... amazing, looking back. We shut down our business. River converted to being at home full time with Hatchling and Eggbreaker. I remember starting off thinking I would get so much done this year.. and I did. Most of it, though, was highly unexpected, and for the most part an attempt to limp forward.

I taught. I started this blog. I graduated. I participated in the teacher walkout. I screamed in the Oklahoma Capitol building until I was hoarse. I yelled at students and lot my temper. I did research with them. I spent many nights enjoying D&D with friends, and even finally began a campaign. I found out how far a dollar can truly stretch after being jobless throughout the summer, and found out how much further those dollars stretch when they only come in minimal amounts every two weeks. I finally relented philosophically and joined the Democratic Socialists of America, who I feel have, if not all the answers, at least the right ideas about how to solve our problems. I got hired at one of the most amazing jobs I could ask for, and since I have started teaching middle school I have been trying to keep up with the surge that is the life of a first year teacher.

That doesn't even cover the fights, the sleepless nights, the sicknesses, the mourning of passing pets, the many roads I have traveled in my mind in my desperate attempt to make the transition from a person trying to reach a goal (graduating and getting a job) to a person who has now reached that goal and now has to find his way. It doesn't cover the pains River and the kiddos have experienced. It doesn't cover even a quarter of the experiences we had this year.

All in all... in many ways, 2018 was the worst year I have had yet. I fell behind on my mortgage, my car payment. I struggled to keep my sanity.

In other ways, it was the best year. I finally graduated and got a stable income to provide for my family. I started writing again. The relationships I have with the people I want to have them with are, I think, mostly excellent.

I think I'm going into 2019 with hope. A bit of anxiety, surely. I think it's crazy how when we are young we assume that age will bring confidence, when in fact the opposite seems to prove true more and more. I want my babies to be safe this year, I want River to be happy... I want so many things.

I don't know what I'm going to achieve this year, or what I will fail in. I know I will do both of those: achieve success and admit failure. I know this year will not be perfect, will not even be what I imagined it to be. Looking back over my life, no year has been. I know, though, that I'm going into it with my eyes wide open. I'm going to walk into 2019 ready to experience, to be changed. Yeah, a little of that is fear, but mostly I want to feel alive, feel as though the 29th revolution on this orb can create some meaning in the swimming chemicals in my brain.

I hope you all will join me.

Late Night Thoughts

Do you ever feel like you're holding your breath, waiting for something to happen? But either things just keep happening... or nothing really happens? Or both?

I feel like I've been waiting for something. Like I had some date with destiny that was supposed to happen. Like 2012 was supposed to destroy the world... but it didn't, and now I just have to continue.

I don't know. Sometimes, it feels like I can feel the world spinning under my feet, and other times I can't focus on a single thing besides the pain in my left eye or some other such thing.

To be clear, it isn't a bad thing. Feeling this way. It's just a feeling of being held in suspense, waiting for the action.  Maybe subconsciously my mind never came back and I'm just waiting to be called back to formation, but I doubt it.

Although I do dream about the army.

It's fleeting, this feeling. I can't determine when it will strike me. Just like I can't determine when I'm driving and the cars will feel too slow or too fast and the vertigo hits and my mind blackens and it takes every fiber of my being just to grip the wheel. It's strange, because in those moments, I feel the most alive, the most in touch with whatever is out there in the universe, pulling at the puppet strings. But then the moment passes, and it's like the echo of a gong in my head. Hollow. Fading. Until eventually my mind latches on to something that I need to do that day, and I forget all about this feeling.

I used to feel it most when I laid down to sleep. And I thought that the older I got, the more trouble I would have sleeping, but it's the opposite. I sleep better now than I ever have, or at least my mind rests better.

When I was younger, I used to think that I had some disorder, because it felt like I was constantly at war with myself. And I realize that there are people out there for whom that never goes away, who actually do have clinical disorders and imbalances of brain chemistry, and my struggle will never compare to theirs, but reaching this point... a point where it feels like I have what I need about myself figured out... I feel like one of those mythical heroes who misses the battle so much that he creates an enemy just to have the excuse to go hunting again.

I guess I just have to remind myself that, in lieu of catastrophe, I can stand down.

The crisis is over.

Shut down the watchtowers, boys.

...

But I don't think I will ever be able to do that.

It's Been Too Long, And I'm Tired

It's been 6 months since I posted a blog.

Really, it's been 6 months since I've written anything larger than a classroom activity.

What to say? After the walkout, I graduated. I tried like hell just to get through the summer, which mostly involved trying desperately to ration out the little money we had saved while trying to find a job that would allow us to eat, even though I technically already had a job in the fall.

Damn, this last summer sucked.

My kids are growing, like weeds. Every day is a new struggle. I've thought, in small moments throughout the day, about writing a blog about one of the momentous days here at my new school: the first day, the first month, the first quarter. The first time I gave detention. The first time I saw a student learning what I taught them.

I don't really know why I chose this insane profession. I mean, my entire job basically consists of sitting in 5 separate rooms (or even 6 if I have to cover for another teacher) and convincing a bunch of children that what I have to say is important and that they should pay attention. Granted, I don't lecture a lot, so that cuts down on the frustration, and the workload, but I feel simultaneously like a parent, a preacher, and a circus conductor.

It's a life. I think I love it, most days.

I'm putting grad school on hold. I'm not ready for it yet. River says to stay somewhere for a while, and I've been mulling that over constantly for the last few days. I haven't stayed in one particular place or mind-setting since I was 16 years old. I have been, more or less, on the go for my entire adult life, constantly looking at the next thing, searching for the bigger opportunity.

On the plus side, being a travelling teacher (yeah, my school doesn't have enough room for me this year) has allowed me to walk a lot, so I feel better than I have in years, even on the nights when I eat too much.

I'm happy.

I'm not over-the-moon, young love, every breath is a miracle happy. I desperately want to see my kids more, I have problems at work. The small, insignificant amount of bugs in my house, which is (everyone assures me) perfectly natural to have in a house in Oklahoma, keeps me up at night. The corners of my brain feel like an attic which haven't been cleaned in years because the highways and common routes are constantly in motion. But overall, every night I go to bed and am easily able to sleep because I'm doing what I love, surrounded by people I love, and trying to take it easy.

But there's still an emptiness, made up of the things I haven't achieved that I want to. I hope my children never know what it's like to regret wasting time, but my brain says that everyone knows what that's like, even if my heart doesn't. I want to write. More broadly, I want to create. Hank and John Green have been massive inspirations to me in the last year, and this video says almost exactly what I feel on the subject of my writing, except that I haven't done what Hank has done. I have created very little. A few scattered poems, a handful of blog posts... The most I've ever written in one go is, what 50 pages, with sustained, constant effort?

It doesn't come naturally to me to think about my creation as something I need to make time for. I am constantly imagining far off lands, interesting and thrilling scenarios, the what-ifs and whys that would make great plots or scenes. I love fiction, and I read more of it than I should, but lately (and by lately I mean the past 5 years or so) I find myself with the taste of sand in my mouth when I go to read something new, because there's a tiny voice in the back of my head saying why haven't you done this yet?

Except lately it's more like
Why haven't you done this yet?!
But by the end of the day, after making it home, My Brain and My Actions become separated, disjointed. I know I should be staying up till odd hours, ignoring everything and burying myself in the craft. But...

It's just so much damn work, on top of everything else I'm doing.

I don't know.

Time to move on to the next activity. More on this later?

The state of the state I'm in.

Both mentally and physically.

It's been a long week. Not the least of which is because I am progressively having less and less energy, because the closer I get to my doctor's visit, the more I dread it.

That, plus the whole "protest because state legislators suck" thing.

I briefly considered running for office. River is (rightly) against it, plus I need to focus on my career, not to mention grad school. I should really think about things before I post them on Facebook.

What else, what else...

Writing eases all the tension out of me. I really need to work on my damn novel. Maybe I'll go there after this.

Yeah. A lot is complicated right now. And I really can't blame anyone but myself. I tend to complicate things. But that's what life is all about.

There Will Be A Huge Blog...

Tomorrow.

Nail Biting

I hope the district Wi-Fi works tomorrow.

Busy Brain, Still Body

Installed the blogger app on my phone. This will be easier for the daily posts, when I have mostly just random thoughts.

I know you care, devoted audience. *wink*

When I get super stressed I tend to go still. Don't snakes or some other reptiles do this before they strike their prey? For me, being still helps me think. Imagine one of those stock tickers running at about 50 times its normal speed.

Then imagine there are 20 of those, and you're trying to read everything at the same time.

I imagine most people are like that though.

I have a job interview tomorrow. I'm actually really excited, but I never know what to say, and I always worry I will end up oversharing or overstating my goals.

Okay, random not stressful fact: there's a character in Star Wars IV: A New Hope that is standing in the cantina as Luke and Ben come down into it. He's a humanoid, but he has these weird puffy cheeks. That guy had a short story written about him in Tales from the Mos Eisley Cantina, back when Legends was Expanded Universe, and he is from a species that eats the "soup" of other creatures, which is their brain matter, by extending two probosci from its cheeks.

What is interesting about this is that the writer made it a point to talk about how the "soup" can get spoiled based on the different kinds of emotions the being is feeling near the time of death.

Funny to think that the computer that runs our bodies could be so temperamental.

Jumanji!

River and I had a good date night tonight. I highly recommend Jumanji, for both people with kids and without. It's a cliche comedy flick, but with a hilarious cast, funny references, and some good snippets of message throughout. The end had me tearing up!

Memes

Or, "On The Efficacy of Communicating Via Pictorial Representations of Our Emotions."

Hey all.

You probably have not read this blog. If you have, welcome back. If you have not, you probably are either a) a Facebook friend, b) a Twitter follower, or c) someone who stumbled over this randomly, and are now confused as to why you are reading some dude rambling on about things.

If it's any of those, the real quick rundown about me is: veteran, father, husband, teacher, guy who rants about things. See, wasn't that easy?

I find it easier to express myself like this:

(Even that's not really true, though, because I cropped the image. But hey, now you know what I look like! I'm the dude with the beard, if it isn't obvious, and that pretty lady next to me is my wife, who you will henceforth know as River. It's a long story.)

Anyway, what got me thinking about this was, when I posted about reinvigorating this blog (for a variety of reasons that even I am not really clear on/haven't figured out yet) on Facebook, thinking about deeply insightful, meaningful things, I got this:


via GIPHY

And this:


via GIPHY

Got this too:


via GIPHY

Even got this:


via GIPHY

At first, I won't lie, I was irritated. If you know me, you know why: I take myself way too seriously. Even though I'm pretty sure I've won some internet meme wars in the past. But this is the restart of my blog. Here's how I saw it going in my head:


via GIPHY

Then these images got me thinking about some really serious stuff (probably because I've been listening to this lately, which by the way I highly recommend: https://twitter.com/anthroreviewed?lang=en) like how, for most of human history, we have this weird dichotomy where people express themselves mainly through visual means, yet it was only "civilized" nations that wrote things down. It got me thinking about letters that colonists and frontiersman wrote home to their families, how they had to spend sentences describing the land and how they got sick from food poisoning and how hard it was to travel, and nowadays I can send a cat GIF to River, and she knows exactly how I'm feeling and in what context and what that means for how the night is going to go.

My point here, as I ramble on (and as I have struggled to figure out how to embed GIFs, which is a lot easier than I assumed it would be) is that we are so saturated with images, yet for some reason people like me (or maybe, really, just me) value the written word. When I posted about ideas for restarting this thing, I was expecting:

"Talk about the Trump presidency!"

"Describe 50 things you did today!"

"Discuss your philosophy about how the world should be xyz way!"

But that's pompous of me to assume, because in the end my friends posting memes is exactly what I needed, because as always they keep me grounded when my head is in the clouds.

So, I'm back. I'm going to write something every day. It might not be meaningful or insightful. It might just be posting a GIF. But my goal right now is to at least jot down some thoughts every day. I want to be an author (in case you didn't know) but I also have a lot of opinions and ideas and just plain rants. If you want to read it, fine. Great. It's not really for you, if you're actually someone reading this. It's really about using my voice, putting things down to be heard, but I will write as though I have an audience, because I think even a man shouting into the black emptiness of night should think about courtesy.

Speaking of courtesy, here are some images that show a being who has no sense of that word (oh yeah, I have two kids. They will most likely feature pretty prominently in this blog).








See you tomorrow.

Day 13

C:\

With a small beep, a command prompt appeared on the laptop screen, followed by a long line of mysterious code, strings and combinations of random digits and numbers. The code flew down the monitor as if blown by wind, expanding and extending for almost a full minute. Then, as quickly as it had come, it disappeared, leaving the screen pitch black. With another small beep, the monitor went out.

Then, with an ear-splitting roar, the floor of the apartment opened in fire and smoke.

Jordan Longfellow jolted upright and jumped out of his futon. He staggered for a moment, and very nearly fell into the gaping hole in his third story floor. In a daze, still caught in his dreams from a moment ago, he inched around the bedframe, toes burning, until he reached his closet door. He threw it open and searched the shelves frantically, hands grasping in the dark until they hit a small rubber Tuppermaid. He yanked it open and pulled out a military grade gas mask and a thick, ugly gray coverall. He pulled them on, zipped the fire suit up and checked the breathers.

The panic struck him then, as his adrenaline finally began to press through his exhaustion. How had they found him, here, in one of his sanctuaries? The apartment was barely bigger than a closet, but somehow they had managed to break through.

He glanced quickly across the gaping, flaming maw. His laptop. He eyed the gap, then took a deep, filtered breath. With a few short steps and an enormous effort, he leaped over the gap to the other side.

A piece of concrete buckled, cracked.

Jordan threw himself forward.

His hands touched the cool metal of his computer, and he grasped it to his chest as he fell backward. There was no stopping it.

He cried out in pain as the back of his head collided with the arm of the loveseat in the lower apartment. For a moment, Jordan thought his neck might have broken. He lay there, weary to his bones, breathing through the filters of his mask, staring up through the black, flaming hole.

A shatter of glass.

A small pop.

Jordan’s eyes flew to the window, then he flung himself over the back end of the couch. He fell to the floor, but it didn’t feel right. Too lumpy and disfigured. He looked down, and had to stifle vomit in his throat.

The corpses had obviously been dead for a few hours. The man’s eyes bulged, and the woman’s skin was beginning to turn a horrible shade of blue. Jordan rolled quickly off the man and instinctively checked for a pulse, then withdrew his hand just as quickly. It was obviously part of their plan.

He had to get out of there, had to find some way out and into the darkness. Well, he thought bitterly, at least I only have two floors to go.

Day 12

What have you stolen?

I had no choice, you understand. It had to be done.

Let me explain it to you slowly, so it makes more sense, because any misbegotten facts will make you assume the worst of me, and you have to understand. I’m not a bad person, just a normal guy with, shall we say, extraordinary expectations. Maybe a little on the mischievous side, but, as the common man would say “I ain’t e’er done nuthin sides look out for me own.” At least, I assume that’s what they would say, in years past.

I’ll have to start at the beginning, so you have a clear picture. The family I was born into, well, maybe you will see that I didn’t really have a choice. Maybe you will see, because of my mother’s connections and my father’s great acts in the last great battle of the last major war, that I never could have been anything but great.

My idea of greatness though, I say ‘idea’ but really it was my realization, is nothing like my parents. When I was at the glorious ballroom parties of New York and London at the young age of 5, I realized I could never be great like my parents. My mother, tall and willowy, with splendid locks of russet colored hair and dark, seductive eyes, enraptured every man in the room. My father, battle-scarred and limping on one good leg, held a presence of command that no other man could equal. Even his superiors, for he was only a lowly officer in the war, straightened their backs at the sight of him.

Don’t you see, now? How could I hope to be the equal of the woman desired by all, the man equal to none? At the age of five, I realized my own path lay on a forked road, away from the starlit walkway my parents trod with no trouble at all. It was to them that glory and honor would go. It was to them that people would bend down and revere.

That night, at one of those parties I so loved, for I did love them, was when I began to forge my own path. As the admirers gazed hungrily upon my parents, as I, with my clear perception, saw them glow in the light of candles and chandeliers, my hand stole out into a gentleman’s pocket. I remember the pounding of my small heart, not realizing what I was doing until the digits were nearly to the opening of his suit paints. Sweat beaded upon my upper lip, and I felt such a rush of greatness that, with a quick movement, I slipped my hand in, grasped the brown leather wallet, and then held it behind my back.

It was at that moment my father, bushy eyebrows relaxed, turned toward me, and smiled.

Don’t you see that it was a sign? My father, he approved of my greatness. He knew I had not his command of words, nor my mother’s intellect. But this, this knowledge and skill I possessed, he approved. He must have seen me take the wallet.

That night, as he climbed behind the wheel, he said only ‘I love you, son.” As he gazed knowingly into the rearview mirror, the truck slammed into us, and it was in that clear moment, as my head snapped, that I knew that he would approve of the seed growing inside of me.

I never had his verbal approval, of course. The crash had maimed him severely, adding to injuries he had sustained in the war. I remember, at the funeral, that my mother had said she knew his time would always be short since that dreadful last battle, and I remember watching a little of her greatness die as she said goodbye to my father. The willow branch no longer waved, but stayed bent and hunched, and the fire had left my mother’s eyes.

Don’t you realize, now, why I had no choice? It was not for me that I pursued greatness. It was not for my own sake, but for my mother’s and father’s, and so what if I loved it, too? Should a man not love that at which he excels? I knew my skills, and I knew that only my greatness, though of a darker and harder type than my parent’s, would bring back the glory my family deserved.

It was several years until I had a chance to improve upon my skills. With my father gone, his pension alone sustained us, for though my mother had a strong mind and beautiful features, she cared too much for my own education and safety to seek employment. We moved out of the great apartment in Manhattan to a small, simple house in Brooklyn, the yard perpetually brown even at the height of spring.

My mother was vain, though, and she still kept her sparkling dresses and jewels, and told no one of the move. She still dragged me to the wonderful ballroom parties, though I knew that people now instead looked upon us with pity, not with the wonder and awe due to our name. It was here that I would take from the gentleman and ladies. Within months of my father’s death, I became an expert at picking pockets, of taking what was due my family and I from those who, I suspected and later confirmed, profited from my father’s death. I had overheard something once, someone asking my mother for “consideration” and from the shocked but resolute expression on her face, I knew the money I drew out of a ladies’ purse that night really belonged to us.

Finally, I remember, after a particularly brutal winter, when my mother began to cough even after the snow had melted, her attention began to wane. I knew that my mother knew of my greatness at my craft. She had glanced at me, at parties, at the supermarket, with a small smile and an incongruous line between her eyebrows, as I took small trinkets, small tokens, and things which helped us survive. She never asked where I got the money to buy candy or toys or, my real passion, books. She simply kissed my forehead, and told me, in a somber voice, “Be careful.” But after that brutal winter, she seemed to turn inward.

The Valentines Ball, which was held in the Waldorf Astoria, we did not attend that year. Nor St. Patricks at the Ritz-Carlton.

It was on those two occasions, when my mother shut herself in her room with her hot water bottle, I crept out into the night. On the first, I boosted a car. It was not the first time I had driven, but it was the first time I had not returned my prize to its rightful owner. I only remember a haze of glorious greatness, ending in a sharp crash and my feet pounding as I ran from police sirens.

The next time I had reason to leave, St. Patricks, I finally made the real commitment required of my craft. At only 7 years old, I broke into my first apartment. The feeling was spectacular, I doubt you would understand. I don’t mean that rudely, you know, but seriously. It is something one such as yourself can’t understand. Seeing the gleaming possessions of those mongrels, those wretches who were out drinking their minds away. I knew, at that moment, that they belonged to me. I, who had the presence of mind to do what others would not. Can you not see the greatness within my reasoning?

I see you’re growing bored, but bear with me a moment longer. It took me another three years, and several close scrapes, to hone my craft. I became an expert at locks, mechanisms, and all things secure. I began to watch people as I doubt they had ever been seen, as I doubt even I understood at the time, and saw how they protected themselves, and how to exploit those measures. Every night I broke through the barriers of at least one home, but I did not confine myself to high-rises. From the lowest beggar to the richest politician, I prowled each of their homes, looking for things to plunder. Often, I took nothing, but simply saw, as no one but the very keenest see, how people live.

My mother passed away. I had months to reconcile myself to the fact, and though I roamed the streets nightly, my mind was often with her, back in our scrubby little Brooklyn house. It seems people think sometimes that those who pursue greatness of the kind I have are full of only thoughts of themselves, but that isn’t how I am. Everything I did, I did for her, I did it so one day people would know our names and fear us like they did when my father was alive.

I really think she would have appreciated it.

We laid her to rest next to my father, in Cypress Hills, where so many souls have been laid to rest. I remember crying at her funeral, crying like I had not cried at my father’s, and resolving then to become what I am today.

After that, I drifted. My feet carried me anywhere they could, and my wallet was never lacking with funds. It was with a real purpose, now, that I practiced the art of the night. I was determined to make the name Halgill great again, make it something more than just the name scribbled on two headstones. I took great things, as you know, and always left my signature black handkerchief emblazoned with the family crest. You know all this, of course, but don’t you see now why it was necessary? Don’t you see that it was not compulsion that drove me?

Don’t you see the great purpose?

That’s why I stole it, Sergeant Hastings. That’s why I stole the classified laptop. Who would suspect a thief here, in the middle of the Pentagon?

Don’t you see why it had to be done?

Day 11

Day 11

The end.
Warm crimson droplets fell from his hand as he stared out at the sandy landscape, dust billowing up around the scrub brushes and destroyed vehicles in small puffs. He couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from.
At this point he didn’t care.
After a minute, of searching around him, he found his helmet. Thankfully, the flames hadn't burned off the reflective red cross on the front. He plopped the bucket onto his head with a lopsided grin.
Slowly, Merciville got to his feet. On the ground, only five feet in front of him, lay Sergeant Olden. Olden’s face has been torn clean off, it looked like by a piece of sheet metal blasted from one of the MATVs. His leg, combat boots always laced so tightly, twitched in convulsions, then finally lay still. Merciville couldn’t do a damn thing for him, but he knelt down next to the sergeant anyway, the effort bringing a fresh pain to the pit of his stomach. He gripped Olden’s hand, shouted that he would get help.
The ringing still had not left his ears.
Staggering back to his feet, Merciville wound through smoldering pieces of slag, craters in the sound, and, he numbly saw, large puddles of a terrifying mixture of fluids, most of which were tinged crimson. About 20 yards from Olden lay Gruber, sitting up, clutching his neck with his left hand.
His right hand was missing.
Gruber balanced a radio mike in the crook of his shoulder, shouting for reinforcements.
As he half walked, half stumbled toward Gruber, Merciville’s ears suddenly popped. He widened his jaw in a silent yawn, and distantly felt a creeping sensation in the region of his feet at the soft whiz and pop of more rounds striking the ground.
He was glad the Taliban weren’t great shots.
At last, he reached Gruber and, ignoring the lieutenant’s protests, bandaged his hand. It was awkward, and took much longer than normal, but he finally got him taken care of. Out of the corner he saw the severed hand on top of a flaming box of MREs.
He didn’t mention this to the lieutenant.
The next time he stood, the pain knocked him back to the ground, and Merciville inhaled a mouth full of moon sand. Coughing, he felt Gruber grab him and drag him into a sitting position. Gruber told him not to move, ordered him not to tend to anyone else.
He had never disobeyed an order.
That didn’t matter anymore, though, he thought.
In about five minutes, nothing would.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet.

Day 10

Word vomit.

Dark thought dark cloud, what is there to see tonight, you look so sweet in pale moonlight, I never would have guessed you were the Devil in sheep’s clothing, more like a wolf, a spawn of unholy madness, a tower of terror in the digital age, all messed up and no place to fall down on your face, never thought you would have seen the light now you’re just a pretty girl all a dither in this ancient world of wonder, thought you might seek out the Devil even though you’re a pretty one yourself, had you at hello did I, had you when I said goodbye, pretty little thing who waits to bite your face in the night, waits to slit your pocket with a watch and wallet, waits to stab you in the back with all the trappings of a wonderful wedding, with what you cannot explain, no, it’s just an early summer day and here you are, gleaming in the sunlight with all your teeth shining brightly and the words lost on you as you see me rise up out of the ashes, what have you done little woman, what is it you find, a monster creeping behind you with great black unfurling wings, will he eat you, oh, maybe he’s the Devil you ran from, maybe he is me but you thought you would escape, now you run, now you lie, now you scream for mercy but it is the blood on your hands, this is your penance my sweet, nothing you know will save you, oh, maybe now you have a chip with which to bargain. 

Day 9

Day 9

Gloves.

Scotty took the thick leather gloves off and shook the dirt from them, then wiped the red dust from his forehead with the back of his sweaty hand and leaned on his shovel. His brown eyes peered up at the sun, and he sighed a little as he saw how high it was in the sky. The scent of concrete, wet and earthy, was heavy on the construction site, and the rattle of trucks, cars, and the raucous jackhammer were all a blur of noise. Scotty breathed deeply through his nose, the musty smell of his dust mask both annoying and comforting.

“Hey, Longfellow, get back to work!” shouted the foreman from the second floor of the house frame. He said it with a grin, though. Foreman Frank had been a longtime family friend of the Longfellows, and Scotty owed this job to him.

“Yessir, Mister Foreman!” Scotty cried jovially, with far too much gusto, and began attacking the dirt frantically where he was digging the trench line. Foreman Frank barked a laugh, shook his head, and went back to talking on his cell.

Scotty continued digging, though at a much steadier pace, all the way from the side of the house, where the kitchen would eventually be, down to the street, where they would connect the plumbing lines with the city water lines. It was not a hard trench to dig, only 2 feet wide by 2 feet deep, but it took Scotty the better part of an hour to complete it. Afterward, he stuck the shovel back into its slot on the truck, smacked his gloves free of dust again, and joined the crew moving 2x4s from the delivery trailer to the house. It was slow work, and none of the other workers were in any particular rush. They were, after all, paid by the hour.

“Hey, Scotty,” said Oscar, a burly man in his 30’s with long, lank hair and shoulders like hubcaps, “You wanna take it a little slower.” He looked slightly annoyed that Scotty was on his third trip with the wood, while the rest of them were coming back from their first,

“The faster you go, the faster it goes!” said Scotty, cheerfully, repeating the old adage his dad had told him since he was young. Scotty didn’t love the work, but there were worse jobs, and at the age of 17 he had had a few of them already. Just last month he had been cleaning sewage trucks at the end of the day. Not something he would be keen to get back to, and now that he worked here he probably wouldn’t need to be frying burgers and asking snotty people in SUVs if they wanted extra Fry Sauce at Freddy’s either. As he went back for his fourth and final load of wood, because there was no more on the trailer, he felt a sudden burst of energy.

Tonight, he thought.

The work went slowly. He helped move the 2x4s and some of the bigger beams into place as more experienced men measured, cut, planed and finally hammered them into place. The dull yellowish frame of the house had been standing for days, and they were finally beginning the inside rooms. Scotty helped mostly with the ground floor, though Foreman Frank called him up to the second floor several times to carry heavy bags of tools and hardware down from the second and third floors. The house, when it was finished, would be a monster. 7 bedrooms, 3 full baths and 2 powder rooms, with living rooms on every floor, and kitchenettes on both second and third. It had already been bought by a cattle rancher, who had apparently got a big contract with Wally-World.

Then, as Scotty was holding the last board for the doorway to the 4 car garage in place for Gilbert to nail into place, he heard Frank yell, “Wrap it up, guys!”

Scotty’s pulse quickened. Once the beam was in place, he jogged around, making sure he had everything he had left at the site, including the empty Gatorade bottle and the snack wrappers he had stuffed in one of the work buckets. With a spring in his step, he hopped into the back of Oscar’s truck, and within minutes the wind was whipping his long red hair around, blowing the dust off his bright yellow shirt.

He watched the Oklahoma highway blow past as Oscar hurtled down I-44, then onto I-40, out west toward the edges of Oklahoma City. Scotty gazed fixedly at the clouds, shimmering with different colors, not a thought or worry in his mind as he got closer to home.

“Allright, kid,” said Oscar gruffly. He had already lit a cigarette and looked ready for a cold brew and a shower. “You take care, ya hear?” He eyed Scotty doubtfully, as though assuming the Longfellow kid did nothing but cause trouble in his off hours.

“Will do, Oscar,” said Scotty, slapped the side of the truck. He quickly ran down the long gravel drive toward the small, cheaply built stilt house. The front screen door was tattered from the recent storms. He would have to remember to fix that this weekend.

“Mom!” shouted Scotty, blasting through the door and towards his small room, “I’m going out!”

“You just got home!” she yelled back at him, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on her gray, stained apron. “I made lasagna, you stay for dinner, then you can go out.”

Scotty groaned loudly, but knew there was no arguing. Maddie Longfellow worked long hours as a nurse at Integris Baptist Hospital, and she rarely had time to cook. When she did, her sons did not leave leftovers.

Scotty leapt into the shower, rinsed himself while humming along to the sound of Ozzy Osbourne on his shower radio. With a rush of excitement, knowing he was an hour or so until freedom, he toweled and dressed. His leather gloves, worn in the palms from handling so many different types of tools, lay forgotten on the floor, at least until tomorrow. Scotty slid on his nicest pair of jeans, drew a clean t-shirt down his chest, and, after lacing up his comfortable Vans, stuck a pair of black mesh athletic gloves into his back pocket.

The lasagna was delicious, but Jerry and Bill both talked his ear off about their days at school. Jerry, the youngest, had just started middle school, while Bill was finishing up high school. Bill asked longingly about Scotty’s job. Scotty had worked hard and graduated early, and he was saving up every cent over the next year to go to an out of state trade school, where he would learn to work with mechanical lathes and, hopefully, be able to transfer to a full time university with a mechanical engineering program with the credits. Bill wanted to follow suit, and hung on Scotty’s every word about what to do.

Finally, after pecking his mom on the cheek and yelling that he would be back later, Scotty ran to the garage.

He threw the door open and stared.

There she was.

His very own 1968 Road Runner. This was a real car, not like the fiberglass crap on the road these days. 425 horsepower, with a 426-cubic-inch Hemi V8, she gleamed in the dying sunlight, gloss cherry red with black racing stripes. Since the age of 10 he had been restoring this car with his dad, and it was only in the last few months that he had been able to drive it, as he finally had his license. He remembered with clarity the day they had stumbled across the chassis in a junkyard. It was his 9th birthday, and he had told his dad he wanted a truck. Stanley Longfellow, an engineer with an oil firm out of Oklahoma City, told his son that no boy should have a truck. They didn’t have anything to haul.

“Pick a car instead, son,” he had said, and it was at that moment Scotty had seen the rusted but intact blocky front of the Road Runner. It had cost them $1300, which Stan had said was a steal.

Scotty let out a war-whoop, and ran toward the car, sliding across the hood Dukes of Hazzard style. He shot through the window and slammed the ignition forward, revving the powerful engine. Before he shifted into gear, he slowly and carefully pulled on his gloves with glee. He was going to race tonight, and nothing could stop him.

Hours later, when the fiery wreckage was being sorted through by Oklahoma Highway Patrol and Maddie Longfellow, having buried her husband from stage 4 liver cancer only months before, was sobbing on the side of I-40, the fingers in the gloves, which had not quite burned through, still held the leather steering wheel.

Day 8

In need of prompt. 
Overstuffed, I sit on the couch, slowly letting the adrenaline drain from my body from the long, desperate day of toil. The potatoes have been cooked, the bills nearly paid. I place the headphones into my tired ears, only to take them out. Check on the kids. Pay the mortgage. Hear what is being said. This is the time I should be creating my novels, should be telling a story that would make an old man weep and a young girl sing with joy, but the distractions are not preventing the creation of beauty. It is within me where the blockage lies, from my soul, which does not possess any beauty in this moment. 
The lyrics scream into my ears, and suddenly, is that something? Is there an idea for me to pen, something original to develop? No, it is an old idea, an old song, one already sung by bards, and by teenagers who do not know a note from a tone. 
There are many things in my mind, but none of them are words. The words are what I desperately need, the words drive me from one moment to the next, a dying man across a barren desert in search of the words. 
My head aches.
There are many things in my mind. Will the weekend be long or short? How did I ever survive without rest, in the days I was young, quick and full of promise? I am not without promise now, but I feel the quickness has left my limbs, like a battery slowly drains throughout the long day. I become more quickly charged these days, sometimes quick to anger, but more often everything simply seems clearer. It is true what they say, then, that as the body slows, the mind does not necessarily. It is a paradox, but unimportant. I leave it on the glowing path I walk in my mind, lay it gently on the floor and move down the line. 
There are many things in my mind. The fear is there, but that lies closer to my chest, closer to the organ which, dare I think it, may stop at any time. Will it burst? Will it snap? I cannot not think about it, there must be some thought pouring into it or it will cease beating on its own. There are solutions to that particular problem, but they draw back to the quickness again, that quickness I desperately need these days. My anger flares, and I tell myself this too will change.
But then I feel the desire of ice cream, and that anger too lays upon the bright golden road of my thoughts. 
There are many things on my mind. Mostly, the thoughts bite, just like the pain in my head and back. It is easy for them to come and go, flitting in and out like canaries. Or are they robins or, oh what is that other bird. I feel angry when I force the words.
Sparrow.
There are many things on my mind. The many tasks on my to do list overshadow my joy of hearing each individual key click on my keyboard, but if there were ever a hypnosis strong enough to work on my mind, it is the typing of words steadily upon a keyboard. I wonder if Stephen King writes like this, fingers flying back and forth.
Probably. He probably knows all the words, sees them brightly in his mind, miles before he writes them. For me, it is as though accord connects to a dark room, from where the words fly willy-nilly, without rhyme, reason or rhythm. I can only see two steps in advance, so much in the moment does my tactical mind live; strategies are for action, for doing. In that, I can see leagues along. I can plan where to go, what to say, what moves to take, unless I am sitting still. 
They have probably invented a way to type while walking. But, there again, I lack the quickness.
There are many things on my mind tonight. As I look around my wonderful living room, surrounded by my wonderful family, a small part of me questions why they cannot come to the forefront and spill onto the page like oil onto the ground. Do I lack the required skill? The knowledge?
Am I bereft of story?
Am I just mediocre, just like Brian said then?
Quickly, for within my mind I have quickness now, I examine my life. 
I find no answers, negative or positive. The logic says the slight dehydration, the overwork, the toil of my body to provide for my family and to make my life better are what keeps the words from the page.
The heart says it is because I have yet to slay giants, to do something really extraordinary. 
The feet say it is because there is too much to say, too much I have already done, what needs more to be said?

Day 7

Lantern.

The yellow light bathed everything in an eerie light, making Giles feel as though he were in a surrealist’s painting. Obwall snored too loudly and Dunstill’s mouth hung slightly open as his head rolled slowly from one shoulder to the other. The swaying motion of the airplane had lulled most of the grime-covered men to sleep, but Giles stayed awake. He never could sleep in a vehicle. It always made him feel uneasy, his body moving faster than it was supposed to. Giles supposed it went back to blood, as his family were all dirt farmers from the Deep South, and had only purchased a car when Eisenhower built the freeways. The 1957 Chevy Bel Air was still the family car, a faded baby blue with spots of rust and a rebuilt engine so old it had parts from four different manufacturers. Giles could remember the feel of the steering wheel the first time-

‘Hey Joe,” said a sleepy voice to his right. “You mind killing the light?” Sergeant Creeg had fallen back asleep before Giles had a chance to answer, but he dimmed the light of his Coleman lantern all the same. The shadows lengthened, casting odd shapes on the steel floor and padded walls of the compartment of the C-17. Giles was just glad it was roomy enough for them all. He laid Military Strategy and Tactics: A Soldier’s Guide on top of his ruck, gripped the belts of his harness, pushed his boots out in front of him, and yawned widely, blinking the sleep from his eyes. All the other soldiers were racked out.

That’s odd, thought Giles. He could have sworn Lucas and Boles were awake just moments ago, chatting quietly about the mission. He looked at Boles. The red haired bodybuilder took up almost two seats by himself, but Giles had never seen him so relaxed, even clocked out in a bunk. Lucas, the skinny, dark haired scout of their motley crew was likewise normally tense, and had an odd habit of waking up every few minutes at night, ever since his previous platoon had been mortared for two days while taking an enemy compound. Now, though, he was splayed in his seat, limbs pointing at odd angles.

Giles looked at everyone else. Then he realized that their faces were clear, in sharp relief.

He looked at his lantern.

The little Coleman bulb was growing brighter. The dial was still, but the bulb burned with more and more force. Giles had to turn away.

A stab of fear ran down his throat.

The windows were lit from the outside. They were far up in the mountains, and the only thing they should see were clouds and stars, but he could see pale light taking up the entirety of each ovular window. Giles stared dumbstruck for a moment, his heart deep in his stomach. Was it an enemy plane? Were they going to be shot down? He glanced down the compartment toward the steps leading to the cockpit. He sat on the side of the plane, on the last row at the front, but at the right edge of the airship, blocked from seeing the flight deck. Were the damn pilots going to tell them what the hell was going on? He strained his ears.

And heard nothing.

There was no hum of engines.

There were no small gurgles of air escaping from the cabin air system.

Giles eyes bulged. With a massive effort, because it suddenly seemed that his entire body was filled with lead, he grasped at his buckles. His fingers felt like frozen sausages, stiff and lifeless, even though he could detect no change in cabin temperature. The muscles of his forearms burned from even this small effort, but he was able to unbuckle his harness. He pushed his body forward with another monumental effort of will, and his face hit the gritty slip-resistant strips.

Above him he heard a small pop.

The bulb on the lantern had exploded in its case.

Giles looked up.

With a terror he could not explain, he saw the filaments glowing even brighter, beginning to burn holes in the plastic case.

Giles took a shallow, shuddering breath. Then, suddenly, he felt a deep anger in his chest. The rational part of his brain had no idea what was happening, but his instincts told him his life was in great danger. He wasn’t going to die, cowering on the floor.

Slowly, he pushed himself upward, then onto his feet. He felt no vertigo, just the heavy sense of his own muscles, as though great weights had been attached to every joint of his body, pulling him down. He put one foot in front of the other, and began to stagger toward the cockpit steps. The faces of the men stood out like sentinels, as though each step were miles and his journey endless. The pale light from the windows had not faded, but had taken on a different hue, somehow less benign, more sinister. He leaned his right hand on the wall, struggling where gaps lead to storage compartments.

Finally, after what must have been hours, he reached the cockpit steps. He let out a small grunt of success.

Then something else grunted.

And clicked.

And, for some reason, let out a small squeal.

There were sounds above him, small clatters and creaks, as something moved on the flight deck.

It was not footsteps.

Giles glanced behind him. In the rear of the cabin, his lantern had finally burned itself beyond recognition. However, he noticed for the first time other lights, which had come to life. Battery lights from headlamps. Small pocket flashlights. Even a laptop screen, a blank white rectangle in the darkness. Like the lantern, they were all burning brightly, casting their light forward. He glanced upward, trying to see the flight deck.

A long, thick cylindrical appendage, like a tentacle but larger than any sea creature had ever possessed, drooped over the edge of the flight deck, illuminated by the lights.

His heart felt ready to leap out of his mouth.

Tears began streaming down his face, an unknown horror gripping his chest.

“Giles,” barked Sergeant Creeg, “Wake up, boy, the damn plane’s getting ready to land and you’re dreaming about the fucking prom queen. Christ on a cracker.”

Day 6

Characters upset with the author.

Rocking back and forth in the weathered chair, I surveyed the small rolling hills outside my cabin as the sun sank below the horizon. The mosquitoes buzzed merrily, looking for their evening meal. I was glad I had already had mine. My lips wrapped around the stogie in my mouth, but I didn’t light it. The doctors warned me that it would cut an end to my already shortened days.

As the rays of the evening sun glanced off the small, brackish pond I kept my koi in, I wondered idly, but without much worry, how many more sunsets I would see.

A soundless explosion in my ears.

My hands flew to my chest.

An enormous weight crushed me, driving me toward the ground. Breaths came in short gasps.

Suddenly, I was back in the hallway of Stonemore High, red lockers and yellow tile floors reflecting fluorescent lights at odd angles. And next to locker 125…

“Otto?” I cried, uncomprehending. It was impossible, but there he was, tall and thin, arms crossed with a sarcastic smirk playing around his lips. He wore a tattered black suit and a red velvet bow-tie, and his complexion accentuated his strong chin and broad cheekbones. Otto stared at me and his smirk widened.

I glanced down at myself.

The hands were smooth and strong, free of knotted veins and wrinkles. I was back in my favorite pair of faded blue jeans, below which were white high-tops. I straightened up and tweaked the seam of my worn leather jacket down off my hip. But that couldn’t be, because that jacket had burned down in the fire.

“Been too long, Ken,” said Otto in the soft, deep voice I had always heard so clearly, like a bell behind my eyes.

“Otto… I… how…” The words couldn’t seem to escape my throat. “How… how are you…here?” I finally choked out.

“Kenneth, I’m surprised. Don’t you remember?” Otto uncrossed his arms and pointed down the hallway, toward Mrs. Gilroy’s classroom. The oak door with the glass pane swung outward moments before the final bell rung, and a young girl in a blood-red sundress came quickly down the hallway, her face blotchy and wet from tears.

“Angela!” someone shouted, and a young boy followed.

A young boy in white high-tops, faded blue jeans and a worn leather jacket.

His pudgy face was contorted in worry. He looked down the hallway, looked right through me, but seemed to take no notice. He saw Angela turning a corner and jogged to catch up with her.

I looked back to Otto. He wasn’t next to the locker, but I saw his thin figure down the hall, turning the same corner. I ran to catch up.

“Otto,” I said, the words coming more easily than they had in years, “I don’t understand! What is going on?”

“You’ll see,” said Otto, a small chuckle in his voice, “I can’t believe you haven’t already.”

Down the hall, the kid had caught up with Angela. Their words were indistinct, but I could see Angela getting more and more agitated. As she brushed hair back around her ears, I felt a long-dead flutter in my stomach come to life.

Then, with a shock, it hit me.

“Son of a…”

Otto turned his face to me, his smile wide. Somehow, though, it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked down at me, searching my eyes.

“That’s when I first thought of her.”

“Selena,” Otto said softly, but the humor had left his face. Otto had always been capricious, and now he glared down at me and crossed his arms. “My Selena.”

I looked up at Otto. His eyes, large and dark, just as I had always imagined them, seemed to glisten slightly.

“Otto… It was… You were…” I said slowly, thinking quickly, but it was pointless.

“Expendable. A fantasy. Just a phantasm in the night.” Otto’s nostrils flared, and he snapped a sudden finger.

The school had vanished. We stood on top of a massive volcano, the glowing magma spitting flames occasionally, and a fierce wind tearing across the barren landscape. Small bits of scrub littered the uneven ground, and the sky was black as soot as a massive storm rolled in. Sulfur burned my lungs, and my pulse quickened, but I had no need to look around. I knew every detail of the landscape, having dreamed every inch almost every night for nearly 14 years. Otto stood next to me, looking across the open chasm at two stick-like figures. They moved gracefully, but the elegant movements were broken by sudden bursts of ugly posture, as though they were having some sort of seizure.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled. This was Mount Dunkall, the same landscape I had spent an entire weeks putting onto paper. I remembered the fitful nights of sleep, the moments I would wake with excitement, only to scribble a few scarce words onto paper and then heave myself back into bed.

“I’m glad you’re excited,” said Otto grimly. His arms were still crossed, but his posture, usually relaxed, was rigid like a statue.

“Otto, we don’t have to stay,” I said, and I suddenly noticed the difference in my voice. With a jolt, I looked down to see the old hands had come back, and the weariness had returned to my limbs. I missed my cane. “We shouldn’t-“

“How long did you know?” asked Otto. “Did you know from the beginning? Or did it come over time?” He stared at me. “Your memories are unclear, you see. Other things,” He said the words with disdain, “took precedence.”

I frowned, a deep resentment building up in my chest at his tone. “Like Angela? Like Charlie and Tiffany?” I paused. “Like Renee?” I said softly, and sniffed. Even now, I couldn’t even say her name without the pain returning.

Otto glowered down at me. “What makes you think they matter… any more… than her?” He pointed across the chasm, just a jet of fire loosed itself from the mass of magma and illuminated the far bank. I could see them clearly, Otto looking fierce, with a long sword in his hand, striking towards Vallin Von Vender, a gruesome figure clad in shining blue armor. Out of the darkness came a third figure, a striking woman in chain mail, who swung a massive mace toward Vender. The hulking form of Vender stumbled, but quickly regained his ground and began to swipe furiously at Otto and Selena with his massive battle-axe.

I remembered clearly how the scene would go. I closed my eyes and sighed. As much as he was in my head, I suddenly realized I could feel Otto’s emotions and memories, could see every line of dialogue I had composed, every detail I had given him. He had been one of my favorite characters to write, and was so real to me, that I understood his pain.

“But you aren’t real,” I blurted out angrily. “You all were in my head.”

“And that makes us expendable?!” Otto roared, grabbing me by the shoulders. His eyes gleamed with fury and sadness. “You toyed with us! You threw us against all sorts of evil… and for what? For entertainment!” He spat bitterly.

A sudden howl ripped through the air, and we both swung around to see a colossal mass of fur with glowing red eyes lumbering along the lip of the volcano. It was moving slowly toward Otto and I. The eyes were locked on us, and I knew the creature immediately. Varg, the deadly monster of Felgar Forest. I glanced at the three battling figures on the other bank. They showed no reaction.

A cold stab of fear hit me in the stomach. I knew this story. Varg did not belong here. Varg belonged to the Fallen series, and I hadn’t written that until well after Otto and Vender had this final showdown. Otto looked to me, and I could see he was more confused than scared.

Across the bank, Vender let out a roar of pain, and one of his arms spurted blood. He swung his axe slowly, and the other Otto stabbed him cleanly through the chest.

“No,” I said, the cold filling moving up my spine. “No, that’s not how it goes! She… she should have…”

The Otto next to me stared, then shook his head. “I don’t… understand…” he said slowly.

A light burst in the sky. Through the clouds, a small silver and green tube hurtled towards the ground. Inside, I could just glimpse a figure, bald and hook-nosed. Glandin Four.

“Otto!” I yelled, suddenly looking around. Otto had gone, and so had Selena and Vender. The wolf Varg was only yards away, and as the ship crashed into the earth, I felt the shock-wave push me back.

“Clear!”

“He’s unresponsive. Resuming CPR.”

“Clear!”

“Still nothing.”

“Clear!”