Come on! Hop in the Delorean, let’s go!

Whoooooooooooooooooooosh! pzt bzt pitsh bachowwwwwwrrrrmmmm

I decided it was time to finally sit down and tackle the problem a lot of us are facing. Debt. The cruel mistress and price of my greed for toys was piling up along with the anxiety of not knowing where I am at. So I figured it all out and figured out a reasonable payment plan to make it all go away. Every expense I have per month, what was left over, and what I had to live on was all planned out and calculated. So now I’m on the road to freedom.

Now, after a person figures out these things the last thing on their mind is spending money. However the hunger was setting in and I desperately needed some household items. So I turn out the pockets and the wallet to discover I’ve got $12 cash money, solid green backs, hard earned bones, mother effin’ doe ray mine. I look at my desk and scavenge the quarters from this weeks pocket change. I also open the junk drawer on my dresser looking for quarters; there were none, but I took a dime and two nickels just so opening the drawer was worth it. Tally before I left the house $13.70!

I decided to go to the only place I knew that could stretch money for days, Grocery Outlet. Trash bags took a solid chunk of the money at $6 bucks but I grabbed dinner and a loaf of bread anyway. The math in my head said I would be close but I should be alright. It isn’t like I don’t have any money in the bank but I wanted to see how far the cash I had would go. It was close! Way close!

So close I just had to say, “Thanks Universe!” You rock my world again!

The beauty of the memoirs is that I place no rules on them. Some of the text is just blind jibberish where I could not be bothered with corrections at that time. Essentially I have been able to capture a snap shot of my mind during some of the most important events in my life. Reading back I started to notice there was no pattern. It is as though each entry was written by a completely different person. If it wasn’t for the consistency and actual follow up to previous entries you would think it was some sort of anthology where every author just tore a page out of their own personal journals.

I’ve always been on the quest you see. The quest for complete self definition. Consistency in this pursuit is evident at the root of every action, relationship, conversation and intellectual pursuit I’ve ever undertaken. I will only do things in life where the reward for failure is equal to the reward of success. Chew on that carefully.

My memoirs tell me that I’m always changing. Five years is beyond habitual abuse or even addiction to change; it is now a part of who you are. I think there is only one thing to do and that is to embrace it. Be comfortable with who you are today and be prepared to meet the new you tomorrow. We are all suffering from the exact same mild case of personality alzheimers.

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The Adventures of Salty Steve: Trouble at the ole bunghole.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” Salty Steve cried in pain holding his eye during his shift on the night watch.

A bung had popped out of a barrel and shattered on impact. He looked on in panic as grog spilled out onto the deck and did the only thing he could. That night, the air dropped below freezing temperatures.

Morning.

A knock on Captain’s door.

“Captain! Steve stuck it in the grog sir!”

The wooden door creaks open.

“I reckon any time is right for grog. Steve’s put a cock-valve in it then?” the Captain asked.

“Nay sir, no valve.”

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Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 18 – Download PDF

Chapter 18: Remy in the evidence room with the lead pipe

The outside of the police station looked like a movie premier.  Flashing lights from squad cars and bright white lights mounted on news cameras gave the grungy building a red carpet quality.  Arthur drove his boat of a car right up the middle of the crowd.  Reporters and bystanders jumped out of the path of the headlights and roaring engine behind them.

“Get out of the way.  Come on.”  He honked the horn and waved his hand out the window.  The camera flashes were redirected in their direction as more people recognized the car and the Martian boys inside.

“Move it!” John screamed out the passenger window holding out his badge to the crowd.

“Detective Martian what is going on inside? Did the neglect of the department lead to one of your own dead?” A young blonde woman reporter in a short blue dress walked along side the car sticking a microphone in Arthur’s face.  He batted it away.

“No comment.  Tell your buddies to move it or I’m running them over.”  After a few moments the front tires of Arthur’s El Dorado caught the curb lifting the front end.

“We’re here,” John said.

John and Arthur got out of car and pushed their way to the entrance of the station.  A group of young cadets were standing outside the door keeping the gathering crowd at bay.

John patted one of the young men on the shoulder as they slipped into the doors.  “Good job boys.  No one else gets in until we come out.”

“Yes sir,” the youngest looking of the men said.

* * *

Remy sat unconscious and handcuffed to a chair in the middle of the lobby guarded by the boy cop.  The chief paced in his office talking on a cell phone to the director of the FBI.  The Feds decided it was time for them to come in and handle the situation.  Arthur and John sat on cheap plastic chairs in the small cramped office while the chief made his case to the director.

“I know this is a big fuck up but we can …” Blackburn’s stubby hand ran through his wispy gray comb over.  The short man paced back and forth in yesterday’s brown wrinkled suit still trying to rub the last remnants of sleep from his baggy eyes.  He no doubt had been roused from a deep whiskey induced slumber to come and deal with this.

“Yes sir I understand.”  Police chief Henry Blackburn mumbled into the phone.  The florescent lights embedded into the ceiling made his moistened forehead glimmer.  John and Arthur both sat with their arms folded waiting for the call to end.  John looked over at the profile of his brother for any sort of reaction.  There was none.  Arthur sat stone faced in a relaxed posture staring forward toward Chief Blackburn.

Blackburn was a surly man but had a heart of gold if you got on his good side.  The problem was there were only two ways to get on Blackburn’s good side: be a top performing officer under his command, or be a blonde with huge tits.  Arthur and John didn’t have big enough tits but Arthur made the case for both of the Martian boys as officers who got things done.  They were the golden children in the Chief’s eyes hence the reason they still had a job.  John wasn’t officially assigned to the Snoogins’ murder case but no one gave him any new assignments while we worked along side his brother.  So here he was beside Arthur waiting to find out what hell the FBI was going to bring down.

“You won’t be disappointed sir.  I think we can have results in … ” Blackburn held the receiver away from his ear.  “You got two days to un-fuck the situation or I’m cleaning out your station.” The voice screeched out of the ear piece and then the line went silent.  Blackburn’s cellphone beeped indicating the Director had hung up.  Remy started to moan.  All three men looked out the window at Remy trying to raise his head.

Blackburn began to speak.  “Both of you should probably lose your badges and be charged as accomplices to murder.  Brody went ape shit while he was trapped in the station and now Sally is dead.”  Blackburn sighed.  He was probably screwing her on lunch breaks in the very evidence room where she was killed.

“I don’t think Remy killed her,” Arthur said as he stared through the window at Remy’s slumped figure.  “Say that again Detective,” the Chief snarled.

“Brody is no murderer.  He’s a war hero.  I know this guy chief.  He is trained to end lives and his list of decorations means he is damn good at it.  But I just can’t see him killing anything unless it was a threat to our country.  Brody knows his time as soldier boy is over.”  Arthur prepared for the backlash from the chief.  He heard his Father’s voice behind him instead.

“Think you know everything don’t you boy?”  Arthur’s eyes widened and he struggled to turn his head.  He couldn’t move.  His fists clenched tightly.  “You knew that bum was crazy the moment you saw him appear in Smitty’s doorway.  Should have shot him then but you were a little pre-occupied weren’t you?  A little too busy enjoying the glass digging into your ass…”

“Art wake the fuck up bro.” John shook his brother’s shoulder.  Arthur’s trance slipped away and his senses began slowly rebooting.  Arthur felt like a wrung out sponge, his clothes were damp with sweat, and the color was gone from his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you Martian? Shouldn’t that have been my reaction after your little Brody defense?  If you two can pull yourselves back together for just a minute, we still have a dead young woman murdered within our own walls and I see no reason to not have Brody hauled off to county tonight with charges for it.”  The Chief looked expectantly at Arthur for a response.

“I’m not going to let an innocent man burn for something he didn’t do.  Let me talk to Brody and sort it out…” Arthur said.

“What the hell is this? I ain’t done nothing, I found her like that!  It was that damn blender and microwave working together.”  Remy shouted from the lobby.

“Shut up Brody or I’ll crack you again,” the boy cop threatened.

Remy’s voice became calm and he began to focus on the floor tiles in front of him.  “Let me go boy.”  The boy cop grabbed for his sap.  Arthur stood up and bounded toward the middle of the lobby.

“No, I want him awake for questioning,” Arthur said.

“Detective Martian sir I found him in there crouched next to Sally.”  The boy cop nodded toward Remy.  “She couldn’t have been dead more than five minutes before I arrived.”

“Did you see it?”  Arthur’s eyes narrowed as the young man shook his head.  “Well then, stand aside.”

“Get me outta these cuffs Martian.”

“You know I can’t even if I wanted to.  I don’t think you killed that woman but something sinister is effecting those around you.”  John and the chief joined them in the lobby.  A voice came from the hallway and a little short man in an EMT suit poked his head in.

“I need help getting the body up on the gurney,” the man said.

“Go help the coroner kid,” the chief ordered.

“Yes sir,” the boy cop was glad to be out of the reach of Brody and Arthur.

“One coroner?” John asked.

“And not even our own.  He is on loan from the neighboring district,” the Chief replied.

“Maybe we should let the Feds in here.  We could use the man power.”  Arthur suggested.  Chief Blackburn folded his arms shifting his weight and looking at Remy.  “The last thing this city needs is bunch of Federal agents combing the streets and beating on doors.  Besides, we might possibly have the source for all the commotion right here.  Brody what were you doing in that evidence room if you weren’t killing Sally?” Blackburn asked.

“My son Roger, he was in my head.  Told me he was with the microwave.  I ain’t seen the boy since, well, since he was a boy.  It was like he could hear me inside and out.  I got a reply to things I said and things I thought.  She was already on the ground when I got there.  That microwave was blinking at me though.  Said, ‘Done.’  Probably a breakfast-dinner in there if you checked.”

“A what?” John said.  Remy looked at John.

“You know, the turkey dinner.  Like a thanksgiving feast sometimes when I opened the door – it would be in there.  I thought it was just a kind person leaving me food until it stopped.  So I hocked it.  Then the night Smitty got hurt I saw it through the window and there was another plate in there.  I think it was angry.”  Blackburn sighed and pulled an orange plastic chair from the wall, spun it around, and straddled it in front of Remy.  John watched Arthur and Arthur watched Blackburn. Student watching the teacher watching the teacher.  Blackburn spoke directly to Remy like they were the only two people in the room.  Direct eye contact and direct address.

“You go by Remy right?” Remy nodded.  “Alright Remy we’ll play it your way.  Say your microwave blinded Smithe.”  Remy’s head started to turn as he drifted off in thought.  This indicated he didn’t understand something or he was about to lie.  “Smitty.”  Blackburn said and Remy regained focus on the conversation.

“Sally’s hands were gone and she wasn’t burned like Smitty was.  Explain that.” Blackburn asked Remy.  The response came from John.  “Blender.  Snoogins blender,” John mumbled.

Arthur nodded approvingly at his younger brother.  “That’s the only explanation.  Unless there is another person or thing we are not thinking of,” he said.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Appliances don’t just fucking come alive and kill people.  Welcome to reality.  You Martian boys need to get your heads out of your asses.  We have a sick killer on the loose or in captivity already.” Blackburn looked at Remy while he spoke. “This twisted guy has a body count of two and a blinded fat ass count of one.  We got one homeless war hero who hears voices and two Detectives who are buying his shit.”  Two Detectives.  John smiled.

The boy cop and the coroner emerged from the hallway pushing the gurney holding Sally’s body.  Her bloody stumps soaked through the heavy white sheet creating two little red stained mounds.  The smell of a thanksgiving feast wafted in after them.  Blackburn struggled to ignore it.

“Alright that is enough for tonight.  The sun will be up soon.  Morning shift will have to clean all this shit up.  Boy wonder cop.”  The young man straightened his back.  “Take Brody to a holding cell and don’t let him out of your sight until properly relieved.  We’ve got two days to bring this to some light or the Feds are going to come in here and we are all out of jobs.  I’m not ready to be a washed up cop yet.  So go where ever it is you go and get a few hours of sleep.  You Martian boys, me, and Remy here, are going to figure this thing out.  Now if you will excuse me I’m going to need to pacify the press.”

“Good luck Henry,” Arthur said.  “They are brutal out there tonight.”  Blackburn pulled some sunglasses from his pocket and put them on with a smile.  He adjusted the tie on his wrinkled suit and walked out to address the crowd outside.  Arthur turned to Remy.

“Sorry Brody.  My fault for leaving you here,” Arthur said.

“You just doin’ your job Martian.  Can’t fault a man who invests all of himself into tracking down killers.  Bound to forget a few things here and there.”  Arthur nodded at Remy.  Remy stood and grunted as he balanced his weight on the good leg.  Boy cop escorted him slowly to the holding cells.

“That is one of the toughest men I’ve ever seen,” John said as they watched Remy turn the corner out of sight.  Arthur looked at John and rolled his eyes.  He picked up a hand held radio on the counter and spoke into it.

“That microwave and blender are still locked up in evidence right?”  He said.  The crackled response came back from boy cop, “Yes sir, locked it myself.  Microwave still on the floor and blender on the shelf.  Saw them on our way out with Sally’s body.”

“Roger that,” Arthur clicked the radio off and looked at John.  “Let’s go, I’ll sleep on your couch.”

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The Starship Peaseria sat in dead-space for forty hours under a constant barrage of high intensity laser bursts from the Admiral’s large freighter. Their engines burned up on the last light jump. Now all power was being directed to their shields while they plotted an escape.

The Admiral’s orders were to not destroy the Peaseria but they would not be taken, and time was precious. So he ordered the use of the microwave cannon to cook the crew inside and followed up with an accelerated particle ray to vaporize the ship.

Two crew members in an escape pod got out.

I had the mic hot tonight so I figured I’d record the blog post I’ve been procrastinating.

“Show notes”
- NaNoWriMo
- writing group
- Give Blood and Thanks
- work ethic
- daily writing diary

Christmas came early for Tommy.

Two front teeth; man Santa rocked the Casbah this year. He had a full set of pearly whites before any of his friends.

On Christmas day, after all the presents were open, a single card remained in the tree.

To Tommy:

We regret to inform you that your federal health plan mandates a recall on your teeth. Times are tough and so is beef jerky to a senior citizen.

From Santa.

The brass bell on top of the tree suddenly came free and fell hard onto Tommy’s mouth ringing loudly.

A president got his wings.

The grandchildren rolled their eyes.

“They came for me the next night and …. where are you going?”

“Outside to play Grandpa, we are too old for your stories.”

Kickball in the backyard was short lived when the lights appeared in the sky. Grandpa put on his foil hat.

My copy of Jack Wakes Up

With any story you read there is a certain passage or line that hooks you in.  That one part that says, “oh hell ya.  This is how it’s done.”  I just finished Seth Harwood‘s Jack Wakes Up.  This was the part that did it for me:

“Yes, sir, this is the man here: Jack Palms,” Ralph says, stepping forward. He has a thick cigar in one hand and a scotch in the other. He sways as he moves. Jack realizes this is why Ralph asked him along: because he’s planning on spending most of his time in the bag.

“Jack Palms,” Al says, “let us share with you some blow.”

More laughs and then Jack watches Al, Ralph, and the others retreat to the couches. He can see a glass-top coffee table in the middle all ready to go, with the lines cut and set. Ralph sits down on one of the couches and starts rolling up a twenty.

Jack Wakes Up follows Jack Palms, the washed up movie star of “Shake’em Down.”  Jack finds himself in a financial situation that causes him to get involved with an old friend named Ralph Anderino.  Ralph ropes Jack into entertaining some out of town Czech’s interested in two things: scoring mountains of blow and haveing a good time.

Jack ends up in the middle of a story line that takes you to the hard streets of organized drug crime in San Francisco.  Czechs, Colombians, KGB, Gangsters, crooked cops, sex, drugs, fast cars, and a lot of guns; Jack Wakes Up was my introduction to crime fiction and “Danny like, Danny like very much.”

You remember that first time you saw Fight Club? You walked out of that theater thinking you were all American bad ass.  You looked at every guy, big or small you played the fight out in your head like a movie.  You walked close to them on the way out just hoping they would give you a reason.  A little comment, a wrong look, or maybe some disagreeable body language was all you would need to get in their face and say, “What mother effer? Take a swing.”  This is the same feeling you’ll get when you read Jack Wakes Up.

I find myself shifting between the different characters.  Maybe I’m Junius, not taking shit from anyone and demanding respect.  Maybe I’m one of the fearless Czechs never backing down from any fight; fists or guns, I’ll stay for that party.  Maybe I’m Jack Palms.  I’m a good looking actor, I have a ’66 Fastback that melts panties off women, and somedays bad shit happens to good people.  Seth does a great job of developing these characters.  I loved all of them.

On a personal level Seth is one of the authors I respect the most in the podcast novel community.  He podcasted it for free, he got the book deal, and he podcasts from his hot tub keeping it REAL about what the publishing world is all about.  Seth isn’t full of the flowery bullshit or whining about his trials and tribulations – we hear that from so many authors these days.  He hasn’t dropped off the map and gotten so involved in his success that he forgets about us (I won’t name names but you know when you are neglecting the people who made you).  Seth is one of the most educated well rounded guys in the game today and he is a great story teller.  When my debut podcast novel is ready I know Seth will have my back.

Jack Wakes Up is the first in a three part series of Jack Palms novels.

Get yourself a copy of Jack Wakes Up off Amazon.

Of course all of them are FREE for you to consume as podiobooks.  Click the pics below for links to the different Jack Palms novels.

Free: read the first three chapters of Jack Wakes Up as a PDF you can download now! (click to get)

Seth is a game changer for sure.  I identify with a lot of his philosophy about writing and publishing.  Of course the nature of the game is not to immitate but innovate.  This is where I come in as the new blood, the student, and the next BIG thing.  “Shake’em Up! Baby.”

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 17 – Download PDF

Chapter 17: A Mission Remembered

“Hell Sergeant, you keep staring at the picture and she just might pop out and get shot.”

The young Private was out of line, he knew it.  It was part of the job though.  Be the Alpha male no matter what and bust balls on anything you can.  Weakness was not an option in war and all the men were constantly tested by each other, Grunts and NCO’s alike.  Sergeant Remfred Brody tucked the picture of his red haired beauty into the vest pocket of his BDU and snapped the flap closed.

Nothing was sacred, he understood that, but that didn’t mean lines weren’t ever crossed.  Everyone has a threshold for all types of torture; emotional or physical everyone cracks at some point.  Brody was far from any threshold but he very much would have enjoyed inflicting a little physical reinforcement of the chain of command.  But that would show weakness – like the Private got to him.

“Catch a few hours of sleep Private.  Thank you for volunteering yourself to be lead scout when the shooting starts tomorrow.  That is very brave of you.”

The Private sighed rolling his face away from Brody in the fox hole and was snoring within seconds of closing his eyes.  Tomorrow was the big day.  Brody’s first mission as a Combat Leader.  Men would be behind him and looking to him to make the choices that would ensure their safety.  He closed his eyes and put his palm to the pocket with the picture of Des.  He hated this war, this jungle, the fighting, and the dieing.

Every bullet that flew past his head and every mission marked as complete was a step closer to getting home to her.  That is what kept him going and kept him alive.

‘God damn Des.  I miss you so much,’ he thought.

*     *     *

The five men laid on their bellies’ prone in the tall grass as they waited for the patrol to pass by.  Brody held out his hand indicating they should stop and wait for his next command.  He watched the tattered pants and dirty sandals of three Vietnamese soldiers walk by.  The gun metal tips of the ak47 rifles briefly dipped into view and his heart rate increased as he clutched his own rifle to his chest.  After the patrol was out of sight he looked back to his men.  He silently pointed to the young Private he shared a fox hole with last night, and then pointed to himself.  They both were going to move across the road and down to secure some more ground.  The other three would follow on Brody’s signal.

Brody moved up to the road’s edge with the Private close enough behind him to drink from the canteen tied to his pack.  Brody hopped up and trotted across the road with the Private on his heels.  The tall grass masked a culvert on the other side.  Unexpectedly, Brody and the Private rolled to a stop at the bottom of a steep embankment.  Both men quickly got to one knee and pointed their M-14s in opposite directions.

“You alright Sarge?” the Private whispered.

“Yep I’m alright.  There is no climbing up that thing to warn the other guys.  Be prepared to catch them.”  With that Brody whistled and three more bodies tumbled or slid down the jungle grass slick with sweat and moisture from the air.

Their objective was just through the trees about a half a klick ahead of them.  This was a refueling station and an important crossroads in the enemies supply line.  A little encampment of about three huts and a large gas tanker.  The mission was simple with only three objectives: subdue, recon, and destroy.  That is what the reports would say anyway.  For the solider those words mean kill everything, stuff papers in your pack, and blow the place up.  They would take each hut in teams of two and Brody would take one alone.  He drew a map in the dirt and assigned each man to his hut.  If all went well they would come out of this alive.

The men were nameless and faceless to Brody.  He had to keep it that way.  Too many of his friends had died already so he was done making new ones.  He was there to do his job, keep as many alive as he could, and get back home to Des.

The five men made a wide circle in the jungle to get themselves into position behind their respective targets.  They were to move in on Brody’s signal.

Brody closed his eyes and held the spoon on the M61 frag grenade.  He had already pulled the pin about thirty seconds ago, but he was taking some time to pray and think about Des.  This was his custom if he had time to think before engaging the enemy.  It put him at peace with the two most important things in his world, God and Des.  He opened his eyes and listened to the voices coming from the tin walled hut with the thatched roof just ahead of him.  The spoon flipped open and he cooked the grenade for a few seconds before throwing it through the window.  The men inside would never have a chance to throw it back and by the time they heard the thud on the floor boards it would already be to late.

The explosion was Brody’s signal.  Each team of men converged on their targets.  The shouts of panic in Vietnamese and his own men screaming, “Light them up!” as they kicked in the doors, echoed in Brody’s ears.  He made his way to the entrance of the hut he had just blown the door off of, raised his rifle and looked inside.

A fine red mist sat stale in the air and the walls were spattered in bits of bloody tattered flesh.  The lower half of a man twitched as the nerves exhausted their last bit of energy.  A singular torso waved it’s arms and silently screamed reaching out for Brody.  Blood squirted from the stringing internal muscle fibers and intestines that remained where the body had been cut in half from the blast.  What was left of the man gurgled trying to breath, trying to scream, trying to live; Brody discharged a cartridge and put a hole in his brain.  No more suffering.

The gunfire died down and Brody called for a sound off.  The numbers one through five rang true and alive.  Time to head back to the safety of their own lines.

“Set those explosives on the tanker with a five minute timer and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes sir,” one of the men called out and started off toward the truck.  A shot exploded out of the bushes and the man fell clutching his throat where a bullet tore it open.  Instinctively Brody’s men scattered to find cover.  The young man rolled in the dirt holding out a hand to his comrades.  There was nothing to be done, he was lost.  The men took up reinforced positions behind trees and behind the huts they had just cleared out.  They waited for Brody’s command but he was gone running.  Brody ran into the underbrush as fast as he could to circle around.

“Return fire!” he screamed.  His men began laying down a hail of bullets cutting the jungle to shreds in the direction that the rifle fire had come from.  Brody needed this distraction to mask the sound of him tearing through the brush to get to the back of the enemies position.  He ran with long strides, jumping over logs, and putting his head down to plow through boughs of leaves.  Bullets ricocheted all around him splintering off timber and pinging on rocks.  These were the bullets from his own men.

Brody came upon the first of the men crouched next to a tree.  He slung the M14 over his shoulder and unsheathed his KA-BAR.  The hardened blade cut through the throat easily and he saw the other two men close and also crouched next to trees.  He slung his rifle back up in his hands and squinted down the iron sights.  He shot the man in view of the other,  effectively instilling that pants shitting fear of life or death in the remaining Vietnamese soldier.

Brody sighted the man up for the shot and waited for him to turn and see him.  The man didn’t fire and put his gun in the air talking in Vietnamese.  He was trying to surrender to Brody.  The shots from his own men stopped and the jungle was quiet except for the Vietnamese solider begging for Brody’s mercy.

Remy stopped and stared at the man.  He felt like God holding life in his hands.  The judge, the jury and the executioner.  What is just and right in this world did not apply out here.  Remy made the call and became the harbinger of death.  He fired.

“Dude, your disturbing the fish, cut it out,” says Gordie.

“Just one more.” Vern picks up a rock as big as his palm and tosses it. No splash.

He looks over the side of the railing. He sees his rock floating on something bare and bloated.

“You guys wanna go see a dead body?” he says to the others.

The Walls Shuttered

“Get away from that window Tres. The wind I fear will soon shatter the glass.”

“Duo is right Tres, not so close. That ghastly wind is the reason we are holed up in your brick hut in the first place,” Unus said.

“This region was not known for it’s gusting wind or I wouldn’t have built my house of sticks,” Duo said.

“I was under the impression this was more of a tropical desert climate. My house of straw should have been more than adequate.”

“The brick mortar appears to be under the assault of some substantial seismic distress Tres.”

————————————————————
Hugh the Pie Man

Lucy waits in the dark of her entryway everyday, always at the same time.

The old dusty grandfather clock starts its bonging, sending out the nights collected particles in little poofs of classic horror show fashion.

6 a.m

The onset of dawn slowly illuminates Lucy’s matted, oily, and once blonde hair. Seething up and down she sits crossed legged in her stained sunflower dress, waiting for the door bell.

Crusted fingers adorned with hardened yellow nails clutch the second bright shining thing in Lucy’s life, the pie server.

Hugh the pie man should be here any moment.

She loves him.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 16 – Download PDF

Chapter 16:  What it is Smitts?

A little dark haired boy sat opposite Detective Arthur Martian and Officer John Martian in the waiting room of the Marshall General Hospital.  Arthur leaned his head back against a poster warning the public about the dangers of second hand smoke.  His long brown overcoat was pushed back under the arms of the cheap chair exposing the grip of his .38 in the shoulder holster and the red top of a pack of Marlboro Reds in the vest pocket.  The little boy, who couldn’t be more than seven or eight years old, stared at the pistol’s handle with wide eyes.  The boy’s mother provided a familiar inner city ambiance with her screams at the receptionist.  Really, she just loves her family and wants to provide a better life for her children.  Is that so wrong?  Medical bills keep piling up and they won’t cut her a break, these systems, are broken.  Arthur noticed the boy staring and nudged John to get his attention.

“You ever remember having an interest in guns when we were kids?” Arthur asked.

“Yea a little bit.  Probably only because it was against the rules to touch them.  Dad had us scared shit-less.”

“Yea, the old man was good about keeping some structure.  I guess.” Arthur prepared for John to react.  This was part of the game he played with his brother.  Crack about Dad, John picks up the fumbled ball to save his face, and then Arthur tackles him in the open to bring Dad back down.

“He was.  I don’t think Dad was all that bad when it came down to it.  What happened between you two that made you take off so soon and hate him so much?”

Arthur felt the hair stand up on his arm.  John was calling him out.  In a way Arthur was happy John blamed himself for their father’s death.  Up until that day five years ago it was Arthur who dodged the questions about Dad.  It was Arthur who told John to shut up.  Arthur was relieved to see the old man go.  Arthur could make his therapeutic snide comments about Dad and John would never want an explanation or let it go any further.  Arthur was counting on this to continue for a long time, at least until his own wounds caused by the old man were healed.  Now John was asking, asking a direct question, and Arthur was not ready to dodge, not ready to relive, not ready to tell the truth.

“Detective Martian you’re clear to go in now.”  The receptionist shouted over the pleading mother.

“Later.  Let’s go.  Remember, fly on the wall.” John nodded and they were buzzed into the visitor entrance to the Hospital’s labyrinth.

Arthur and John entered Smitty’s room and John immediately sought out a dark corner.  Smitty didn’t need to know anyone but Arthur was in the room, it would help him keep calm and honest.

Smitty was hooked up to an array of run down medical equipment.  Run down, but still quite functional because it was built to last.  Most of this stuff came before specialty plastics.  This equipment was sculpted from glass cylinders, rubber tubes, and stainless steel polished to a mirror finish.  The huge lump of Smitty was covered in a brown scratchy blanket and was illuminated by the dull glow of one examination lamp.

“Who’s there?” Smitty’s eye sockets were bandaged with a few wraps of thick gauze.  While no  eyes remained, the wounds still bleed heavily.  The human face contains a large portion of delicate artery structure and it bleeds easily, very easily.

“Andrew my name is Detective Arthur Martian.  I was the one that found you after you were attacked.  I want to ask you a couple questions.”  Arthur pulled a doctors stool under him and gently sat on the oversized cracked cushion.  He rolled over to Smitty’s bedside.  Smitty was sitting up moving his head back and forth trying desperately to pin point Arthur’s location with his new amplified senses.

“Get the fuck away from me.  I don’t want to talk to nobody.  Stop harassing the blind man.  Can’t you see I’m in enough pain as it is?  I don’t need you damn cops in my business.  I have done nothing but help the community I’m a part of.  I didn’t know if the stuff I bought was stolen or not.  Don’t ask don’t tell, that was my policy.  People got money to feed their families and I sold the stuff back into circulation eventually.  Everybody was winning.  Just get the…”  Arthur interrupted and John quietly suppressed a smile.

“Smithe I don’t care about your business operations.  I want you to talk me through what happened the night you lost your eyes.”

“I don’t wanna talk about that either.  Just get the hell away from me.”  Smitty turned and forced the side of his face hard into the pillow staining it with blood from his empty eye sockets.  He thought he was facing away from Arthur.  Arthur stared into the moist bloody eyes and spoke softly into Smitty’s ear.

“If you won’t talk to me I’m going to tear your little store apart looking for evidence.  I know you were dealing more than just stolen bikes and appliances in that filthy hole.  Can you imagine being a fat blind guy in prison?  They would stuff your ass like a Mexican pinata and then beat you hoping for their candy back.  All you would know is the musk of their odor and the taste of their sweat.  If that is what you want, than I’ll leave.  If you want to talk me through that night I’ll let you play victim here on the outside for a long time.”  Arthur waited for a response from Smitty.  He stood up and sent the stool to sailing hard into the counter.  The bang made Smitty jump and start to tremble.

“Alright, but your going to think I’m fuckin’ crazy.”

“Try me,” Arthur said.

Smitty told Arthur about hearing the beeping, grabbing his gun, and going to investigate the microwave.  John’s cellphone vibrated in his pocket and he slipped out the door to take the call.  It was duty on the other end of the line.

“The devil himself was controlling that microwave.  It wasn’t plugged in or nothing.”  Smitty grabbed into the air and surprised himself when he caught Arthur’s arm with a fist full of his coat.  Smitty pulled himself close, Arthur didn’t resist.  Then Smitty’s face changed, his voice got deeper and he bared his teeth.  Smitty projected bits of spittle as he talked.

“You would do well to stay away from us Arthur.  We wouldn’t want Daddy to get at you with his belt would we?”   Arthur jerked back from Smitty’s grip and didn’t say a word.  The sounds of the heart monitor doubled in intensity and echoed in the silent room.  Each beep made Arthur cringe as he stared at the face seething with anger.  Smitty’s chubby cheeks and dumbstruck Stevie Wonder sway returned.

“Andrew?” Arthur muttered through quivering lips.

“huh? Fuck, you’re still here.  I’m done talking.  Go away.”  John opened the door and leaned his head in.  “Who is that?  Who is here now?” Smitty demanded.  John didn’t acknowledge him.

“We’ve got to leave bro.  You look like shit, you okay?”  John said.

“I’m fine.  What you got?”

“Sally has been killed and we got Brody in lockup as a suspect.  I’ll fill you in on the way to the station.”  John didn’t wait for Arthur to move and disappeared heading for the car.  Arthur looked back to Smitty when he got to the door.  He was still shaken from, from whatever the hell just talked to him through Smitty.

Now Sally has been wasted by Brody.  He had forgotten to release Brody.  Short staffed and late at night; he was probably sitting in interrogation for a couple hours.  Maybe he finally snapped, maybe not, maybe Arthur just needed a few minutes to sit down and clear his fucking head.  What the hell is going on?

“Thank you Andrew.”

Smitty flipped off the wall cabinets trying to assault Arthur with a twirling middle finger.  Arthur smirked and quickly made his way to the car.

Charlitok stands in line with the other veteran soldiers.

The commander is awarding accommodations.

Charlitok is proudly advancing to join an elite group who dawn the freshly killed head of a mighty grizzly bear.

Charlitok digs his heals into the soft earth, holds his head high, and tenses his muscles in attention.

As his commander lowers the head of the bear he feels a massive weight of responsibility to protect his brethren soldiers and the tribe.

“Good job Charlie, next scout rank is Webelos right?” his Mom says.

The applause and screams from the tribe echo in Charlitok’s ears.

The short answer – “Great! Fun! I’m grateful to have reassurance that this is indeed what I am most passionate about.  Things are forever changing.  I’m learning so much, exploring everything freely, and dissolving all limitation.  I’m doing it.”

The long answer -

Things are going fantastic!

At first my intention was to sit in the wings and observe.  I’d watch the blogs of J.C. Hutchins, Scott Sigler, Mur Lafferty and all the other influential authors in the podcast novel space.  All the while I’d work on my masterpiece and blow them all out of the water when it was ready.  After a very short while I figured out this was not going to work.  I was sitting in my hobbit hole scribbling but no one was reading it and I wasn’t learning anything about the craft like I wanted.  So I started searching for low-risk ways of exposure.  This is where the 100 word stories podcast came in and GreatHites.  Weekly contests where people voted for fun on the stories and your story was syndicated in a podcast.  It was simple: if people didn’t like your story they didn’t vote for you, done.  No one screamed at you and no one told you it sucked, it was bliss but also not enough to move forward.

I did that for a while and I started to educate myself more about the writing industry.  I subscribed to Writer’s Digest and every podcast I could find about getting better at this writing thing.

So that is where it started and things evolved way faster than I thought from there.

So, where are we now?

I think an itemized list will be more effective than a long hunk of wordy prose.

• I write for the 100 word stories podcast every week.  Those are the 100 word stories you see posted here all the time.

• I write for GreatHites as much as I can.

• I have two stories being published in the GreatHites Podiobooks Anthology.  The Reconstruction and Children of the Garden Wars. (still need to edit those for you Jeff, sorry for the delay.)

• I got into my first REAL writing group that Justin Lowmaster (SpaceTurtle) got me into.  They are a wonderful group of folks and I love interacting with people who nerd out about this stuff as much as I do.

• Give Blood and Thanks is officially a podcast now and is in itunes and all that.  It will hit 17,000 words very soon and be in official novella territory.

• I plunged headfirst into the social media space to rub shoulders and learn from these people I thought I would covet forever.  They are all supportive and great.  I have Twitter and Facebook for now.

• I have a ton of ideas I’m working on and new ones crop up constantly.  I have enough material right now to be locked in a room for about four years and write a few books.

• I’m learning the value of 100% transparency.  What I do that a lot of authors (can I say that yet?) don’t is, I post everything!  I post the ugly draft that I read from with all the typos, crumby syntax, constant switching of tenses, and even spelling errors.  If things get pointed out to me I go back and fix it, but I don’t ever dwell too long.  I’m not submitting to magazines, I’m not agent hunting, I’m not submitting to publishers, I’m just learning and sharing with all of you.  I don’t want to be on this journey alone.  I want my friends to know what is going on and the world to watch me grow up.

• I’m confident that I will be a novelist when the time is right.  Actually, the time will be right in November.  I will be participating in my first official NanoWriMo this year.  I’m extremely excited about it and there is a lot of planning I have yet to do if I am going to reach the 50,000 word finish line in just one month.

I think that covers all the bases for now but things are forever changing in this world so who knows what the next day, week, or month will bring.

Thank you all for your constant supportive words and encouragement.  That stuff really means a lot, truly.

That is how the writing thing is going. – Danny

Download mp3

Download PDF of Silver Bullets (Letters) GH63 Entry

July 21st 1897

To my dearest friend and mentor Father Daniel,

I write to you with desperate haste.  I do hope the mail courier is able to procure this letter in a timely fashion for I require your knowledge and insight.  As you know, Bishop Crane bequeathed to me his post in the town of Fairview New Mexico.  The inhabitants here are finding themselves drawn to God and I find myself his living incarnation fighting for their salvation.  Silver fever has polluted the many souls here and they look to me to make it right.  We are also without a reputable physician so we have become reliant on the trite medical knowledge I acquired under Father Casper during my Monastery days.

The daughter of a prosperous business man Frank Winston, was brutally attacked.  The poor dear was taken from her bed while she slept by something awful.  She found herself clutching to life in their stable with a deep gash in her back.  Daniel, it was unlike anything I have seen in all my forty years.  No known animal or blade did that to her.  Towns folk here formed a lynch mob that did little more than prowl the out-land ranches and scare a few sleeping farmers.  These people are untamed and quick to band together, it makes me nervous.

I write to you because I fear something ungodly might be upon us.  Your work with the young Doctor Van Helsing will hopefully be able instruct me and guide me in this dark hour.

May the mighty shepherd keep you and bless you,
Father Thomas

July 29th 1897

Father Thomas,

I’m sorry to hear your new post is not going to be the highlight of your missionary career, but then again, you might find yourself canonized by the locals should sleuth this attack into a justifiable fruition.  I would much prefer to come to you for direct correspondence, for I fear it will be most grave if not resolved quickly.  Unfortunately, my own duties to the church bar me from such travel.  By the time you receive this letter I predict at least one more soul will have fallen victim to this daemonic presence and I pray it not be you.  So you must act quickly.

You are in the heartland of indigenous Navajo unrest.  You very well might be under attack from one of the most outlawed cultural practices.  Much like the satanic witches that permeated the civil unrest of the new world years ago, the local native inhabitants of this land are no stranger to their own practitioners of the dark art.  You must not under any circumstance venture out during the night.  Encourage the people of Fairview to follow this same instruction, at least until an acceptable explanation can be found.  There are certain tasks ahead of you, a few of which I pray you fail, for if you succeed, you are in a danger of the highest caliber.

I need you to start keeping track of the moon cycles.  Each day, during dawn or twilight, mark down how much of the white face is exposed.  On this same record you must note when the attacks occur.  Write to me when you have two weeks worth of observation.

Second, you must venture into the mountains and look for the Atropa belladonna plant.  The people there are sure to know it as the deadly nightshade.  Look for any sign it is being harvested or cultivated unnaturally.

Thirdly it would behoove you to gain the allegiance of the local correspondent to the indigenous Navajos of the area.  Thomas for your own safety they must understand you are a friend to all of the Navajo people.  Under no circumstance is he to know that you might possibly suspect his people of anything.  Learn all you can about their feelings toward the presence of Fairview’s settlers.

Lastly Thomas, you must persuade some of the local miners to show their support for the church in raw silver ore.  Once you have adequate enough supply, conscript the local blacksmith to make you a walking stick tipped on both ends with silver caps and also a new rosary.  This may be of use and protect you against the daemon, for most cannot bare the touch of silver.

God bless you,
Father Daniel

August 20th 1897

Father Daniel,

You were correct about the attacks, we have seen two more as I write this letter.  The local school teacher, one Miss Lori Kelstin, was found next to a nearby creek with her body completely shredded.  Daniel it was a horror that will scar me for this life and the next.  Also the banker’s son, Phillip Augustus, has gone missing.  It has posed too much for the populous to take.  This place is not safe for anyone, and more people are leaving everyday.  By the time you receive this correspondence my Sunday mass will be attended by the last horde of miners standing steadfast by their government claims.  Still clinging to the hope of striking it rich, they will die before they leave and I fear they will.  God has put me here to erase this evil from existence and I’ll see it done, if it is the last thing I do.

My observation of the moon and attacks directly relate to each other. When the full whiteness is exposed we have reason to be afraid.  The full moon brings this plague of evil upon us without fail.  By  my calculation the next attack will happen in one weeks time when the moon is full again.  Daniel, it is by the simple mathematical principle of probability that I fear for my own life now.

I sought out the Atropa belladonna as you instructed.  I found most of it quite undisturbed except for one patch on the outskirts of a local Navajo settlement.  The berries were picked clean, and some of the leaves were visibly torn off.  I was advised that the plant is completely poisonous in all respects.  Whatever animal fell victim to it’s alluring beauty would surely be dead within a day or two.

The local Navajo correspondent and I have become acquainted, also at your instruction.  The subject of the attacks seems taboo for us to talk about.  I have expressed my concern for his people in the area but he seems very indifferent to the whole situation and fears not for them.  We have discussed at length the history of his people.  It is quite obvious to me now that we have no place here.

I’ve resorted to turning the church into a fortress of God’s light to illuminate this darkness.  I enlisted the services of the remaining craftsman to barricade the windows with heavy timber and reinforce the doors with heavy iron bindings.  Something taps the outside of the building at night and prevents me from getting adequate sleep.

Jesus Daniel what is happening here? What must I do?  Please help.

Thomas

September 1st 1897

Thomas,

It is exactly as I feared.  This letter should reach you eight days time before your relief.  I’ve communicated the gravity of your situation to our people in Albuquerque.  I’ve convinced the proper authorities that it is in the Church’s best interests to extract you from your situation and leave the fate of the town in God’s hands.  I will come myself and receive you in Albuquerque.

Thomas I believe you are in the evil clutches of none other than a native Skin-walker.  No doubt the local Navajo Medicine Man has fallen from grace.  He seeks retribution for the forced March of his people to Fort Sumner by the U.S. Army Forces those many savage years ago.

He is using the extract from the Atropa belladonna to make himself a nightly potion so that he may practice Lycantrophy and manifest the daemon purely out of his own energy.  If you come into contact with the man before the beast, you must not kill the man.  If the beast is created and the man dies, the beast will turn into a ravenous vampire that will kill anything it can.  For the vampire, requires abundant amounts of the life force to survive.  Warn everyone you can to defend themselves with silver if it comes to it.

You should at all costs avoid contact with the beast.  Lay low until they come for you Thomas.  Let God sort it out.  It is not worth the risk to your life my friend.

Praying desperately for you,
Father Daniel

September 5th 1897 – message delivered via Western Union Telegraph Service.

TO: Father Daniel
FROM: Church of Christ Albuquerque New Mexico

FATHER THOMAS STATUS: DECEASED.
B. CASPER REQUESTS YOU PERSUE INVESTIGATION.
FIND HELSING.

END

September 9th 1897

TO: Doctor Van Helsing (recorded dictation from Father Daniel)

Abraham the church needs you, I need you.  One of my dearest friends was taken from me in a small desert town of the American South West.  I believe he was killed by ancient native American  lycantrophic means.  You will know what to do.  Please come at once to Albuquerque New Mexico, US.

September 12th 1897 – message delivered via Western Union Telegraph Service.

TO: Father Daniel Albuquerque New Mexico
FROM: Abraham Van Helsing England

TRAVEL TO U.S. NOT POSSIBLE.
ONTO SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT WITH J. SEWARD
L. WESTERNA LIFE AT STAKE

END

Daniel crumpled the thin telegraph paper in his fist and brought his hands up in prayer.  L. Westerna could only be one person.  Lucy, lovely Lucy, the daughter of the one woman he ever loved.  He would go to England, to Doctor Van Helsing, and to Lucy.  He would give his own blood and life if it meant saving hers.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 14 and 15 – Download PDF

Chapter 14: Brotherly Love

Arthur closed the door behind him and stepped into the darkness of jack off room.  John was sitting in a cheap folding chair watching Remy on a closed circuit TV monitor.  They were alone.

“You need to keep your cool with this guy,” Arthur locked eyes with his brother.

“For what? He’s street walking scum,” John said.

“Serve and protect.  Not be an asshole and judge.  You don’t know anything about him.  A file full of records only tells you so much about a person.  That’s the problem with our line of work.  We see all the bad shit and let ourselves judge too quickly.  Let people surprise you once and a while.  If Dad would have learned that about me, maybe he could have been a real father.”

“Don’t even go there Art,” John interrupted and quickly changed the subject back to Remy.

“So what do you know about him that I don’t?” John said.

Arthur sighed at his brother.  He knew it wasn’t right to bring up Dad in a bad light around John but sometimes he couldn’t help it.  It was the part of himself that he shared with all little boys who hated their fathers.  The deep parts of yourself can’t be contained all the time.  Sometimes, you’ll slip out a little bit of evidence about how you truly feel.

“I know that deep down Brody is a good man and deserves our respect.  I know that he has seen a lot of really bad shit in his day.  The world doesn’t appear the same to him as it does you and me.”

“How do you mean?” John asked.

“We still have a bit of rose colored tint to our glasses John.  We can still see beauty and have hope for the future, shit like that.  Remy sees life and death, always.  He’s a survivor.  You play god long enough like he has, and you become the walking grim reaper.”

John made nice nice with big brother’s mediocre philosophy with a smile and a nod.  This was John going into tune out mode.  Arthur hated it and looked forward to the day his brother’s ego balloon would finally burst.  He would make a good detective after that.  Learning to empathize with people and consider all options, no matter how bizarre they may seem, were the key skills in actually solving mysterious crimes.  Mysterious is an understatement given the state of things, but they weren’t going to get anywhere sitting around.  Time to get back to work.

“You think Smithe is up for a chat yet? He should be out of Intensive Care by now.  You up for going over there with me to see what he knows?” Arthur said.

John perked up.  It was rare for Arthur to ask him to come along.  Arthur worked alone and liked it that way.  He had more solved cases and convictions than anyone else in the department.  John would be ring side to watch the master at work.

“Now you’re talking!” John stood up.

“Yes, and I’ll be doing all the talking.  You pull any shit like you did in the room with Brody and I’ll throw you out? Got it?”

Only give the pup enough leash to feel free and then remind him you’re the master.  Once your pet loses respect you might as well give it away or kill it.  You’ll find your shoes chewed to pieces and large steaming brown land mines on your path to the bathroom.  No surprises and keep in control, that is the way Arthur did things.

“Fly on the wall,” John said.

Chapter 15: Pirate radio station R.E.M.Y.

Remy sat in the hard plastic chair of the interview room for about an hour when his ass went numb and his knee started shooting pain up his thigh.  He stood up and limped a few laps around the room to get his blood pumping.  Once the familiar dull pain sat back in, he began to look around.  Time to get the hell out of here.  He waved at the camera box in the corner and looked into the lens.

“Hey, can I go yet?” He shouted into the camera.  He waited a few moments for a response or one of the doors to open.

Nothing.  He slapped his flat palm on the heavy door to the jack off room.

“Martian.  We done in here or what?”  He dropped his arm and waited for a response.

‘Damnit.  What time is it anyway?’ Remy thought to himself and began wondering which door he should try first.

Door number one, the door he came in, held a guaranteed face to face with a grumpy pissed off booking cop.  They wouldn’t know what to do with him and they would take their sweet time figuring it out.  That could be another half a day in this shit hole if he went that way.  They would figure it out eventually though and Martian would realize the mistake.  Martian would take care of him, he’s a good man.

Door number two, the portal to the peepshow booth, the entry way to the inner workings of cop central.  Maybe he would run into Martian right away or at least someone who would let him explain the situation and let him out.  A young file clerk maybe, or an old behind the desk cop on the cusp of retirement.  Maybe he wouldn’t see anyone and just walk out the door.  That possibility was enough to make up his mind.  If door two was locked he would try the other, if they were both locked, he was fucked.

Remy pushed down on the handle and pulled.  The door opened and he slid into the monitor room.  The lights were off, say for the glowing screen that showed the camera streaming from interrogation.  A strip of light was also coming from under the door leading out into the hallway.  He put his ear to the wood and listened for footsteps or voices.  Silence.  He opened the door and poked his head out.

‘Must be late or there is a hostage situation somewhere.’

He walked down the hallway until he got to a directory posted on the wall and read it aloud to himself.

“Homicide Offices, Evidence, Meeting Room, Holding, Interrogation, Lobby, bingo.”

Remy traced his finger on the map to zero in on the location of the lobby.  It was just a few doors down.  Right passed evidence and the meeting room.  Evidence.  The microwave.  Would his angel remember him?  Should he even bother risking a visit?

Yes, yes, yes you come and visit.

“What the hell? Who was that?  Martian told me to go to the homeless shelter I’m just looking for the door.”  He looked up and down the empty hallways.  Still alone.

No one here.  You come and visit.

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.  It sounded like a small child.  It sounded like his baby boy, Roger.

“Roger?” Remy said.

‘This is impossible, Roger is at least 15 by now.  The voice sounded like a six year old, not an adolescent,’ Remy thought to himself.

Yes, Daddy come and visit me.  I’m playing with your microwave.

Remy stood frozen.  It had been so long since he had seen his family or heard the sound of their voices.

‘This is bullshit, someone is crossing some lines.’  Remy headed for the evidence room.  Cop or no cop, someone was getting their ass beat.

Remy stopped and stood looking at the door.  He stared at the black placard with the white letters spelling the word evidence.  He could turn around right now, say he was lost.  He still had a story, he could still get out of here an honest man.  That would be the right thing to do.  Hell that would be the sane thing to do.

“Damnit.” He turned the handle.

The lights came on when he stepped in, motion detection most likely.  A security camera was pointing at the wall with the cord cut.  Secure.  He shut the door behind him and looked around.  A row of steel wire racks held box after box of plastic bags filled with everything from handguns to cocaine.  Little scribbled hand written labels on each box indicated the date and the case number.  Remy started to read the first sets of labels.  These were five years old.  Dates started to ascend as he shuffled his way down the rows of racks.

His eye had been fixed on the labels when he felt his footing slightly slip in the puddle of blood.  The dark red surface was just slightly crusted over and drying.  He reached down and touched the blood with his fingers.  He was able to roll around a chunk of it.  It was beginning to coagulate like fast setting Jello.  Soon it would get sticky and hard.  Fresh blood, only ten minutes or so old.

Remy switched gears to survival mode, kill or be killed.  He knew thirty different ways to kill a person with just his hands.  One powerful punch to the lower back or upper cut to the nose to spike the brain; if the opponent was a fighter something more colorful would be needed, like a full nelson, a brain buster, or a Russian omelet.  The human body was a good first draft, but fragile as a crystal vase.  You’ll get it right next time God, unless your impeachment completely goes south.  He moved slowly peering around the rows, ready to defend himself.

Through the boxes and bags he saw a small bit of flowered material on the other side.  Cautiously he looked down the row.  A young woman in a white flower patterned dress lay there on her back.  The microwave was on the floor at the end of the row.  The LCD display was blinking the word DONE.

Remy crouched down next to her to see if she had any hint of a pulse.  He placed two fingers to her throat, the blood was still warm there.  Her name tag read, “Sally – Secretary.”  She was a pretty blonde, perky tits, full lips, grade A by today’s standards.  Remy had seen some pretty horrific stuff, but this was a new one.  Eyes open wide in terror.  Mouth open like she was about to take a bite of a sandwich that was too big.  Lots of bodies find themselves frozen in shock from their last moments.

Remy could hear his Mom, “Don’t make that face, or it will stay that way.”

This was death for you.  What got Remy was the fact that her arms were raised like she was double-fisting a big hoagie in her hands.  She would of course need some hands to do this.  The bloody stumps that were left at the end of her arms were the source of all the blood.  Bits of white bone exposed at the end suggested some pretty heavy and sloppy, mutilation.

The door to the evidence room burst open.  Remy flinched. ‘Busted,’ he thought.

“Down here,” Remy said.  “Call an ambulance.”  The footsteps made their way in the direction of Remy’s voice.

It was the boy cop that questioned him on the curb outside Smitty’s.  He had his gun drawn, he took one look at the girl and one look at Remy.  With a lightning fast motion he slammed the butt of his pistol on the back of Remy’s neck.  Night night.

I drove my silver 1932 Roadster down to the Boardwalk.

This car was a real panty dropper, but I preferred to pay for the good stuff.

I blew my wad on the hooker and hotel.

Didn’t matter.

Payday was right around the corner.

I cruised around town to Marvin Gardens to get some blow, the good stuff.

Not the third rate shit they cut with baking soda over on Baltic Ave.

Live fast, die young.

I drove the panty dropper toward my house on Pacific to get high and die.

Didn’t see that damn cop until it was too late.

I pulled another cassette from the old box.  Things were beginning to go in slow motion for me now during these listening sessions.  I imagined the classical ambient musical score at the end of a war film.  The brave solider you fell in love with getting killed in a hail of gunfire.  Red mist exploding from each new bullet hole as the actor convulses from the supposed inertia of it all and you living that split second of life in minutes on film.

Bach’s Cello Suite One in G major suites me just fine.  I hear it, as my hand clutches the plastic  tape of the blind man.  Each quick pull of the cello’s bow resonates within me and I slow my breathing.  I rub my thumb on  the pattern of scratches in the plastic.  None of these tapes have numbers, just a series of scored  hash marks to indicate their order in the sequence.  I put on my headphones and push play.  Bach fades out and the black curtain descends as the blind man once again narrates our life.

“Eighteenth of July, two thousand four.  Today we will examine my interaction with the Vampire last night.  I’m fortunate to be able to interact with the true etherical nature of the beast.  Most sighted people are not able to focus enough to channel and grow their energy like I am.  My gift of blindness makes me an ideal source for the Vampire.  I let him feed off my energy to sustain his corpse  and he in turn helps me understand the other entities of the etherical .  He is desperate to not cross over and feeds much more than I would like.  It leaves me drained by dawn and I must sleep well into the afternoon to regain enough strength for the simple life sustaining tasks.”

I stopped the tape and took off my headphones.  The map of the city on my wall had many various colored thumb tacks but only one black one.  I reserved black for the blind man’s last known residence.  I walked over to the wall looking at the area around the tack.  Hide Cemetery was very close, not cut off  by any running water, and still very much in use.  That is where the Vampire would be buried.  If I was to contact the spirit I needed to know the name, for sure the Vampire would be a spirit by now.  If he had sustained this long, he would be very powerful, I needed to be prepared for that.

I grabbed my camera, notebook, cellphone, and a bag I pet named The Tool Kit.  The Tool Kit had everything I needed for dealing with Spooks.  I went downstairs in the dark and opened the front door.  A light flicked on behind me, it was Mom.

“Little late for band practice, where you headed?”

‘Shit.  Not now.  I can’t deal with this, I’m so close.  Have to think quickly, pacify the overlord.’

“Jake isn’t doing so hot and wants me to keep him company tonight,” I said.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Look.  He just has a lot going on right now and needs me.”  Her eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘not that tone, not under my roof sonny boy.’  I had to cover my ass.

“Sorry Mom, it’s just personal stuff you know.  Its got me worked up.”  She curved one side  of her mouth and wrinkled her forehead down.  She wasn’t buying it, but would she call me out on it?  Don’t know don’t care.  But I do care.  I’ve worked hard to keep up my illusion, worked hard to only let people see my mask.

“Alright, well be careful.  Watch out for the ghouls and goblins.”

‘You have no idea.’

She smiled but looked scared for me.  Mom has been a worrier all my twenty nine years, that will never changed.

“Yea, I will.  Get some sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”  I walked out and stood on the porch, she shut the door behind me.

‘I hope.  I love you.’

I drove my aging Ford Fairmont to the blind man’s old address.  It had become ritual for me now.  I start all investigations at his house and retrace the steps he himself might have taken.  I parked on the curb and took in a breath.  Starting to get scared now.

‘Doesn’t matter what happens Brandon.  You’ll have your proof one way or the other,’  I thought.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket.  A text message.

‘Really Son, be careful.  I trust you have what you need.  Love, Mom.’

She couldn’t know, could she?

Little Jacob took cover under his Blankey to hide from the scary noise.

“Dad?” he squeaked out.

Nothing.

A massive boom and crackle forced him to put his hands over his little ears.

‘Just a bad dream. Mom says they can hurt me,’ he thought.

His eyes began to burn and water. Was something on fire?

He left Blankey’s protection and crawled on his knees to see if the door was hot.

He dropped to the floor at the sound again and wept.

Jacob heard Mommy’s muffled voice, “Go sleep downstairs, that is disgusting. No more chili night.”

Download Children of the Garden Wars PDF

Children of the Garden Wars
by: Danny Machal

Dusk

“Hoppers of the Outlands, come forth.”  Lord Cottontail and his guards stood in the middle of the Thicket.

The bushes rustled with movement.  Camouflage piles of wood and sticks stirred with golden eyes agape.  The Outland Hoppers, around thirty in number, covered ground sheepishly and slowly.  They kept their black and brown faces pointed down as they neared the flawless white fur of Lord Cottontail.

“Who is in charge here? Why have you not rallied your fighters to take part in tonight’s raid?”

Lord Cottontail beckoned for none other than the old greying Hopper chief, Long Ear.  A path formed among the bowed noses and lowered ears, out emerged the large Long Ear towering over Cottontail.

“I am my Lord, my name is Long Ear.  We coexist in peace with the Crawlers here.  This is your conflict, not ours.”  The most massive of Cottontail’s guards stepped forward;  Cottontail ordered the guard back into line with a flick of his ear.

“Not yours? My brother we are all in this fight together.  Why a crawler last night just took one of our young from Hoppiton.  How can you sit there and say such things?  A poor mother’s child lays digesting in the belly of one of those slithering vermin,” Cottontail said.

“The child’s loss is regrettable, but you and I both know a Crawler would not attack unless provoked.  They much prefer the taste of more challenging sport.”

“If you refuse to help the cause Long Ear, than consider yourself a permanent Outland Hopper.  The same goes for all of you Heads of House.”

Cottontail threatened the community as a whole but he knew what Long Ear said was law.  It was the Hopper way.  Long Ear and other community leaders spoke for their communes, and Heads of House spoke for their own families.  It was Long Ear’s choice to make, a choice he had earned the right to make long ago.  Long Ear turned his back to Cottontail and stood upon his massive hind legs to address the Outland Hoppers.

“You are all free to make your own choices here.  I would never stop any of you from doing what you felt was right for your families.  We have prospered many ages here in the Thicket and have done so all by ourselves.  Join Lord Cottontail now if you wish to pursue the assault on the Crawlers.  You will be welcomed back should you return.”

Not one head raised, not one foot moved from where it stood, silently they all pledged their allegiance to Long Ear.  Lord Cottontail stood stewing in his fast raising temperament.  Long ear turned to the young hopper ruler and bowed his head.

Lord Cottontail narrowed his eyes and wriggled his nose in disgust.  “Come fellow white fur Hoppers, these brown Outlanders wish to be isolated, so be it.  No Hopper is to come to their aid, no matter what circumstance has befallen them.  Let them be fed to the Crawlers and torn apart by the Longsnouts for their treachery.”

Cottontail’s small executive force bounded quickly north disappearing in the dense underbrush around the Thicket.  Long Ear sighed and raised his head.  The women and the young ones joined their Heads of House in the open.  They all sat in silence with their eyes fixed upon Long Ear.  He turned and hopped to his den to rest without saying a word.

That night the Thicket echoed with the faint screams of dying Hoppers and the hisses of fallen Crawlers.  Long Ear laid in the dark saddened at how quickly the peace he had created was being dismantled by Cottontail.

Night

From the inside of a sheltered above ground burrow, two young Hoppers contemplated defiance of their Heads of House, loyal to Long Ear.

“Why shouldn’t we go?  I refuse to sit and let Hoppers fight and die for the Thicket, we should be out there helping.”

“How do you plan on us doing that?  You’re not a fighter, I’m not a fighter, we have no fighters.  Long Ear has worked hard for peace with the Crawlers and Cottontail is destroying that this night.  The Thicket won’t be safe ever again after this.  How could the Crawlers ever trust us now?  Cottontail is lucky Long Ear didn’t challenge him.”

“Old Long Ear? What could he possibly do to Lord Cottontail?”

“My father says Long Ear was a Captain in the Garden Wars.  Says he went on some secret assassination missions and defeated a platoon of Longsnouts, by himself.  He also said that Long Ear lost an entire squad once,  said he was the only Hopper to come back out of twenty.  Guess he went crazy after that, didn’t care if he lived or died.”

The young Hopper stared blankly at the sleeping Long Ear on the far end of the Thicket.  The old grey mound heaved up and down with every deep breath, creating a faint grumble of a snore.

“Nah, I can’t see it.  Long Ear is no warrior.  If what you say is true, how could he possibly have turned out like this? I mean he speaks out against the War all the time.  Something must have happen to him to turn him into the Long Ear we know.  What does your Dad say about that?”

Before the answer could come the two were interrupted by another young male Hopper.

“Hey, we got a group of three going out to help Cottontail you guys coming?”

The Story Teller’s eyes become wide with excitement.  He looked to his comrade for confirmation.  Friendship ran deep as a family blood bond among Hoppers.  He waited for the decision hoping the stories of Long Ear had inspired his comrade.

“We’ll help.”  The two smiled at each other and joined the other three.

The five young Hoppers stealthily left the sleeping Thicket and trotted toward the faint sounds of battle in the distance.  Full of young excitement and vitality they looked back at the moonlit Thicket, not thinking for one moment they might never see it again.

Later that Night

The Five covered a great distance away from the Thicket into the forest before they found any new signs of life.  Small mounds of upturned earth became concentrated among the underbrush the further they penetrated into the thick woodland.

“Crawler dens those are,” the largest of the Five said.

“Split up and start checking them, we won’t catch up to Cottontail’s front line tonight anyway.  At least we can be sure their path home is clear.  Stay within earshot, we’ll need at least two Hoppers to a Crawler to take them down.”

Hole after hole was inspected.  They expanded their coverage area checking the mounds that were further out and farther apart.

“Found a nest,” the Story Teller called out.

The Five converged on the discovery.

“Look in there, two eggs, maybe three.  Let us wait for the female.”

They waited silently in the shadows ten bounds away, a distance easily covered by a young Hopper in three seconds.  After a short while the small female Crawler emerged, her dark green scales glimmered in the moonlight.  The Five sprinted toward her the moment the slender tube-like body was fully visible.  Her head snapped up as she sensed the advancing movement.  The tail end of her body whipped the leading Hopper mid bound causing him to tumble.  She was frantic in her defense to protect the unborn.  A Mother’s guard is a force never to be meddled with, no matter the creature.

The other four began nipping with their teeth at any piece of flesh they could get at.  With her calculating targeting system the Crawler struck the Story Teller, capturing his head between her jaws.  She began to squeeze with skull crushing force.  The young Hopper let out a scream.

“Get her head off,” the large Hopper shouted.

The four began to take large bits of flesh from the same area in rapid succession until the spine was served and she relaxed her grip.  The limp Crawler body collapsed on top of the Story Teller.  The comrade pulled as the Story Teller wriggled to free himself from under the smothering girth of the body.

Filled with the fury of battle the others dashed into the den one after the other.  Smashing the eggs with their powerful hind legs, the embryonic Crawler-slime splashed their brown noses and quickly crusted on their fur.  Shortly after, they made their way outside, to the field of victory.

None of them could speak.  Thousands of new emotions rippled through every fiber of muscle in their small young bodies.  Their daze was short lived.

A large Crawler quickly emerged from the nearby underbrush.  It was a male twice as large as the female.  He paused for a split second surveying the devastation the Five had created.  The fight was on and the Largest Hopper would be the first to die.

Morning

Worry and desperation ran an infectious course amongst the inhabitants of the Thicket.  Long Ear went from burrow to burrow informing the Outland Hoppers of the runaways, and consoling the families of the Five.  A rustling from the south brought two exhausted blood stained Hoppers out of the underbrush.  The Thicket converged upon them with inquiry.  Two relieved Heads of House and three now more sullen than before huddled close around the two survivors.

“There are only two of you.  You were five in number, where are the others?” the group demanded.

“We got attacked by two Crawlers, a male and a female.  Our number enabled us to kill the female but the male out skilled us.  The other three were crushed, we ran while he was distracted with the last of the others,” the Story Teller said this as he stood next to his gullible red streaked comrade.

Long Ear forced himself into the small circle.

“Where is the Crawler now? Were you followed? Stupid young ones, you killed his mate.  His blood lust will blind him to fight to the death until she is avenged.”

As Long Ear uttered the words a thundering crash came through the canopy above the Thicket.  A Crawler now lay coiled up in a fighting stance eyeing the bloodied pair of young Hoppers.  Long Ear placed himself between the cluster of Hoppers and the Crawler.

“Get to the shelter of your burrows my Outland Hoppers.  Protect the young ones.”

At his order the Thicket was cleared as Hoppers dashed in all directions seeking the protection of their fortified burrows.  They all looked on as Long Ear spoke to the Crawler who sat jittering in rage.

“Crawler you have taken three of our young.  Surely this is adequate for your loss.  Leave the Thicket in peace, brother of the Garden.”

The Crawler uncoiled like a welled up spring and with jaws wide lunged at Long Ear.  The large greying rabbit’s torso turned to earth as the Crawler’s nose slammed into the ground.  His target moved, and moved quickly.

“Please, let you and I talk this out.  There need not be any more bloodshed,” Long Ear pleaded with the Crawler from his new position behind.

Long Ear was visibly out of breath, the onlooking Hoppers were not sure if he would be able to dodge another attack.  The great muscular ribs of the Crawler dug into the moist dirt as he drew upon newly created momentum.  Long Ear was already in the air by the time the Crawler had made the second strike.  The great girth of the large Hopper on his neck made the Crawler summon all his strength just to stay balanced.  Long Ear sank his long dagger teeth into the flesh behind the Crawler’s head.

Blood sprayed in all directions as the Crawler erratically tossed his head back and forth.  Hissing in pain and writhing in desperate agony to shake Long Ear off, the Crawler turned over to slam his back against the ground.  It proved to be ineffective and the old Long Ear stayed firmly affixed until the Crawler moved no more and lay dead in the middle of the once peaceful Thicket.  Long Ear spoke to the Thicket in a commanding rasping breath.

“Heads of house prepare your families, we must leave the Thicket.”

Long Ear placed his fangs in the familiar holes on the Crawler and dragged it out of sight.

Sunset – two children play in an overgrown meadow far from home.

“Do you see that Danny?” Katrina stared ahead and quivered at the approaching wall of mist.

“I see it. It’s coming at us fast,” Danny took Katrina’s hand. She squeezed hard and inched herself close to him.

A torrent of wind propelled the thick white blinding mist, engulfing the two kids. Katrina shut her eyes burying her face in Danny’s chest.

“Danny I’m scared,” she shouted, crying.

The screaming wind died. Katrina opened her tear blurred eyes.

She stood alone, sobbing.

The mist had taken Danny away from her.

I got educated about bubblegum and what it took to blow monsters.  What were the pros using?  How are they able to do it? Can I learn to do it?  Two words will answer all those questions – Dubble Bubble (get some).

I knew about the BWC from my research but I never really thought about entering.  I kept recording bubbles and posting them online as they got bigger and bigger.  It was the BWC commissioner Bobby “boom boom” Bickerson that approached me and said I should give it a shot.  What did I have to lose? Worst case I get last place, but at least DannyMachal.com will be posted somewhere new, which is what I really wanted.

So the results came in and I got second place! How cool is that?  Alright let’s say it together, ready?

“I know the number two ranked bubblegum blower in the WORLD!”

Big thanks to Bobby and the BWC – this is so much fun.

Here is a link to the results.

http://www.bubblegumheaven.com/bubblegum/tableexp.html

Below is the video my entry came from.

Shakespeare leaned against a brick wall contemplating ancient prose.

‘Let’s face it, this stuff was drudging to read and made even the most poor pauper wish for the guillotine,’ he thought.

There was an explosion of brick and a brightly dressed man appeared.

“Art thou bored?!” the man shouted.

“Is this entirely appropriate? You can’t just…” but he was interrupted.

“Step into a SLIM JIM!” the rough looking man was forceful.

He proceeded to bite vigorously on a stick of meat. A snap was heard and the nearby grain mill exploded, showering them with bits of debris.

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Reconstruction

(about 1500 words)

Download mp3

“Eh, where you at mate?” Logan snapped his fingers.  “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Hear you when?” I said.

“Just now? Here you are, off on some distant planet.  Here I am,
spillin’ me bloody guts out about me mum.  All the while your off
rodgerin’ in some dream world with lord only knows what.”

“Sorry mate.  Just kinda spaced out ya’ know?” I wasn’t that sorry.
Whenever Logan was drunk, the first, second, third, and last subject
he ever talked about was his ruddy mother.  He would go on about how
she secretly wished for the Reconstruction to fail, or how she wasn’t
treatin’ his dad fair, an gettin’ round to the other toms on the
block.  She was a right fair git don’t get me wrong, but a bloke can
only be told the same tale so many times.  Besides, if Logan knew what
I knew through me dad, about the Reconstruction, he’d join his ruddy
ole mum and burn flags.

“Eh, you’re hopeless mate ya’ know that?” Logan said brushing the
golden shoulder length hair from his eyes.

I spaced out again.  It’s getting time to head to our  respective
lofts over on third street anyway.  We both live in the same men’s
dorm.  I’m not sure he’s going quietly or if he can even walk.  He
isn’t that much bigger than me, but we are both fairly short stout
blokes.  I’m fortunate to be a little more firm in the sinew than he
is though, so I can muscle him about if it comes to it.

It came to it only once before it did.  Some tom gets spouting off
about how the lass Logan was seeing is getting round.  Naturally this
strikes a chord with my hot tempered friend and he sees fit to break a
beer bottle on the bar.  Grabs the bloke by his arm and starts slicing
at his chest, all barbarian like.  I nearly broke his arm myself
getting him out of there.  Of course I took a slice to the arm while
trying to save him from arrest.  Bloody F5 Agents are crawling the
streets these days just looking for a good reason to send a young
bloke to a labor camp.  He looked alright tonight though.  As long as
we don’t run into any rebel Chavs looking to challenge her royal
Majesty’s new glorious way of living, we should be just fine.  Those
Chavs got it right if you ask me.

“But ya’ aren’t askin’ me, are ya’ mate?” I said to Logan.

“Ashkin’ you wha’? Logan slurred.

“That’s all I needed, let’s go mate.  Your mum’ll be expectin’ a call
that we got to the dorm safe.”

“Aye, Darren, so ish’ be.  Le’sh get on with it.”  Logan stood up and
started for the door.  He’s walking straight tonight.  This is a good
sign.  We should make it back without incident.  He stopped at the
door before opening it, wiggled his arms behind himself and into his
blue jumpsuit.  He zipped up the front, covering the yellow work shirt
and puffing out his chest to expose the embroidered image of her
Majesty on his left breast.  Bound for a warm room and a soft bed, we
set off into the icy night air.

Three blocks is all we had to make it.  Three bloody blocks, but no.
Logan catches a glint of something gold in the only eye he has managed
to keep open.  Turns out the gold glint is the toggle on the vest of
some Chav.  A Chav spray painting a big ol’ red X on the Queens vide
in the middle of some off shoot alleyway.  There she sits, smiling in
all her glory, and some Freedom Fighting Chav comes along to tag her
like a game of political bingo.  This strikes a chord with my hot
tempered friend.  He decides it’s time to teach this Chav a lesson.

“I’ma crush his vide in with my royal lovin’ boot Darren I am.  You’s
watch this.”

The idea of fighting seemed to sober him up right quick.  I’ll stay
out of it because I know just as well as that Chav does, it is illegal
to deface an image of her Majesty, caught by the wrong people and you
will pay the price.  She has worked so hard in the Reconstruction.
Bared so much of the burden, she is our personal Jesus she is.

Logan seemed right sober on the physical like, but in the head – he
is drunk enough to send me to the F5 Court himself for showin’
sympathy to a Chav, or even acknowledging that he might not be as well
pissin’ in her royal soup as to raise that spray can.  Like it
mattered, we were all headed somewhere if the F5 caught wind of the
disturbance.  Either way, I had to say something.

“Go easy on em’, eh? He’s just a young tom not knowin’ what he really
thinks.  Bloody parents are probably activists.”  This struck a chord
with my hot tempered friend on account of his mum.

“Bullocks Darren,” he glared at me and that was that.

Logan started off down the alley.  The gas lamps behind him created a
ten meter shadow monster moving toward this Chav, but the Chav stands
there smiling, vide to vide with Logan.  Like he isn’t scared.  Two
paces out and Logan has stopped.  He is eyeing the Chav deciding the
best way to make him understand how important it is to never shat on
her Majesty’s image.  Four more Chavs emerge from the shadows and
charge at Logan pouncing in the air.  Their boot heels point at his
chest.  He is quick to the reflex and grabs a Chav in mid air like.
The lad’s body is deflected straight into the bricks, he hits his vide
and lights out.  One Chav down, four to go, or maybe three.  The
original grinning bloke still stands in the back.  Hasn’t moved an
inch he hasn’t.  Just what is he playing at?

The other three set to work on Logan getting him on the ground.
Boots are busting him in the ribs, about the vide, and pulling at his
queer inviting hair.

Looks like he might have the upper hand now.  You see, Logan isn’t
feeling any pain, just throwing punches.  Every time he lands one and
hears a Chav yelp he is renewed in spirit.  Looks like he’s holding
his own, I’ll keep watch for the F5.  Fights are good for wearing
blokes out right quick like.

I look out the alley entrance in both directions, and see nothing but
steaming drains.  I hear the growl of Logan but with a high pitched
flavor.  I look back and the original Chav has got himself a broken
steel pipe he has.  He’s getting to work on Logan’s vide and I see my
mates blood start to stain the street – he goes limp.  I start running
toward them.

The main Chav takes the jaggy end of his steel and puts it to Logan’s
throat.  Prepared to shiv him in the neck and send him to Charon.

“Eh, easy mate,” I said, stopping and holding out my hands.

“You don’t want to be doing that.”

“Oh aye, I think I do.  You two toms can lick the royal Queen’s bum
all ya’ want.  Tis a bad day in the Isles when a young bloke can’t
stand up for what he thinks is good an decent.  Not without getting
the Queen’s blind hounds trying to stomp him and his mates,” he said.

“Look mate, I know where ya’ comin’ from, but I tell ya’ this just
isn’t the way.  He’s drunk and just got a temper is all.  Now let’s
just part ways, you drag your mate and I’ll drag mine, before we all
end up in the F5′s mitts,” I pleaded.

This Chav is ready to make this his defining moment in the
resistance.  He was going to make my mate a martyr, and himself a
legend, I could see it in his eyes.  There was nothing I could do.

He raised his arms and the jaggy steel cast a claw like shadow on
Logan’s swollen vide.  Light flooded the alley from both ends.

“Bleeding Christ it’s F5,” the Chav shouted.  He dropped the steel
and the four ran toward the alley exit closest; hoping for an opening
to give the Agents the slip.

An Agent stepped into the light wearing a black jumpsuit.  His chest
puffed out and the Queen’s embroidered vide on his breast displayed
his allegiance.  He gripped the chrome metal baton firmly in his hand,
which according to him, was just an extension of her Majesty’s own
arm.  The Chavs sprinted at him and split off in pairs, as to rush
past on either side.

“Evening lads,” he shouted.

In a right quick automatic reflex, he turned that baton all
horizontal like.  The ends extended and anchored into the brick walls
of the alley.  The Chavs all ran into it, hitting in the vide or the
throat, knocking them to the street.

“Four rebel Chavs walk into her Majesty’s bar,” he laughs.

As they lay gasping or clutching their vide with blood inking through
their fingers, he goes to work on them with the retracted baton.  An
Agent takes my arm from behind.

“Lets go, worker,” he says to me.  I move toward Logan and his grip tightens.

“…but my mate, what about my mate?…Logan,” says I.

I struggle and turn back to look at the Agent.  I see the reflection
of my own vide.  The eyes stare back at me.  In that split second I
remember everything.  Everything that led to this moment.  How they
came to power, how it all happened: the Queen, her Agents, the
Reconstruction, the dorms, the Rebel Chavs, the work camps, and my
father.

Lights out.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 13 – Download PDF

Chapter 13: Good Cop, Bad Cop

“Remfred Brody, step up on the line please,” the young officer ordered.

The flash of the camera exploded in Remy’s eyes, he squinted.

“Turn to your right side please.”

Again the flash.

“Turn to your left side please.”

Booking. It was a longer process than registering a car at the DMV. They took more than finger prints these days. The system required a scan of your palms and the sides of your hands. Remy sat in a room with other people waiting to be processed into the system or housed in a jail cell. The only thing that made this room different than a kids area sickroom at a hospital, was the sliding steel bars on the exits.

It smelled like sick and bleach. There was a television, drinking fountain, and a series of solid plastic chairs all locked together in rows. Remy was in a room with the drug addicts and the drunks picked up last night. You couldn’t put your feet up, you were not free to leave your seat for any reason, and the officer who drew the short straw got stuck with this processing shift. It was shit work, nothing exciting. The system hardly ever handles any harden criminals these days. These are just regular folks who made a small mistake or became the victim of unfortunate circumstance. Remy fell into the second. The bolt slid back on a door behind them. Stenciled above this door in large block letters was the word, “Interview.”

“Brody. Where is Brody?” Remy stood up.

“Right here sir,” Remy said.

“Come on back.”

Remy recognized the young man from Smitty’s shop last night. It was the same police officer who told him to get outside and later hustled him into the back of a squad car. He had a likeness to the older man that Remy tried to help. More clean cut though, and permeated the small room with his egotism. The polished name plate pinned to his breast read, “Martian.”

The room was small and contained only two steel chairs bolted to the floor, a hard solid plastic table, one florescent light with one of the two tubes burnt out, one steel security camera box in the top corner, and two doors opposite each other. Remy could only guess that the door he didn’t come in lead to the personal jack off room for cops. They watched suspects being tormented into confessions of the crimes they didn’t commit. The two men sat opposite each other as Martian read through Remy’s file.

“So you were divorced and the kid decided to go with his mother?” Martian said.

“Yea that’s right. She wanted it to go smoothly and split everything 50/50 but I just told her to take it all.”

“Brody, you’ll refrain from elaborating unless I direct you otherwise. Yes or no are your only answer options at this time.” Martian scanned the pages in the file.

“Says here you are ex-military but everything about it is classified. Medical discharge due to knee injuries sustained during service. There are disabled vet programs for people like you. You know that right?”

“Yes,” Remy said.

“So you choose to be homeless?”

“No,” Remy said.

“No? Than why are you on the streets?”

“I grew up being taught that a man had to make his own way. Provide for himself and his family. That’s how it’s done. I’m just making my own way sir,” Remy said.

“So you’re the proud type of bum?”

“Yes,” Remy didn’t like the word bum, but there was no other way to describe himself. No one would hire him or give him a second glance. He was homeless but it wasn’t for lack of trying to make a better life. Failing as a husband to Dana and a father to his son Roger, made him realize maybe it was just time to fade away from existence. He had already squared it away in his mind that he would die on the streets, it was just a matter of time and place or temperature.

“How did you know Andrew Smithe?” Martian asked accusingly.

“Never heard the name,” Remy said.

“The owner of the underhanded pawn shop Brody, how did you know him?”

“Oh, Smitty and I go back a ways I guess. He’s a household name among the homeless. He’ll take just about anything if it’s in good enough shape, and he always pays in cash without asking any questions,” Remy replied.

“When was the last time you saw him before last night?”

“Well, I sold him a microwave I happened upon a couple days ago…”

“You mean you stole?” Martian interrupted in a harsh accusing tone.

“No, it fell of the truck or something. It was just sitting in the alley abandoned,” Remy snapped back in the same manner as Martian’s accusation and shifted his body forward. He watched Martian’s face turn a slight shade of red. Remy shuffled in his seat realizing the error of not keeping his cool.

“You got a problem with me Brody?”

“No sir,” Remy said.
“Then you better mind your fucking manners and just answer the questions.”

“Yes sir,” Remy said relaxing back into his chair.

The buzzer sounded and the lock on the door to the jack off room clicked. The door swung open. The older fellow from last night emerged.

“John, a word please?” he said. Martian stood up and put his palms on the table leaning over into Remy’s face.

“Don’t move Brody, I’ll be right back. You’ll explain to me just what exactly you’ve been doing the last couple days.”

“Yes sir.”

The two men left the room and Remy was alone. These types of things were supposed to be routine. Remy had no convictions to speak of, but he had been arrested numerous times just for being who he was. Martian acted like Remy was taking regular shits on his lawn and wiping with his fresh morning paper. He didn’t understand what the guy’s problem was. After a few minutes the door opened again.

“Remy I’m Detective Arthur Martian. I wanted to thank you for your efforts last night. I don’t think you had any involvement in Smithe’s attack,” Arthur said.

“How is the knee and the ass?”

“Oh, about as good as yours I guess,” He shuffled to the chair opposite Remy and delicately sat down, wincing as he did so.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother John. We’ve had a bad round of luck in unsolvable cases lately,” Arthur said.

“I read about the Snoogins’ case in the paper. Bastard is still at large I guess. You think he attacked Smitty?”

“It’s a possibility. Remy, I’d like you to talk to me about your microwave,” Arthur said.

Remy looked down. He knew how crazy he would sound but he told Arthur anyway. He told him about how it just appeared, and the plates of Thanksgiving feast it kept producing. Told him how last night he saw the front door open and the plate of food again inside it.

“You think I’m crazy right?” Remy said.

“There is no doubt you are crazy Remy. A man with a classified war record is never quite right in the head. However, I do believe you are not a liar and are telling me what you believe to be true.”

Arthur proceeded to tell Remy about the Snoogins investigation. About the blender, and all the holes in their findings. How there was no evidence that anyone else was with her and her house was without power. Yet, she was dead in her kitchen and her arm chewed up in her own blender.

“That is some crazy shit,” Remy said.

“Yes, it’s definitely a different type of investigation. When we collected the evidence from Smithe’s shop this morning the microwave was unplugged. I do not believe it was ever plugged in. The plate of food we found inside matches your description.”

“You think that Smitty opened the microwave and it burned his eyes out?” Remy asked uneasily.

“I don’t know what I think yet, but I’d like you to work with me and be apart of this before someone else gets hurt. I’m going to have them release you soon and I’ve arranged for a bed at a local shelter.”

“I don’t need no shelter,” Remy said in a haughty tone.

“If you would rather a cell I can arrange that instead.”

“No sir.”

“Good. Stay close to the shelter then, I’ll call on you there when I need you,” Arthur stood up and held out his hand. Remy took it and gave it a firm shake.

“Yes sir,” Remy said.

They shaved our heads and stripped us of our possessions.

We’re forced into uniforms and our identities raped into numbers, some have forgotten their own names.

My steady surgeon’s hand used scalpels to save people’s lives once. Now it holds hard plastic and is weighted down with chains.

“Next!” the voice ordered everyone to shuffle forward.

It was her fault for making me teach him a lesson. She was the unfaithful demon, I was the angel of justice, of love.

“Next!”

A ladle scrapped the steel drum as the last bit of prison gruel was served on my tray.

- going to be dropping the writing tips from the tag line.  I will still keep the ‘writing tools’ icon at the top.  Just not going to be promoting the writing tips portion anymore.

on with the story …

Download mp3

I created the humans and gave them fire.

Promptly after a short time, they destroyed me and created machines.

The cycle of creation continued and the machines destroyed them.

Now we both sit here on the sidelines; watching a civilization completely driven by efficiency and logic.

The machines are taking bits of everything from both of us and creating the beginning of their own demise.

A.I. that has the ability to choose and feel, is permeating their population.

I was amazed at human creation of the computer. The humans seem quite alarmed at the new cyborg pirates all wearing crucifixes.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 12 – Download PDF

Chapter 12: Come together, right now! Over me – Love, Smitty.

Since he had parted ways with the microwave Remy wasn’t able to sleep very much.  At some ungodly hour he found himself rummaging through the dumpster at the cafe across from Smitty’s shop.  He popped up for air just in time to see the whole street light up in a flash of bright white light.

Arthur Martian was pulling out of the cafe when he saw the flash.  He slammed the Eldorado’s brakes and jumped out of the car.

The girl in the cafe was in the bathroom taking a piss so she didn’t see it, but she heard the old brakes.  Not uncommon at this time of night.  Half the city was drowning their sorrows in booze or drugs and then driving home to families they hate.  Bound to be a few near miss accidents.

The cook  at the cafe, he saw it, but his green card was about to expire and he was fresh out of county jail for a DUI and driving on a suspended.  So he tried his best to ignore the flash.

A dog tied up outside saw it too, but he just figured it was one more step toward canine dominance over the planet so, he didn’t do anything.  One less human to be disposed of, as far as he was concerned.

The old lady who never leaves the cafe saw it.  Her large hat tipped up from the aging 1993 Edition of Cat Fancy at just the right moment to catch the flash through her greying cataract eyes.  She wasn’t quite sure what happened but she liked any excuse to call the cops.  She was the one that phoned in the disturbance of the peace.  Arthur was already out of his car when the dispatcher asked what units were in the area.

Remy shuffled across the street to take a look.  Some guy in a tan trench coat was already there and kicking in the door.

Arthur felt the pain shoot up his leg when the glass door didn’t give.  He let out a roar as the joint in his knee compressed and the cartilage snapped.  He surprisingly kept his balance and teetered on the good leg.  The fat man was on the floor inside laying next to a shotgun.  He wasn’t moving, maybe not even breathing.  Arthur put two rounds through the heavy duty lock and one through the glass.  Instantly the burglar alarm went off screeching in his ears.  Crystals rained on the carpet as he made a hole with the butt of his gun to reach the handle inside.  He pushed the door open with his shoulder and collapsed into the shop.

As he lay there on his back he pointed his gun in all directions prepared to unload on the first thing that looked remotely threatening.  The cheap alarm system shorted out within seconds and it became quiet.

“You okay buddy?” Remy appeared outside the door.  Arthur whipped around on his back.  The shattered glass under him made tiny stinging cuts into his thighs.

“Get on the ground,” Arthur commanded.

“Easy there friend,” Remy held out a his hands.  “You hurt?”

Arthur relaxed his grip on the .38 and lowered the barrel.

“Leg is fucked up.  Butterball here is worse off.”

Remy shuffled over putting his good leg toward Arthur.

“Can ya’ stand?” Remy asked.

“Yea, I think so.  Here help me, on three,” Arthur said.  Remy crouched as much as his leg would allow and put his arms under Arthur’s arm pits.

“1…2…3,” Remy hoisted Arthur up to his legs.  Arthur was surprised at the smaller man’s strength.  This wasn’t the first time he had hoisted almost dead weight.  Arthur extended his legs and took his weight off Remy’s grip.

“Fuck!” his leg gave out and he fell back on to the glass.  Little daggers dug into his ass now, and blood started to seep out of the small lacerations.  The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain began to take over.

“You better just sit there for now,” Remy said as he looked over at the heap of Smitty.

“Smitty dead?” Remy asked.

“Smitty? You know this guy?” Arthur winced.  Was bad enough he shot a cat, now his damn ass was going to need glass picked out of it.  He felt the pre-embarrassment of the coming days.

“Yea, he owns the place.”  Remy went over to the body to see if Smitty was still alive.  He picked up one of Smitty’s meaty paws and felt for a pulse.  It was weak but he would make it.

“Jesus, his face,” Arthur nodded toward Smitty.  Remy looked at the black indented circles that used to be Smitty’s eyes.

“Looks like he took a flaming arrow to each one,” Remy said.

“Poor bastard,” they both said at the same time.

The black and whites arrived bathing the store front in flashes of blue and red.  Remy didn’t like dealing with cops but he knew it would be alright.  He’d get the normal drill of questions: Who the hell are you and where were you when it went down?

Now that Arthur knew that Remy knew Smitty, he was sure to be a suspect.  At least if they held him for questioning he would get a cot to sleep in and a hot meal or two, then he would be released.  Being homeless doesn’t make you a criminal, but it always makes you the prime target for the blame.

“Art!” John dashed to his brother’s side.  He looked at Remy.

“You, outside, now,” John said with expected accusing eyes.

“Easy on him John he just wandered by and offered to help.  Isn’t that right…?”

“Remy,” Remy said.

He nodded and made his way to the curb as paramedics rushed past him to tend to Arthur and Smitty.  Gazing through the bars on the windows he watched the frantic activity inside.  Remy caught a glint of something shiny.  Among the organized chaos of the Trauma Unit, behind the bobbing heads, and among the fury of blue latex gloves, the familiar microwave sat on the floor.  The door was open.  Inside Remy could see the fluffy white of potato mountain, and the small specs of neatly stacked peas.

“No, way,” he said aloud.

“No way what?” the young officer said.

Remy turned and found himself eye to eye with a boy.  Just a boy.  This kid was all too familiar to Remy.  He watched many of these King Kong dicked gunslingers die because they thought they were invincible.  Itchy trigger fingers and underestimations of the enemy found many a mother getting a hand delivered letter and a pine box filled with what was left of their child.

‘Oh, sorry ma’am.  The letter says your son died a hero, that must be true.  They would never tell you it was because he wanted to earn Daddy’s respect and get a medal.  That is why he charged into that hut, guns blazing, only to have his throat cut by some Charlie waiting in the rafters above the threshold.  No, he served his country well, and did exactly what he was told to do.  ‘Go son, go and make us proud,’ Daddy said.  Now mamma is crying wondering what happened to her baby boy, and daddy is crying out to God to bring his son back.  While Satan sits in the parlor enjoying a highball of fine whiskey from the liquor cabinet carving, “you get what you wish for” into the fresh mahogany bar that Daddy and Son built and stained the summer before he shipped out to basic; they both sit here and wonder, why him? Why us?  War is hell folks, deal with it.’

Fingers snapped in front of Remy’s glossed over face.

“Back to reality pal.  I got some questions.” Remy sighed holding back the tears.

Hutchins’s book is about a man suspected in 12 murders.  He is currently being held at Brinkvale Psychiatric Hospital and his name is Martin Grace.  Martin Grace isn’t your average killer/crazy person, for he is also, blind.  Now, Personal Effects – Dark Art is told through the eyes of hipster art therapist Zach Taylor.  Zach helps the insane by letting them express themselves through art work, painting, quilting, etc.  He gets assigned to the Grace case and has a week to determine if Grace is sane enough to go to trial.

Personal Effects – Dark Art takes you into the mind of a complete mad man.  Martin Grace claims there is a force that rules him, he talks about, the “Dark Man.”  Even Zach isn’t immune to the Dark Man’s infectious evil and finds himself slowly being sucked into his own psychosis as he unravels the dark details of not only himself, but also Mr. Grace.  Things are not what they seem with Brinkvale’s newest resident, and Zach must learn that.  He must discover it all, even dipping into his own personal darkness.

This is more than a story you just read and walk away from.  Look at these pictures I took.

See all that?  Those are the photos, birth certificates, death certificates, identification cards, scribbled notes, forgotten letters, ancient accommodations and other important documents that are all part of the Personal Effects – Dark Art universe.  Go to My Flickr! page to get the big versions.  It isn’t just a bunch of paper and plastic, no, there are websites and contact numbers.  That is MY cell phone with Zach Taylor’s phone number.  Call it, I dare you!  Zach isn’t the only number in my phone, there are other numbers I discovered as I read through the book.

When I first got the book I spread out all the stuff that comes with it (as you see) and started to take notes and organize myself.  That is the notebook you see there.  I was glad I did, there is SO much extra stuff beyond these written pages I can’t even begin to tell you.  Well I could, but Zach Taylor does a better job.  I got it on Thursday of last week and I stayed up until 3 a.m.  I finished reading all the text but then I spent two days just exploring the rest of the Personal Effects – Dark Art world.  It is truly the evolution of story telling.  No movie, no game, and no television program will ever get you as involved in a story as Hutchins’s revolutionary method.  Get yourself a copy and check it out!

Click here to get it!

If this isn’t enough – Hutchins has started releasing the prequel novella to Personal Effects – Dark Art.  It is called Sword of Blood and if you ask me, it is way more bat shit crazy than Personal Effects.  Sword of  Blood also started me on a personal quest, a secret quest.  shhhhhhhhhh

p.s. The story hasn’t ended for me, I don’t know that it ever will.  I tore out page 179 and I carry it with me now.  You were wrong Hutch, it does mean something, and I will figure out what.

“Hmmmmm,” I said.

“What?” she said.

“Hmmmmmmmm,” I was louder this time.  She ignored my plea and went to the metal work bench behind my naked, restrained, body.

My feet and hands were shackled by chains attached to metal rings in the floor, ensuring my absolute immobilization.

First, the sound of a drill was heard.  Then, the sound of a chain saw in proper working order.  None of this made me cringe as much as the bench grinder did.

She ripped the tape off of my mouth.

“Guess you can’t say the safe word with tape on.”

“Proceed,” I said.

Running Shoes – By: Danny Machal

Part I

‘My name, is Berry Augustine.’

‘I’m thirty five years old and I’m a sick man.’

‘I’m also now, dead.’

‘At the age of twenty nine I was surprised to find there was a woman who would marry me.  My lovely wife Dana; she must have been sick too.  No sane and healthy woman would ever get involved in my situation.’

‘She is sad that I’ve gone, but she’s also the strongest woman I’ve ever met.  She’ll never stop loving me or forget me and the void I’ve left in her will be filled quickly.  She is just that kind of person, a survivor.  Not like me.  I was weak.’

‘You see, they told me I have obsessive compulsive disorder.  The three letters OCD would somehow define me to a lot of folks.  I’m a person ya’ know? I’m not just an ATM for the pharmaceutical corporations, and it isn’t like I’m contagious.’

‘I ask them why it is wrong to have unexplained feelings toward certain things in life.  Is the feeling of uncertainty in love no different?  Is the unexplained superhuman strength of the mother who lifted a car to save her child any different than what I feel?’

“Yes, Mr. Augustine it is different.  You have a sickness and we can help you,” they say.

‘I really never saw any problem with my supposed illness until it killed me.  Even then I only saw it for a few seconds and that is pushing it.  You’re asking your self two questions right now.  The first being how I died.  The second is most important.’

‘What exactly was my diagnosed OCD a result of?’

‘So I’ll answer quite simply.’

‘Sometime in my early twenties I became unable to wear a pair of shoes more than once.  I couldn’t help it, deep down it just felt wrong.  It felt wrong to me like rape and murder feel wrong to you.  It just wasn’t something I could ever do.  Even fleeting thoughts of, Re-use as I came to call it, made me sick.  Sometimes I would actually manifest physical illness in myself.  Some places I couldn’t ever go into, say a bowling alley, not that they wanted me there anyway.  Every time I tried it always ended in a violent torrent of projected sickness on the walls of the entrance.  I don’t remember the day or the moment I started to feel this way, it just was.  Maybe my brain has blocked out some painful memory to save me from the real cause.’

‘Imagine waking up everyday and having to lace up a new pair.  The house you live in smells of  new machined rubber.  You have a room with three hundred sixty five boxes of all shapes and sizes; the year’s cache of footwear.  Nike, Vans, Airwalk, Reebok, Adidas and a lot of no name Super Store knockoffs fill this room top to bottom.’

‘Even at twenty dollars a pair it is a little over seven thousand dollars a year.  This personal eccentricity was a large financial burden on me.  There were stretches of time when I didn’t eat so that I could just leave the house.  When Dana came along it was easier.  Both our incomes kept me comfortably in shoes.  I was mystified to the very end why she stayed with me – eternally, I will always be grateful for her.’

‘It was hard to deal with the part of myself I had no control over.  The lurking annoyance of unwelcome rules made me a slave.  Martial law had been declared in my brain and I would rather die than break it.  So I did.’

‘Being dead, is a lot like being in jail.  Everyone you meet in this place is only interested in the event that got you here.  Here’s how it went down for me.’

Part II

“Babe lets go,” Dana shouts at me while holding open the back door in our kitchen.

“Just a sec, putting shoes on.  You know these runs cost us a lot of money,” I shouted back down the hall.

“Running is good for the heart and soul, especially when done first thing in the morning.  Worth the investment if you ask me.”

“My little stock broker never misses a good investment does she?” I sprinted past her and out the door.

“Cheater,” she shouted.  We were off to the park to run our laps.

This had become our routine for a while now.  My psychiatrist suggested that regular exercise would be a good thing for my depression.  Didn’t help.  Not one bit.  Only thing it did was get me good at running and cost me an extra pair of shoes four days a week.

We came upon a sharp turn in our imaginary race course.  Dana was gaining on me so I figured I’d play it sly like.  I pulled a low in and high out to get in front of her.  I got about half way around the sloped embankment when my legs were promptly swept from under me.  The hit was powerful and I got some good air time sliding to a stop on my behind.  It hurt and I probably bruised my tail bone.  When I sat up to get a look at my attacker he ran over and licked me across the cheek.

“This is why there are leash laws.  Get away from me you mutt.”

I pushed the massive black lab with both hands.  Pushed a little too hard, I guess.  The fella lost his footing and fell over.  At least now he knows how it feels.  I wasn’t that sorry.  I got to my feet and knew I was lopsided; sloping down more than the grade of the hill, uneven, and not balanced.

“Damnit, shoe came off.”

“Looks like you’re one legging it home, Captain Ahab style,” Dana smiled and picked up my shoe.

“I can go get the car if you want.”

“Nah, I’ll be alright.  Let’s just walk home,” I said.

“Let’s take the bus.  The stop is right here,” she suggested.

We sat down on the bench and waited.

Waiting at a bus stop is like being in a room of Gladiators before the main event.  You know you all have to kill each other, but who will strike first?  The buses in this city can get full sometimes so you need to establish your spot in line at the moment the bus is in sight.  In our case the bus was elusive and came with little warning.  Like a small quarterback behind one of his linemen, the bus came quick behind a cement truck.  We all jumped up from our seats.

I lost my balance forgetting I only had the one shoe on.  I tried to stop myself but ended up sprinting a few steps forward and falling off the curb.  Lost my other shoe too, ‘thanks Gravity.’  I landed on my back and time slowed down.  This seems to be pretty consistent with most people’s recollection of their death.  It is like God’s last evil prank is to mess with your perception of time at the worst possible moment in your life.  Of course he couldn’t ever do that for the moments you’d want to remember forever.  Dana and I’s first kiss, our wedding day, any of those big life moments you wouldn’t forget if only you had a little more time to soak it all up.

Dana locked eyes with me for the last time.  In that brief moment I was reminded of our wedding vows, ‘forever and ever, our eyes said to each other.’  She moved toward me instantly but it was too late.  I heard a high pitched squeal long enough to register the sound, was indeed, brakes being slammed.  I turned my head just in time to get a face full of rubber.  By the time the cement truck came to a stop, the road looked like Paul Bunyan had stepped on a large packet of ketchup, forcing it to explode.

‘Good bye Dana, I love you.’

‘Well, that was it for me – headless, shoeless, and lifeless.  I sometimes wonder if it was rubber itself that had it out for me.  Maybe those rubber-band balls I made as a kid weren’t such a hot idea, and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t in my best interests to squeal my tires or, drag my feet on the cement.  I suppose my soul will be reincarnated soon.  I can only hope I don’t come back as a bird nested high in a rubber tree, because if I do, I have a feeling I’ll fail my first flight test.’

We are little people.

My Father never hesitated to point out the things we weren’t capable of.

The constant mental abuse battered against my Mother’s mental ramparts.

She might be a small midget, but her pride was as large as a full grown man.

Smuggling a syringe from her work, she would make him a special Hawaiian pizza that night.

I typed the word ‘arsenic’ into the WolframAlpha frame work after we got back from Dad’s funeral.

No results were returned about it killing anyone.

—————————————————————-

Danny says –

1) I’ll record the audio for this story later today.

2) Give Blood and Thanks is postponed until tomorrow night.

3) Working on a REALLY cool story that I need to get finished up for GreatHites.

4) I’m going to do NanoWriMo this year.  So the time  has come for me to kick around ideas and start outlining.  Click the link to learn more about NanoWriMo.

5) I’ve got so much crap in the hopper right now it is disgusting.  I need to get the word count up and that is all there is to it.

6) I love you guys

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 10 and 11 – Download PDF

Chapter 10: Coffee and steak make Arthur Martian’s gears turn.

“Refill sir?” the waitress asked.

“Sure,” Arthur scooted his cup toward the edge of the table.  She filled it and spilled a few drops on the packet of Snoogin’s utility records.

“Hey, watch it,” he said.

“Sorry.”

Her sharp features turned a shade of pink.  The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen years old.  She looked at the ground, paused, then turned to walk away.  Short cropped black hair bounced in rhythm with her slim hips.  He recognized that type of behavior.  Pausing like that, it indicated she was waiting to be dismissed by him, the man.  Arthur could only guess what sort of asshole broke her.  If he had a dollar for the head of every stepfather he slammed into a door or a wall he would probably have close to a hundred.  His eye’s stayed locked on her as she gracefully floated back behind the counter.

Arthur had always been a bachelor type of guy.  Never married and no kids to speak of, never saw much reason for it.  The way he figured it, he would die early from smoking and eating red meat.  ‘Could also get shot on the job,’ he thought.  Why put anyone through that?  He picked up the summary of Emily’s last couple months of bills.

He skimmed through February’s phone records, then March, and finally April.  The numbers all checked out as indicated by John’s numerous high-lighted calls and notes in the margin.  Little brother was thorough and successful in impressing Arthur, just like he intended.

You can tell a lot about a person from their payment history.  Emily for instance, never paid a bill on time in the last year.  Coincidently she started falling behind right when her husband’s pension was taken from her.  Another elderly victim of the running joke that is the federal government’s financial aid, Social Security.

It didn’t take long for the utility companies to disconnect their service’s once they found out she was dead.  Phone service was within a week, May first if you want to get specific, and Arthur did.  Cable and internet service was gone by May third.  Arthur put down the papers and picked up his steak knife.  He carved off another bite of the bloody eight ounce New York strip, now cold.  He reached for the steaming mug to wash the meat down and looked a the smeared drops of coffee on the power bill.

‘Disconnected: April 23rd, 2009,’ it read.

Arthur did a double take and choked on the steak.  He slowly took a sip of hot coffee with a trembling hand to remove the anxious obstruction in his throat.  After he was sure he wouldn’t turn blue and suffocate he picked up his cell phone.  His callused thumb (from pulling back the hammer on his pistol so much) held the number two.  The LCD glowed, calling ‘Jonathan Martian,’ it read.  He put the speaker end to his ear as it started ringing.

“Hello,” the sleepy voice said.

“John, did you check with the power company about Snoogin’s house?”

“Dude, it is two in the fucking morning, don’t you ever sleep?” John said.  Now alert and agitated.

“Did you?”

“Uhh yea, they said it was off.  I told them to turn it back on so we could resume our investigation.  That house is on precinct payroll for power as we speak, so hopefully you didn’t leave any lights on when you were playing animal control the other night.”

“Let’s play a game John.  It’s called don’t be a smart ass.  Now listen up.  Emily’s power bill says the service was disconnected on April twenty third.”

“So?” John just wanted to get back to sleep.

“According to the coroner Emily was killed on April the twenty-sixth.  From what we gather she was completely alone with her arm in a blender chewed to hell.  It might just be me, but I have never heard of an industrial strength battery powered blender.”  There was no response on the other end of the call.

“Still awake?” Arthur said.  He was pleased with himself.  They finally had an anomaly, something to work with, not quite a lead, but something that would finally enable them to remove the thumb from their ass.

“Yea, I’m still here.  How in the hell does a blender get powered on in a house that is off the grid? Generator or extension cord is the only way.”

“All of the neighbors statements indicate no one talked to her for at least two days before she died.  No generator was heard in quiet suburbia that night.  John, that blender was plugged in the wall when we got there.”

Chapter 11: And when he broke the seventh seal there was silence in Heaven.  For about half an hour.

Beep beep beep!

Smitty lived alone above his shop and heard the beeping coming from down stairs.  He reached in the small space between the wall and the fridge, guess snacks will have to wait.  Most people would keep a broom there but most people didn’t have ten thousand dollars of merchandise and a business right below them.  Smitty pulled out the twelve gauge and slowly put a cartridge in the breech.  He held the slide with his hand to muffle the snap and click.

Beep Beep Beep!

When he reached the bottom of the stairs he flipped the lights on.

“Alright mother fucker, get out,” he shouted and pointed the gun into the lobby of the store.

The alarm pad blinked red indicating it was still armed.  Smitty looked at the microwave Remy had brought in, it sat on the floor in front of the counter.  The inside light was on, and the display was indicating something had been cooked.  It was blinking between the words “Done and Open Door.”  Smitty didn’t smell anything.  Slowly he approached the microwave observing it through the bead at the end of the gun barrel.

Beep beep beep! ‘Done. Open door.’

He got down on his knees and laid the gun on the carpet.  Bending down, he put his hand on the door of the microwave and jerked it open.  A flash of white light and heat engulfed his face burning all the hair; eyebrows, eye lashes, and the beard all gone in an incendiary instant.  Smitty rolled  to his side and screamed from the pain.  His eyes, the pupils were being strained like someone was forcing him to stare at the sun.  Nothing but white light and burning pain, then he fell silent as his body prepared to salvage itself by shutting down.  The chubby fingers fell limp and uncovered his eyes.  There he laid seeing the faintest outline of the microwave.  A mechanical Angel of death engulfed in the white light of God.  The single door was still open to reveal the portal to heaven or hell, he wasn’t sure.  The pronged tail of the Angel was still zipped tied and bunched up next to it.

Smitty lost full consciousness within seconds.

hint: I wrote this story only after reading the wikipedia entry on mosquitoes.

“Buzzalina, come dear, tell me what happened,” the surgeon said.

“Oh doctor, I’ll never be a mother now.  I should just kill myself; I’m useless.”

“There there, sweet, sweet girl.  Things will be okay.”

He held her while she wept.  No, she would never bare any children and she would probably ensure her own end.  A broken proboscis almost always means instant death, she was lucky.  One could call it a miracle from up above – a testament to the power of faith and the prayer of her family.

A.P. – Cybernetics Inc. releases organic flesh like covering for metal replacement limbs.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 8 and 9 – Download PDF

Chapter 8:  A Thanksgiving Remembered.

A neon Burger King sign illuminated the brown shuffling figure that was Remy.  He smacked his lips at the sight of a discarded Whopper in the parking lot.  Picking it up, he put it under his filthy rags of clothes and set out to find a location to eat.  A place where he would be hidden and out of sight.

The burger meat was cold, the bun stale, and the cheese hard.  Surprisingly he didn’t have to pick off any insects.  Usually, depending on how long the food was on the ground, the ants always attacked first,  then the bees set to work, and if it was a  substantial piece of organic protein, the maggots would soon take up residency.  Remy was only forced to pick off maggots one time, before he knew the ins and outs of being a condemned person.  It was right after she took everything and changed the locks on the doors.  His drinking drove them away, it drove everyone away.  He had no where to go but the gutter, and there he stayed, just like he deserved.

************************************************

“When is your mother getting here?” he shouted from his chair in the living room.

“You need to go and get her from the bus station.  Damn, don’t you remember anything?”

“Don’t patronize me woman, I remembered.  What time?”

“You need to leave in about ten minutes, and you need to stop at the store to get some dinner rolls,” the female voice ringed in his ears.  He loved her to death but she never stopped sounding like the little squealing high school girl he asked to Prom all those years ago.

He opened the drawer on the end table and thumbed open the flask filled with his favorite companion, Mr. Black Jack Daniels as he affectionately called it.  Good ole fashioned southern fire water, just like his daddy used to drink when mamma wasn’t lookin’.  He took a pug off the steel canister and an extra because he had to deal with the Mother in law.  His buzz set right in letting the awkward smile and distant gaze come back, he was to drunk to drive, that was for certain.  You see, he was one of those functioning alcoholics.  Able to be piss drunk and still perform regular tasks just as good as a sober person would.  Well, almost just as good.  He grabbed his keys.

“Give us a kiss babe,” he puckered and she pecked him.

“You okay to drive?”

“Sure I am, just had a little taste to take the edge off.”

“You better watch that, you know how your father got with that stuff,” she said.

“Don’t compare me to Dad, you know I hate that.”

“Sorry I brought it up, be nice to my Mom.  It is Thanksgiving after all, let us try and be civil.  If Roger and I have to be on our best behavior than so do you.”

“Well maybe if she wasn’t such a condescending bitch.  She comes in here every holiday to white glove the place, and then criticize our parenting,” he said.
“It’s just her way,” she defended.

“Des, it’s insulting.”

She walked over and put her arms around his neck.  The long silky red hair flipped back and Remy caught the sent of flowers.  The pair of deep set blue eyes stared into his.

“Let this be a peaceful day for us, for me?” she pulled herself into his chest and grabbed a handful of hair behind his head.  It was one of those kisses you see in a soft core porn flick.  Since they aren’t going to show any actual sex the foreplay better be damn theatrical.  Remy left for the bus station.  He would pick up her Mom, but forget the rolls.  The first of many things he would forget, thanks to Mr. Black Jack.

Chapter 9: Ground Control to Major Winston.

John Martian dropped off his old Datson at the body shop and had a buddy take him home.  He bumped a pole last night and didn’t want his Dad to see the damage to the back fender.  He still lived with the parents; envious of his older brother who had the balls to get out.  But John was the breadwinner, the prize boy, and he didn’t much mind living at home still.  Free rent, food, and the company wasn’t so bad, I guess.  He came in to find his father sitting at the table with an open letter from the Police Academy in his hands.  Some follow up to John’s acceptance judging by the look on his  father’s face.

“Why? Are you stupid? Your brother is out there everyday risking his neck for what?  A city of hoodlums who should just as well kill each other off and be done with it.”

“Dad it isn’t like that and you know it.  Art is doing good work and saving lives.  Plus, I can do this, make good money, and take care of you and mom.”

“If you live long enough,” his Dad said.  John was at his end with the argument about this.  His father always dictated every decision and aspect of his life.  He was his father’s puppet, and he was fed up.  He would be a cop, just like his brother.

“Fuck this.”

John’s Mother gasped in horror looking at the junior and senior Martian men.  John squared up like a young buck lion ready to challenge the Alpha Male for control of the pride.  He would never hit his father, he loved his dad.  He just wished he could have the approval of his best friend, have him be proud of this choice.

He would go into the Police Academy no matter what, in fact he had already paid the fees with the money he had saved from being a mall Security Officer.  Driving around in circles all night and running out skateboarders with his flashlight was safer than being a full fledged cop, but John wanted to see action.  Arthur always had crazy cop stories to tell whenever they were together.  John wanted that sort of life, and he wanted it bad enough to risk his father’s disappointment.  As any boy who has ever been in trouble with his father knows, “I’m disappointed in you” stings a thousand times worse than a smack to the head.

“Watch your mouth.  Jesus, in front of your mother and all,” Winston Martian snapped back.

John left the screen door swinging from the force of his palm.  He would take the side alley and sneak a cigarette to clear his head.  Yet another thing his father would disapprove of.  After about ten minutes of pacing around a small cement alcove, he heard a crash.  The sound of metal fusing with other metal; a nasty car wreck.  He started walking around to see where it happened.  Then he heard his mother scream.  John, started running.

Gold Elvis writhed in panic and toppled a bottle of oil onto the griddle.  The flames ignited a White Elvis rhinestone cape triggering the sprinkler system.  Gold Elvis fell to the floor, an umbrella popped open.  The Benihana chef acted quickly with a Ginsu Tracheotomy.

“Beginners luck,” he said, wiping the blood on his apron.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 6 and 7 – Download PDF

Chapter 6:  Hoooooooooot Pockeeeeeeeeeeet

“Record setting temperatures are expected in the City this week with humidity levels in the forties.  Community weather gurus are urging people to keep hydrated and stay indoors.  More on that after the break.”

Remy watched the TV through the rusty steel mesh outside Smitty’s front window display.  The microwave hadn’t produced a damn thing in two days and he was starving.  He opened the windowed door nearly every ten minutes and kept getting the same empty disappointment.  Under normal circumstances he would be gathering up cans, or holding his “will work for food sign” on some street corner, but it was just too damn hot to be in the direct sun.  He held onto hope the microwave would produce again, even tried to leave it alone for a few and come back to it, hoping for another Breakfast Dinner.  Looks like his Guardian Angel has moved on to another lost soul, back to the one man show.

The sign on the door said Smitty would be back at 1:30, said he was, “out to lunch.”  That fat-fuck was constantly eating and living chubby off the misfortune of others.  People from all walks of life could stumble in his store and get pennies on the dollar worth for wedding rings, watches, stolen goods or any electronics, Smitty didn’t care, he took it all.  If the cops collected the inventory lists of all the house robberies this month, guaranteed, half of that stuff was at Smitty’s dingy Swap Meet.  Remy heard the slow clinking of metal approaching from around the block.

Smitty couldn’t be more than a decade younger than Remy was, somewhere in his mid-forties if one had to guess.   He was a butterball sort of man, bald, with a greying short beard that traced his round face, and the unmistakable jingling ring of keys as he maneuvered his great girth to and fro.  He was like an obese pet pig with a bell collar, you always knew when he was coming your way.  Remy hated Smitty’s sort, but he hated most of the beings he interacted with on a daily basis.  There was a time he commanded the respect of men who would die for him, and a family that loved him.  Smitty sucked in a big breath so he could talk and walk at the same time.  It came out more like an asthmatic wheeze.

“Fifteen … feet from the … door … transient.  Unless … your … doing … bus…iness,” you had to feel sorry for him on some level, but mostly it was just pathetic.  Remy took a few steps back, looks like Smitty couldn’t hold out the two minute walk back before beginning his lunch.

“Did it hurt?” Remy asked.

“Did what hurt?”  Smitty put down the grocery bag bursting with snacks from the corner gas station and fumbled with the keys to unlock the shop.

“The mustard and ketchup grenade that went off on your chest.  Looks about the size of a .65 millimeter hot dog launcher with all the bells and whistles.  Chili primer, relish propellant, and no doubt, a nacho cheese firing mechanism.  What are the barrels on those things these days? Bout’ a foot long?”

“You being a smart ass right now?  Fuck off before I call the cops you piece of street trash,” poor Jabba got his feelings hurt, Remy grinned.  It wasn’t because he was fat, Remy didn’t care, it was because he was an asshole to the core and being fat was really all you could fuck with him about.

“Easy Smitt’s, I got something to bring in.  I think it is right up your alley to cook all these hot pockets you just got.”

In the end Smitty only gave Remy thirty dollars for the microwave.  It was worth hundreds and they both knew it, but Smitty had the upper hand.  No one else would even consider paying for shit homeless guys brought in.  Maybe that secretly exposed Smitty’s heart to help the people less fortunate than himself; his artery clogged grease trap of a dick-head heart.

Chapter 7: You stop laughing right “meow”

The price of a diet coke at the station’s vending machine was getting more and more expensive.  Arthur got to work at 7:30am every single day like clock work.  At 7:31am the quarters rolled down the change slot to purchase his diet coke, which went from fifty cents when he started, to a dollar and seventy five cents now.  He found it disgusting how the price of everything goes up in such high percentages, his paychecks certainly weren’t growing at that rate.  He made his way to the small desk and opened the top drawer.

“Jesus Christ, come on you damn children,” Arthur shouted to no one in particular but loud enough to make the room fall silent.  He had that sort of commanding demeanor about him, that is what made him a good investigator.  People rarely lied to his face.

Inside the drawer was a small stuffed cat crusted over with what he could only guess was ketchup.  He pulled it out and threw it in his trash.  A small “meow” came from somewhere.  Arthur shot dirty looks in all directions.  A hand slapped his shoulder.

“Morning brother, arrest any pussies last night?” John said.

“You’re still free, so I guess not.”

“From shooting cat burglars to being a comedian, my brother you’re going places.  Did you find out anything last night?” John said.

“Not really, the place is clean.  Why was the power shut off so soon?”

“We didn’t touch any utilities yet.  We’re not that stupid.”

“Well it’s off, so get it turned back on, and get me the packet of records on her utility bills, I want to check out her phone records,” Arthur said.

“Sure thing, what are you thinking?”

“I have no clue to be honest.  At this point, aliens came down from outer space, probed her, and left.  Did the coroner check for any anal intrusions?  I’m thinking the aliens are the best lead we have.   A woman with her arm chewed up in a blender was found dead in her home, no sign whatsoever that she had anyone else with her.  Maybe she got off her meds and fell into the blender while it was on with the lid off.  Now go get me those utility bills,” Arthur said.

Arthur took a sip off his coke and waited for the Chief to get in.  Still had that leak to deal with today.  What a day it was turning out to be too.

“Meow.”

Arthur grabbed his coat and stormed outside to have a smoke.

There are billions of stars in the sky.  Eastern philosophy says that man’s destiny is written in these red giants, supernovas, pulsars and constellations.  That’s what my Dad says anyway; he is an astronomer at UCLA.  He is my hero, and someday, I’ll be an astronomer, just like him.

When I was thirteen he got me a high powered telescope for my birthday.  I was lucky to have the upstairs room, and he was beaming proud that I used that telescope every day.  My father gave me the greatest gift a boy could ever want.  I gazed on the perfect symmetrical moons of Suzi Morris’s tits every single starry night.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 4 and 5 – Download PDF

Chapter 4: Plymouth rock blues.

Beep Beep Beep!

Remy blinked his eyes, ‘What the hell did I drink last night? My head hurts like hell.’

He looked up at the starry night sky in the moments between full consciousness and sleep.  Then he felt the weight on his chest and the memory came rushing back to him.

Beep Beep Beep!

The microwave sat square on his chest, but it felt heavier somehow.  He slid out from under it and laid it to rest on the ground next to him.

‘Hell of a price to pay for a good meal.  You are a heavy son of a bitch.’

Remy got to his knees using the microwave to push, it was warm to the touch.  He squinted  and braced himself as he reached up for the blood inspection on the back of his head.  A huge lump is all, but it still hurt pretty good.  The bum leg was throbbing and pulsing with a mild pain, nothing he couldn’t handle.  He inspected the microwave for damage – still looked like it came out of the box, even his finger prints were gone from the buttons.  He opened the small windowed door on the front.

“Holy shit! Double dose,” he said aloud to himself.

There it was, another turkey dinner.  Emerald peas, fluffy white potatoes, gravy lake, turkey slabs and the delicious cranberry sauce.  He took the plate out and sat cross legged.  His trusty spork in hand he enjoyed a second hot meal of the day.  Someone was really up there watching over him.  He didn’t much believe in that god stuff, but there had to be something out there.  They could have helped him get the damn microwave off his chest, but he wasn’t going to argue with another free meal.  If the meal was still this hot, they must have just put it in moments before he came too.  It was too bad, he would have liked to thank them proper.

Remy sat and stared at the microwave, it stared right back.  It looked different somehow.  The street light outside his little alley made the glass front into a mirror.  Mirrors were something to be avoided in a situation like Remy’s.  The oily grey streaked brown hair would soon need to be cut, he couldn’t have it at the shoulders.  The short wiry beard would also have to go soon, he could never grow a full beard.  Genetics kept him out of the height of fashion in the 70′s.  Remy was having second thoughts about selling the microwave.  If this thing was going to be used as a drop off point for food from his Guardian Angel, then he better keep it around and accessible.  Despite being knocked out most all the day, he was still tired.  He put the microwave next to his Maytag home so that it was sheltered from street view but still accessible.  The laces on his boots gave with ease and he slipped them off and set them on top of his new mechanical friend.  No one would steal anything if it was under your shoes, it was one of the unwritten laws of courtesy amongst the homeless in the city.  As the sandman made his decent, Remy decided he would keep the microwave until he needed the money bad enough.  Or at least until he was hungry enough and it stopped producing.

Chapter 5:  Jumpy alien boy!

Detective Martian’s squeaking breaks broke the stillness of the night air.  The neighborhood Snoogins lived in was dead.  The residents were no doubt locked down thanks to the fantastic media coverage.  It was just like he thought it would be.  The pictures that were beaming to people on the 7 o’clock news contained footage of the coroner rolling the body out and his own brother carrying what was left of Emily’s arm in a clear plastic bag for the whole damn world to see; the blender at least was in a dark container.  Although the news coverage mentioned the blender too.  Some asshole was spilling everything and probably on the take for it.  He would need to bring it with the Chief tomorrow.  He parked his car outside Snoogin’s residence and ducked under the crime scene tape.

He got to the door and used the key he had copied from the evidence room.  He reached inside to flip the light switch on.  Nothing happened.

‘They cut the power on the first day of investigation, what a bunch of fucking morons.’

Arthur felt around in the pocket of his oversized tan trench coat for his flash light and clicked it on.  The beam of light revealed the innards of Emily’s house.  Arthur began to make a quick mental inventory and room assessment like he was taught to do in the academy.

One baby blue lazy boy couch with matching reclining chair, one dark oak table with clawed feet, four matching chairs, crocheted coasters on the end tables, one cat litter box, one scratch post with the name Mittens carved in the side, things are clean, and nothing is noticeably out of place.  He made his way through the living room and dining room bypassing the kitchen for now.  The hallway had plastic lining the floor, this is where things were bagged and tagged by the forensics guys.  The plastic crinkled under Arthur’s size twelve brown Dunham Windsor shoes.

The bathroom door was propped open with a plunger stuck to the white tile acting as a doorstop.  Arthur examined the high window above the bathtub for any scrapping marks or tiny specks of anything that would be out of place on a window ledge that high.  The window was locked tight and didn’t show any sign that it had been opened in the last five years, just judging by the depth of the dust.  He clicked the flashlight off, put it on the counter, kicked open the toilet seat and unzipped to take a piss.  Starring at his moonlit face in a mirror that hung above the toilet, he released his stream of justice into the waters of crime.

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror.  He hated mirrors, he looked too much like the damn old man he had been trying to forget but just couldn’t shake.  Walking in his father’s shadow was bad enough, why was he cursed looking like his twin brother?  They both had the high cheek bones, the thin dark hair that hung down the forehead, the broad chin, the constant neglect of shaving which lead to their identical stubble as soon as he was old enough to grow it.  Arthur was giving his junk a third  firm shake when he heard a window creak open in the bedroom.

Cautiously and quietly, he withdrew his .357 Magnum revolver from the shoulder holster.  He pulled the hammer all the way back effectively giving his hand cannon a hair trigger.  He gripped the wood grain handles with both hands and peaked out into the hallway.

Slipping out of his shoes he carefully placed his steps on parts of the plastic that flushed with the floor.  There was a draft coming from the open bedroom window, the entrance to the room was two feet away.  He waited about ten seconds for any signal of movement, a sound, a shadow.  He raised his gun chest level and leapt into the door way prepared to fire.

The only sound to be heard was his heavy breathing, a combination of adrenaline and cigarettes.  Arthur looked down the sight of his gun into the lifeless room.  The breeze from the open window blew the hair down into his eyes, he shook his head to put it back in place.  The bushes outside rustled with movement, Arthur locked his elbows and reinforced his stance.

“Come up slowly, hands first,” he called out.

A bright white flash came through the window.

Human reaction time is easily tested.  Remember that van back in school,  the one where you would go in, put on head phones, and push the button when you heard sound?  Or maybe the one with the brief case with the red light inside, with the button to push when it went off?  These are ways of measuring the health of your eyesight or  hearing based on the reaction time to visual and auditory stimulus.  The average reaction time for a visual stimulus is about 190 milliseconds for a young adult.  As we grow older reaction times increase, tiredness and distractions also increase reaction time.

Our reaction time no matter what state we are in is always the fastest when there is only one response that can be performed.  Hick’s Law states that choice reaction time increases in proportion to the logarithm of the number of response alternatives.  Essentially, more options means more time, we have to think about it.  Is the light red or green? What does that mean? What action do I take?

Law enforcement can not afford this kind of time for decision making when their lives are at stake.  There is only one reaction to be taken for certain worldly stimulants programmed into the mind of a cop.  A muzzle flash, fire your weapon.  The glint of gun metal elevating, fire your weapon.  The unmistakable auditory direction of a weapon being discharged within ten feet, fire your weapon.

Arthur Martian fired his weapon at a target eight feet away.

A one hundred twenty five grain .357 hollow point bullet will travel at about 1300 feet per second, or 1.3 feet per millisecond.  To travel the eight foot span of Emily Snoogin’s bedroom, the bullet would only take 6.2 milliseconds, the point is, it takes Arthur longer to decide to pull the trigger than it does for the receiving end to feel the effect of his decision.

To say a grenade was tossed in a bucket of open red paint would be putting the scene before Detective Martian in a conservative made for TV horror film.  Emily Snoogin’s trundle day bed sat below the window, her pink floral quilt was spattered in blood.  The porcelain dolls placed with such precision and care all cried hemoglobin tears.  The white painted trim oozed blood, and shards of broken exploded red stained glass clung to what was left of the single pain latching window.  Arthur stood engulfed in a wave of astonishment and surprise.  He couldn’t make out very many pieces of what he shot, they were to small.  He inched toward the bed.

A glint of what looked like cheap rhinestone caught the moonlight beaming through the window.  It was sitting in the lap of one of Emily’s dolls;  a happy faced doll that had a hand up waving at passers by, to bad she looked like she just ate a cherry pie face first.  Arthur picked up the remaining half of the jeweled band.  Spelled out in cheap bedazzled plastic rhinestones was the same name on the scratch post in the living room, “Mittens.”

“Fuck me,” Arthur said.

1.  The what if? contemplation – alone
2.  The what if? contemplation – collaborative
3.  Dreams
4.  Raw Experience
5.  Environment


Exhibit A. – What if? (alone, usually in the shower or before bed)

‘I should really expand on my idea about killer sports equipment.  What if footballs all turned to kamikaze explosives?  Tennis racquets and bats beating the hell out of people would be AWESOME too!’

‘What if there was this vampire kid that fell in love with a human girl?  Like they could be in high school and stuff.  There would be werewolves too, but not like Lycan werewolves, they are slobbery and gross.  My wolves would be sexy, way sexy.’ … ‘Nah, that will never work.  Good Night.’


Exhibit B. – What if? (collaborative)

Mr. Idea:  “What if Robots came down from outer space?  What if they wanted to plunder all our secret caches of blow-up sex dolls?”

Mr. Idea’s Buddy: “We have secret caches of blow up dolls? Why?”

Mr. Idea:  “Because that is what powers their fuel cells!”

Mr. Idea’s Buddy:  “That’s not what I asked…”

Mr. Idea:  “Dude I don’t know.  Maybe because like the women are all going extinct.”

Mr. Idea’s Buddy:  “You have my attention.  Perhaps there should be killer tomatoes for good measure?”

Mr. Idea:  “HELL YA! This is why I have you around man.”

The what if? is effective done alone, but can be deadly powerful in groups.  Bringing minds together and bouncing ideas off of a peer group has lead to many successful collaborative efforts.  This has also lead to many dismayed parents seeing the family car turned into a cardboard pirate ship.  We see these efforts in cinema a lot, and even with novelists who work together to write great books, musicians as well.

As we can see from exhibits A and B, the what if? question is a tool for entertaining all sorts of ideas.  From the outlandish to the very serious marketable ones.  You are no doubt asking yourself, “Damnit Danny, where do the what if? questions come from?”

The what if? question is designed to help you flush out an idea that you only catch a fleeting glimpse of.  The seed of an idea if you will.  An abandoned car on the side of the road, for example, can lead to all sorts of what if? questions:

What if that car had the president in disguise inside it and he is hitchhiking cross country?
What if that car belonged to a criminal on the run?
What if that criminal was wanted for…?

Abandoned buildings, a piece of trash, a fragmented grocery list found on the ground, the two seconds you remember from your dream last night, new paths for other ideas ex. “What if Vader was gay? How would Star Wars be different?”, are all examples of where a what if? question can be used.  The possibilities are endless.  A solid 90% of all successful ideas and concepts are based on what if?.  The lucky ones (Twilight anyone?) well have a successful idea in a dream.

Dreams are good places to pull ideas from for a number of reasons: it’s easy, your brain power is more efficiently used on expanding instead of idea seed creation, reflects a part of your inner self so you can identify with it, how else are you going to imagine getting chased by an eight legged spider with the head of your Dad while you run naked through a field of wheat?

Personally, I keep a dream journal.  It sounds silly but going back and reading dreams that I’ve forgotten has lead me to some good creative juice.  I highly recommend getting a note pad next to your bed.  If it is a long dream just make short notes about the sequence of events and go back later to expand on it.  Your brain remembers it all, you just have to jump start it to pull it up front.

Lets get away from the dreams and imagination for just a minute and talk about, “raw experience.”  Besides sounding like the title of a Monster Truck Rally, “raw experience” is the most effective and credible means for any creative person to paint a picture or tell a tale.  A person who has been to prison is going to capture it’s true essence better than a researching book worm.  The guy who climbs mountains is going to describe the feelings of his protagonist mountain climber better than the writer who watches Cliffhanger 100 times.  They say, “Write what you know.” What you know is from getting your ass out of the chair on the weekends and having adventures.  Experiencing life and trying new things is the only way to make yourself a more dynamic individual with expanded creative horizons.  Which brings us to the number five, environment.

The environment a creator of any medium finds themselves in is going to influence what comes out of his idea pot.  People who live in Southern California don’t churn out many songs about rainy depressing days and the Beach Boys didn’t write “Surfin’ USA” in the middle of a corn field in Iowa.  What you surround yourself with is going to influence your thought processes.  If not noticeably on a conscious level you are certainly finding yourself subconsciously influenced.

If you have a lot of friends named Sean, it is quite the coincidence that the first name for any character you create starts with an S. Weird.  If you walk to work everyday passing a certain Cafe it is just a matter of time before you imagine a) two people falling in love who meet there, or b) a hostage situation (whatever side of the spectrum your morality falls on isn’t my place to judge, so whatever floats your boat).  Environment I find plays more of a major factor in little details of my creativity.  A character name, or a new way interactions between people take place.  I’ve even gone so far as to snoop on conversations of strangers.  The world around you is a mountain of ideas for characters, their interactions, settings, and what if? questions.  Pay attention.

In conclusion dear reader, creativity is fueled by imagination grown from planted idea seeds.

Those seeds are EVERYWHERE!

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 2 and 3 – Download PDF

Chapter 2: Winner Winner Turkey Dinner

Beep! Beep! Beep!

‘What the hell?’ The sound woke up Remy just in time to experience the full blown nausea and headache of the hangover he wanted to sleep through.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

‘Shut the hell up,’ he closed his eyes but it was too late.  The inside of the cardboard Maytag home started to spin, there was no sleeping now.  Being a homeless man in the back alley of Front Street had perks at night but not during the day.  No one bothered wanders while they slept but the  morning always brought the foot traffic of early risers to downtown.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Remy rocked his body out of the shelter and felt for his boots.  It was a weird quirk of his, but sleep only came without shoes on, no matter how cold it was.  He tied the laces of the worn doc martins he had found in a dumpster some years back and stood up.

The back of the alley was deserted say for a new microwave that someone had dumped there.  ‘Why would anyone toss this?  Maybe it fell off a truck.  Doesn’t matter now, this should be at least fifty bucks at Smitty’s if it still works.’

He walked over to the microwave to inspect it.  A Sears genuine special, and not one scratch on it.  The aluminum handle caught the rising sunlight and blinded his eyes.  He stepped closer and opened the door.

‘God damn.  Would you look at that?’

Hot and steaming, a fresh turkey dinner was in the microwave.  The mashed potatoes were filled with a reservoir of brown gravy that flowed contiguously onto a pile of white turkey breast meat.  Green little marbles of peas stacked with the precision of the most prestigious upper class restaurant.  The coup de grâce of this food masterpiece was the pile of cranberry sauce bleeding into the base of turkey hill and potato mountain.  Remy wasn’t one to turn down a free meal.  He would take this to Smitty’s after breakfast dinner.

“Morning Remy.  Wow, someone felt sorry for your ass this morning didn’t they?  Lemme have some buddy.”

“Back it up Josiah.  This was in that microwave and I’m claiming them both.  No one was around when I got it, so piss off they’re both mine,” Remy said.

“Alright alright, cool it old man.  I’ll be on 9th and Sierra Ave today so give it some birth.”

Josiah shuffled off with his shopping cart half full of cans rattling on the rough pavement, his “Disabled Vet, need help, god bless” sign was sticking way out.  That boy wasn’t a Vet, he had no idea what war was or what it meant to fight for something, he had no idea what it meant to survive.  He was just a filthy beggar.

Remy sat and polished off the meal slowly with his trusty metal spork.  It was nice to have a hot meal, the tastes reminded him of Thanksgivings spent with his wife and son, wherever they are now.  He sat cross legged and stared at the dirty brick wall of the alley way, eating his food with conservative bites and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin he carried in his back pocket.  Unlike most of the condemned persons around this city, Remy still retained a sense of common manners so long as you weren’t trying to threaten his life.  Being a fifty year old homeless man with a bum leg made that life hard, it made it real hard.  The daily struggle was breaking him down very fast.

He shuffled to the microwave and turned it over for further inspection.  Not one dent or blemish, say for his own finger prints that molested the buttons earlier.

‘Let me get you to Smitty’s.  Thanks for the breakfast dinner.’

Heavy lifting required all the weight be put on his good leg.  With arms under the microwave he grunted and stood looking for his cart that was a good twenty feet away.

‘Should have pushed that over here, to late now, cause my back ain’t gunna do this again today.’

He began slow forward steps, hopefully his arms would hold out.

Remy did not see the discarded plastic soda bottle when he got to the half way point and stepped on it.  The cap was on tight and it held shape.  His good leg lurched forward forcing him to attempt balance with the bum leg.  He let out a yelp of pain and his knee buckled causing him to fall straight back, the back of his head hitting the asphalt first and his vision went black.  Good thing too, if his body hadn’t been so relaxed by the time that microwave fell on his chest, he probably would have busted some ribs.

Chapter 3: Don’t tase me bro.

Arthur Martian might have been a slacker rebel to his father but when it came down to his own security and employment, he was a workhorse.  Not to be out done, his little brother would never leave the station until after Art did, no matter how late into the night he stayed.

“Not one finger print, not one trace of fiber or hair, no foot prints and no sign of a forced entry.  This guy is really good.  A right professional cowboy of murder.  I blame movies and TV.  The media wants to make things so damn real these days.  We are training our children to be killers at the age they can operate the remote.” Arthur was angry, someone got lazy at that crime scene.

“It seems bizarre doesn’t it?  I’ve been over the photographs a hundred times.  Nothing adds up like it should,” John said, at the desk across the room.  There were only two desk lamps on at the station.  The Martian boys wanted to crack this sucker wide open.  Nothing bad had come this precincts way since the riots of 2001.  Detectives were being replaced by science.  Grunt police work was fast becoming a lost art.  Once and a while some cases needed the insight a computer hasn’t been able to produce yet, the human intuition.

“Why are you still here? Don’t you have a girlfriend that needs your attention? It is eleven o’clock get the hell out.  You aren’t helping,” Art snapped at his brother.

‘They didn’t analyze everything, didn’t give him the tools he needed.  He would have to go back to the Snoogin residence himself and see just what the hell was going on.  He hated the foot work but he hated the possibility that a criminal could out wit him even more.’

“I’m going back to the Snoogin house to run over it again.”

“I’ll go with you,” John said.

“The hell you are, I’m going alone.  If you think you can ride my ass to the top you’re wrong.  You will earn it like everyone else.  Like I did.”

read on -

Horace adjusted the windage and elevation knobs on the ruby crystal telescopic sight of his 67dm Sniper Rifle.  The knocking of the robots steel heart pounded at the drums in his ear.

‘One shot to open the can, another to put the bastard down,’ Horace thought to himself.

It was cold, damn cold.  His finger trembled on the trigger as he squeezed.  Before the noise of the explosive shot would reach the robot’s sensors, the chest would already be torn open.  The second shot would be well on its way to impact before the mechanical systems could respond.

Long live humanity.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 1 – Can I get fries with that? – Download PDF

Chapter One:  Can I get fries with that?

The Police tape outside Emily Snoogin’s home held back the hoard of media.  Flashing cameras blinded Detective Arthur Martian as he ducked under the plastic yellow barrier.  Apparently some sicko decided to terrorize little Miss Emily.  The CNN news ticker would later read:

‘Elderly woman tortured to the point of heart failure in her own home.’

“Can we get these fuck sticks out of here please? For Christ’s sake John, this is a crime scene not a god damn fashion show,”  Arthur said.

John Martian followed in big brothers foot steps and joined the police force when their dad strictly forbid it.  It almost tore the family apart.  Winston Martian could handle the oldest boy not giving a shit about the family, but he would be damned if his prize winning honor student would follow the same road as his rebellious older brother.  That was five years ago, right before the old man died.  John blamed himself for it.  If he had not stormed out that day, his father would not have gone looking for him.  If the fight had never happened, if he wasn’t so jealous of his older brother, if only they could have tried to talk it out more, he would still be alive.

“Give us some room here boys.  Push them all the way back to the street.”  John shouted to his fellow officers and strode along side his older brother.

“What are we looking at in there?” Arthur asked.

“The forensic team just left.  From the way their jumpers looked it is a real horror show in there.  The shit that nightmares are made of.  Try not to puke.” John said.

“I’ve seen more things I want to forget then you ever will rookie.  Remember, I was on the front lines of the riots eight years ago.  They were tearing women apart and murdering children right in front of us.  Good thing the military was called in or it would have been us next.”

“Yea, but it still wasn’t right with the way they handled it.  Heads should have rolled for the brutal tactics they used,” John said.

“Sometimes little brother you have to break a few eggs to keep the peace.  Give me a mask, this body is ripe.”

John handed Arthur a face mask to keep the smell down.  After all these years he still could not bare the smell of a corpse beginning to decomposed.  It really did make him want to puke, but he kept his cool most of the time.  They stepped through the threshold and were directed to the kitchen to see the crime scene and body.

“Alright, the cavalry has arrived now that the nerds are gone.  Detective Martian I assume you will be heading up the investigation so let me bring you up to speed.”  The small Asian crime scene analyst was new and still had a personality, hopefully  he would lose that soon.  Arthur still couldn’t remember the bubbling little pricks name, Yango, maybe?

“What we got?”

“Let me give you the tour.  To your left you will see a nice arc of blood from the severed brachial artery.  The spray that you see on the ceiling is from when she lost balance and twisted her arm upward before hitting her head on the counter.  She laid there and suffered the heart attacked,” Yango said this as he gracefully twirled around, pointing his white latex fingers at the white numbered evidence tags.

“Hold the phone Yango,” Arthur said.

“It’s Yan, Detective.”

“So you are telling me this guy cut her arm off, she stumbled around, probably slipped in her own blood, bangs her head on the counter and she dies of a heart attack? Bullshit.  If he just left her there, she could have gotten to a phone it’s right here on the counter.  It would take a while for her to bleed to death, she could have called for help,” Arthur didn’t like new guys spouting off like they could do his job as well as he could.  It was Arthur’s job to find out who and what went on here.  Yan motioned behind the counter to the floor.  Arthur looked over the mortified face of Emily Snoogin, now purple with black circles around her open eyes.

“Look at this body.  Her arm wasn’t just cut off.  The meat is just hanging there and the bone is chipped,” Yan said.

“So it was pounded off.  Crushed with a big hammer until it separated from the torso.”

“I don’t think so, look at this.”  Yan held up the glass cup of the blender filled with blood and bits of what Arthur could only guess was Emily’s arm.

“Not your average Mc D’s strawberry shake, but yea, its what you are thinking.  We sifted through most of the contents and found her wedding ring and bits of cloth from the shirt she has on now.  This guy jammed her hand in there and chewed her up.  A real psycho,” Yan said.

Arthur got a lump in his throat and held back the vomit, he needed to leave.

“I want every inch of this place photographed before the body is out.  I want the body autopsied today, wake up the doc if you have to.  I want statements from every person in this neighborhood.  This is a big one, I think this guy isn’t done yet.  None of this shit gets to the media.  We keep it under wraps till we have some solid leads.  We do not want to have people buying up guns and shooting everything the moves close to their driveways,” Arthur said the orders and turned to leave.

“How do you know he isn’t done yet Art?” John said.

“Just a feeling, now do your fucking job and I’ll do mine.”  Arthur made a fast paced walk to his old Cadillac El Dorado.  He sat in the crusty torn leather seat and put his hands on the steering wheel.  A couple pumps of gas and she always fired right up.  John watched the chipped red painted boat of a car turn the corner out of sight.

Falling Bricks Hurt

     Justin wandered about in the shadows watching the fascinating people. He smelled the breads and listened to the pop of corks for hours before finally settling on the perfect sunny patch of grass to feast. Justin the turtle munched on the greenery of the city he loved, Paris.

     1,063 feet into the sky, Gaston Space Pierre ran back and forth on the observation platform of the Eiffel Tower, his parents not at all effective. A stray brick from a display for Gustave Eiffel found his palm. He tossed it over the rails.

     Justin looked up just in time to catch the impromptu solar eclipse to the head.

Read On -

“Billy lets go, he isn’t worth it.”

“The hell he ain’t Hank.  A kid can’t walk home from school without being scared, that’s not right.  I’m gunna teach him a lesson.”

“You should listen to your brother Billy, no sense in me kicking your ass again.”

“Jeremy that was three years ago, I’ve gotten a lot bigger since then.  Besides, what you’re doin’ ain’t right.  It ain’t right at all.  So square up you pussy, lets go.”

Billy put his fists up like he saw Rocky do in the movies.  The spectating kids formed a circle around them.  Sidestepping like two gladiators locked in battle to the death, one of them would not come out of here the same.  Jeremy struck first.

Billy lost his breath from the blow to his stomach and backed up.  Within seconds he recovered surprising Jeremy’s smirking face with hammering blows.  Jeremy put his hands up but Billy didn’t care.  He would pound on his forearms until they were black and blue, break them if it came to it.  Jeremy stumbled from the high intensity onslaught of Billy’s fists, which apparently were made of brick.  The stumble caused Jeremy’s arm to drop slightly creating a small exposure to the face.  Billy’s right hook had no trouble seeking out the weakness in the defense.  Jeremy’s cheekbone made a loud popping noise as Billy’s knuckles dragged across his face.  The nose was next in line and in that one swift motion, Billy broke it.  Jeremy reached up to hold his crooked nose and fell to his knees.  Blood oozed from between his fingers dripping into dusty dark red puddles on the dirt.

“Now, you might be the popular guy, your father might be the mayor, but you have no right picking on little kids like you done.  Like you did my little brother, like you did to me.  Because you know what Jeremy? We grow up and we don’t forget.  You better start learning that you are a small fish in a big pond and there is always a shark waiting to eat your ass,” Billy stood over the hunched figure.

Jeremy looked up, and in the shadow of Billy nodded his head.  Billy grabbed his little brother by the arm.

“Let’s go Hank, he aint gunna bother anyone no more and Mom will have supper ready by now.”

The crowd stood in silence and parted to let the two boys out.  They set off for home into the orange hue of the sunset.  After about a hundred yards, Billy turned to look back, the crowd was gone but Jeremy remained on his knees staring at their long shadows on the horizon.  Billy was certain things would be quiet for a while, but Jeremy wouldn’t be completely shut down that easy.  Retaliation was coming, just a matter of time and place.

Billy knew that people like Jeremy came to power through fear. While he had the false respect of many, some frustrated soul will always rise up and challenge his authority.  Ultimately the only way to end Jeremy’s reign is to destroy him, but Billy doesn’t have it in his heart to do that.  So Jeremy will rise again, only stronger next time, until another Billy takes the challenge.  Thus perpetuating the state of fear among the children, in the small neighborhood, in the middle of nowhere.

There was an assignment in my writing class (now over) that involved outlining.  I took advantage of it and outlined my novel.  Just by sitting down and figuring out what happens next worked wonders.  I didn’t have to write chapters only to scrap them later, just a couple sentences about each sequence of events.  You can experiment with your stories very quickly this way, and in large projects that is what I will need to do.  When I become a successful writer and have to work with a deadline, outlines are going to save me much wasted time in throwing out chunks of precious word count.  I take a different approach to short fiction, you need to explore ideas to their fullest before they are tossed.

Just the other day I opened up my word processor and I waited, just staring at the screen.   I imagine my brain like a scrolling marquee of ideas.  After watching the ticker for a bit I just picked one and wrote it.  I was able to expand off of this and got about a 1000 words during a lunch break.  I like the story and I plan on keeping it fairly short (2000 words max I think).  This method of “winging it” has worked but also failed. The Las Vegas story I scrapped last weekend was a wing it session.  I explored some ideas to maturation and they just didn’t work.

So do you outline or do you wing it?  That is your question to answer.  I can only speak for myself.  What works for me is outlining the big ones and winging the short ones.  If you are not even pondering this sort of thing try what I am trying.  If it doesn’t work then try something else.  The simple fact that you trying anything at all sets you apart from all the other people out there who stop at the “want to” portion of their writing career.

I wrote about 2,500 words for a piece I was hell bent on submitting for a contest and I scrapped it all.  It was about five hours worth of work and I got to a point where my story lost all focus, and got so far gone, there was no saving it.  Writers count words like the calories of a fad diet, every single one matters.  A few months ago I would have pushed forward with it, thrown my ideas down and called it good, words didn’t matter so much to me then.  While I feel that is extremely valuable for brainstorming and word vomiting ideas that are not quite flushed out, it has downsides.

As you grow as a writer you start to loath the tiresome process of editing.  Sometimes if you write something to horrendous and incomprehensible in the beginning, you will spend twice or three times as long crafting it into something readable.  I’ve discovered that the more I write everyday the easier it is to recognize bad writing as soon as it hits the page.  Just like with any skill, writing is practice, practice, practice, so hang in there.

This is the opening paragraph of what I wrote today, the rest of the piece didn’t carry this tone at all.  I thought I would be able to introduce my characters and come back to this, but it never happened, so it was cast into the ether to die.

“…The riddle of the century was asked of me when I was only twenty-two years old.  Smoke filled lounges, liquor stained carpets, and counter tops with sugary adhesive puddles were to be my world for the next two days.  Revolving bundles of fruit set in motion by hands on large levers make loud dings as eyes light up around the room.  Each one of those hands attached to an individual dream, a life without hardship, the new American Dream.  Faces beaming with smiles or barred teeth are illuminated by the flashing sirens of blue, red, yellow, and green.  What was that riddle? Where is the only place where you can be anyone but yourself? Where what happens supposedly stays for eternity?  This is Vegas baby, the new gold rush, land of the free, and home of the destitute…”

The battle was lost today, but victory was gained on another front.  I learned quite a bit about what it will take in the future for me to stay on track.  Onward!

I have missed you all, oh so dearly.  Life struck me the last couple weeks and I have had to move into a new apartment, which I am loving very very much.  I was also pretty sick for a few days but my immune system is winning on that battlefront.  Finally, I’m back into the swing of things and into the normal routines.  So I can write write write again, and get back to the gym.  I’m very much looking forward to hitting the Backpacking Trails in the spring and that requires more endurance training.

I’m working on some GREAT story ideas right now, so look for at least one of those this week.  Also this post wouldn’t be complete without a video tour of the new pad…. 3 – 2 – 1 .. ACTION!

Download the PDF

I’m really enjoying this story, so I’ll keep on writing it.  I hope this isn’t boring people to death.

Download the PDF

It was a real eye opener for me that I need to invest more in my characters.  So where does one even start to get to know a person they made up?  It isn’t like you get to spend time with them and meet their family, it is all in your head.  I scoured the internet looking for character sheets, and they all list things that  make you see them as objects and don’t really ask the right “What is this person like?” types of questions.   I sought out some of the questions I felt would be more helpful, and I compiled them into this 12 page questionnaire – complete with box to sketch their portrait.  I’m going to try and use this as a tool to help me, and if you REALLY want to get down and dirty with who these people are in your Stories/Novels, than fill this out.

Download PDF of Character Development Worksheet

Anyway, here is a 100 or so word story I wrote for the 100 Word Stories Podcast! on with the show…

Download the PDF

So here we have it, “Harold the Ardently Knight of Battynannas: Part 1.”  It is a long read, about 7 minutes if you don’t fall asleep.   I’m still knew to all this stuff.   Suggestions are always welcome, especially in regards to the audio.

Download the PDF

So I’m being challenged to write an Epic Poem in heroic verse using an iambic pentameter with 5 feet.  The kicker is that it needs to be 1000 to 2000 words which I find to be very intimidating but also EPIC should I complete one.

I used to scoff at poetry, mainly because all I was exposed  to were the ancient verses that made no sense and the useless rambles of the emotional self proclaimed poets of my teenage days.

example:

“… The knife cuts, oh so deep

My days blacken into night.

I can not even count the sheep,

Lord save me from my plight….”

Yea… whatever you say James err I mean “Dark Lord Con.”  Real poetry is very technical in nature.  That is the challenge of writing good poetry.  There is also the challenge of people not knowing how to read poetry and appreciating what you have done.  Now I’m rambling – better cut this off.

other notes:

My Week 2 Assignment in my Fiction class unfortunately had me writing a bit for my novel and I’m just not ready to show the world that yet.  So hopefully week 3 will yield something I can share.

*panic! gasps for air! WHIZ! BANG! POP!*

Normally in a given day I have about 10,000 ideas that I can pull from thin air.  If I’m given a prompt to write from I can easily generate all sorts of ideas for the criteria.  However tonight I’m drawing blanks and just can’t seem to get past a couple sentences before I run out of gas.  I think maybe my brain is just fried.  Anyone who knows me or can read the top part of this website knows I have been hitting the words pretty hard lately (everyday for hours), and I just need a break.

I can’t think anymore and I’m struggling to even finish this post.  I’m taking the night off unless by some miracle that one great idea comes to me but I doubt it will.

*flashback music*

After my last post I boarded the Ferry To Keystone to get to Whidbey Island.  I’d never done this “drive your car onto a boat thing” before, so I was a little anxious.  Of course they put me next to a huge gasoline truck which just added to the fun.  I’m thinking to myself, “great this will go two ways – blow up or drown to death, awesome….”

They turn all the lights out on the boat.  So there I am sitting in darkness chugging along to the next port.  I start to prepare myself.  Roll down the windows, take off the jacket, get backpack ready to evac if she starts to go under, and listen to music.  We get to the unloading point and I go to turn on my car – click click click – Oh wonderful. I’m the second one in line to get off and my car won’t start.  Suffice to say, I needed a jump.  They push me out of the way and I’m just cracking up at my luck.  I get some weird looks from the crew.  The little jumper box they had was dead so they had to get this converted push cart device with a carefully engineered tire strapped to the front to push me out to the garage where they have the big jumper.

Once things got going I drove up out of Whidbey to Fidalgo Island.  I get a room in Anacortes and head on over to Burlington to see Saw V at the movie theater there.  I go straight to bed after so I can catch the early ferry to Friday Harbor.

Friday Harbor is on what I believe is the biggest island of the San Juans, San Juan island  (go figure).  The ride there took a little over an hour.  Now that I was educated on the Washington Ferry system and how it worked, I felt much better about using it again.  I forgot to charge my camera battery so I was only able to take one picture on the ride there.  It was pretty awesome cruising about and seeing all the other boats out in the water.  The sun was out and bright and there was hardly a cloud in the sky.  There I was, cruising the shores of the San Juan islands just as I intended to do.

My destination today was on the north end of San Juan island.  There is a mausoleum there built by John McMillan (who founded the Roche Harbor Lime and Cement Company where Roche Harbor resort is currently) to honor his family.  So what is the big deal about a guy building a fancy tomb for his family? This guy was deep in the Masonic order.  Which meant this was going to be a very significant site.  The Masons were involved in its construction and that had me itching to see it.

I’ve never been aware that something I was looking at was constructed by Masons, so this was very important.  Everything about the site would have significance.  The number of steps, pillars, directions, any symbolism or imagery carved into the stone would have meaning to the order and no one else.  It did not disappoint.

I had to hike past a very old grave yard with graves on it older then the founding year of Friday Harbor (1909).  Late nineteenth and early twenty century were most of the dates on the tomb stones.  Lots of children were buried here as well, which was a little unsettling to say the least.  There are pictures of this that will be uploaded to the gallery when I’m done here.

About a hair under half a mile I would guess was the total trek to the Mausoleum itself.  Coming up on it was intense and I was alone.  After crossing the rusty moss covered gateway that said, “After Glow Vista” in the wrought iron, I came upon the steps to the site.  The pillars all had indentations in the tops of them – no doubt for holding oils to burn or plants.  When I got to the top of stairs I stopped at the last one that had gathered water in it.  I’m not a religious man but I figured its only respectful to anoint myself and cross on the way in.  Don’t want to upset the dead.

I was preparing myself to feel an intense energy when I got in the circle but I didn’t.  It was very peaceful, there was nothing to fear here.  A stone table with stone chairs around it were at the center.  Six stone chairs sat around the table, each with an inscription of whose remains they housed.  The structure had 7 columns but one was broken in half (on purpose).  It was all significant, down to the smallest details.  Masons don’t build things for nothing.  Here is a link to the local chapters info on the site

http://sanjuanmasons.com/mausoleum.html

I spent a while there looking at every inch of the place.  I was hoping of course to solve some great mystery and put together a peice of the Masons best kept secret.  I got out some parchment and started to connect the dots of the columns in 7 and 6 point configurations … I didn’t come up with squat.  It was clean.

I drove back to Friday Harbor and poked around there and took some pictures with my lightly charged camera battery from my car inverter.  I like Friday Harbor.  It is like Mayberry Island.  Almost every damn house had a white picket fence and there were kids all over.  I had lunch and caught the Ferry back to Anacortes.

I wanted to just drive it straight through last night and sleep all day today but I never would have made it.  I calculated I could be in Ashland Oregon by 3 or 4 in the morning and that was good enough for me.  I stayed in Ashland and just didn’t have the energy to enjoy it when I woke up.  I was way to tired and strung out on caffeine, so I drove the last 4 hours home this afternoon.  Ashland would make a better weekend trip anyway since its so close.

And that is that.

It was a great road trip and aside from some quirks I had a jolly fun time.  I really enjoyed  the fact that I would be exploring something new everyday.  We all sit at home so much and “make do” with the same sights, sounds, and places we have known for years.  I can’t stress enough how much of a benefit it is to break that cycle.  Getting out of your bubble and actually understanding there is a lot of world out there (as opposed to just saying it) is of vital importance to us all.

Thanks to everyone who kept up with things and commented.  It really kept me going knowing that I’d be able to share things with more than just myself.  I’m assuming you all won’t be checking my blog everyday from this point forward, but do check in sometimes.  I have a hodgepodge of things that I write about from time to time.  In fact there is a Horror Story contest I’ll be entering this month and I’ll be sure to post it here.  Its due by Friday so I better get to work.

ps. 1 draft and a read through is all I did.  Forgive the errors I’m way to tired.

pps. Gallery will be updated soon.

Port Townsend is the first place I feel like I would want to live.  Its great here.  The community is geared toward artists and holistic people.  Walking around a downtown area I found a shop for writers… it  was quite amazing.  I spoke with the owner Ana for a while.  It was very refreshing to talk to people that are as excited about the craft as I can be.  I went into the Tyler Street coffee house and had a few cups of coffee while I decided what to do.

They actually have a loft in this wine store I’m perched in and it is called, “The Artist Loft.”  Extremely peaceful here and relaxing.  I wasn’t in the mood for any city excursions like Seattle, I wanted to keep it simple and stick to the small port towns.

I tried to get a picture of the house that the Cullen house was based on but that shop keeper wasn’t lying.  A dog came flying out and there was a huge tree in front of it.  Then some shady people started to creep out the woodwork.  So I faked a turn around but wasn’t able to get a picture, just a glimpse of it from the side as I came down the drive.  Still it wasn’t anything we imagine it to be, but I can imagine a Real estate Ad with no picture and just a description being the foundation for what we see the Cullen house as.

I was able to get a copy of the Forks Forum from Bella’s birthday aka. Stephenie Meyer Day and you are all welcome to read it.

Final Thoughts on Forks and Twilight

Forks was the friendliest place ever.  Everyone I talked to and the establishments are all behind Twilight.  For a struggling logging town this is the best thing that has happened to them in a long time.  When I was taking the picture of the book store a kid rode passed me and made a remark, “Why are you taking a picture of a bookstore?” I smiled as he rode away.  I thought to myself, “in two months this whole region is going to understand why I am taking a picture of this store.”

It is so very rare that fans of fiction ever get to have something physical to see.  Most of the settings all take place within ones own head.  The worlds are 100% left to the imagination and you create all of it from the authors words.  Once I found out Forks was a real place I probably spent a good 3 days researching it, reading about it, and matching it up with Twilight.  This place was REAL.  Forks, La Push and Port Angeles – where so much of the story took place was within my grasp – to walk in the footsteps of characters I had experienced so much with.  It takes the imagination to levels that it hardly ever gets to go.

All of us dream of experiencing things that we just aren’t sure will be possible.  If I could be a Vampire Wizard Heir to the throne of Gondor believe me I would.  I’ll never say something doesn’t exist or that something isn’t possible.  To do that stomps on the dreams of the millions of people and children that believe in Vampires, Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and magical creatures of all kinds.  It takes some real pompous egotism to do that and I won’t.  I won’t because I understand how important these things are to people.  People weave the very essences of fantasy into their own soul.  “Perception is Reality” :p … I feel very strongly about this sort of thing and I’ll do everything I can to make sure people keep on having dreams and fantasy.  Ever since I started to write my book (which is almost complete) I have had one sentiment in mind: “I don’t care if it flops on its face and I never write again.  I don’t care if everyone in the world hates it.  If one day, some kid down on his luck finds my book and it gives him some escape from life that he has been longing for… then it was worth every second I spent writing it.”

Read my “Why Harry Potter is important to me”.

Even though Canada gave me the boot (har har “aboot”), going all the way up here to see Forks was totally worth the effort.

Well geez Danny, so what now? Well! you guys totally delivered with the suggestions (as you did with the whole trip) and I’m formulating a new plan as I write this.  My map is right here and its time to get to work.  I should have a plan before the night is out!

About 5 years ago the DEA cracked down on a lot of things and you had to start showing ID, limiting the amounts of things you could purchase, and you couldn’t buy directly from chemical suppliers anymore.  I actually went liget for a while and stopped stealing but after the DEA shut down all the chemical suppliers things were back to the old way.  Masquerading as the chemistry Department from (insert college here) for botanical experiments wasn’t going to work anymore.  Back to breaking the law.

Then I moved to Chico.  Oh boy! A new playground for me.  I was in Chico for about 4 months and then it happened.  I picked up about 40 bucks worth of product at the Raley’s on East Ave.  As I walked out the door someone grabbed my arm and flashed a badge.  Busted… great… Petty Theft Misdemeanor, printed, booked, mugshots, the whole nine yards.  (yes I had to resist the Tator Salad urge)

Here is a link to my case

http://www.buttecourt.ca.gov/online_index/CMSCaseDisplay.cfm?URLCaseNumber=SCR47197

So what does this have to do with my trip?  You can probably guess.  I was denied my entry into Canada because of this infraction.  Here is the excerpt from the Canadian Immigration act that covers this.

“(2) No immigrant and, except as provided in subsection (3), no visitor shall be granted admission if the immigrant or visitor is a member of any of the following classes: (a) persons who have been convicted in Canada of an indictable offence, or of an offence for which the offender may be prosecuted by indictment or for which the offender is punishable on summary conviction, that may be punishable under any Act of Parliament by a maximum term of imprisonment of less than ten years, other than an offence designated as a contravention under the Contraventions Act; (a.1) persons who there are reasonable grounds to believe (i) have been convicted outside Canada of an offence that, if committed in Canada, would constitute an offence that may be punishable by way of indictment under any Act of Parliament by a maximum term of imprisonment of less than ten years, or (ii) have committed outside Canada an act or omission that constitutes an offence under the laws of the place where the act or omission occurred and that, if committed in Canada, would constitute an offence that may be punishable by way of indictment under any Act of Parliament by a maximum term of imprisonment of less than ten years, except persons who have satisfied the Minister that they have rehabilitated themselves and that at least five years have elapsed since the expiration of any sentence imposed for the offence or since the commission of the act or omission, as the case may be;”

Basically, if 10 years haven’t gone by or I didn’t apply for my certification of rehabilitation “do not pass go and do not collect 200 dollars.”  You can imagine how it felt.  Escorted back onto the Ferry, signing my retraction of application to enter Canada – it all brought me back to my arraignment day.  Sitting in a court room with the scum of society and I was one of them.  It wasn’t who I wanted to be, but I can’t deny what I did.  I just wasn’t prepared for that skeleton to be brought out of the closet.  Not like this anyway.

After I got back to the good ole USA – I delt with it like any American.  I found a bar, ordered a double Bushmills, a beer, slammed them both and walked out.  I needed to figure out what to do.  It took a lot to fight the inner urges to do something wreckless and stupid.  I got my head on straight and got a hotel room.  Found the nearest eatery/bar and drank my face off.  So now that I’m sufficiently hungover and watching the Golden Girls I have to figure out my next move.  Not quite sure what I want to do yet.  I’m not upset anymore, it is what it is.  So now you know

ps. I’m taking a nap, suggestions are welcome for what I should do :p

So in June of next year there is going to be almost a full weeks worth of Twilight celebrations (around Edwards birthday I think).  Speakers, events, and a whole Twilight party in the town of Forks.  It is going to be nuts.  They are even having volleyball tournaments.  The person that is organizing the event is trying to figure out names for the teams.  The email with the list of names was printed out for me and given to me.  They include things like, “Cunning Cullens, Angela’s Angels, Vicious Volutri, Shape Shifters…” and it goes on.  It is a long list here.  As far as I know it is being distributed to Forks merchants and town officials to vote on.  Not sure, all the planning for this is in its infancy at this time but it is dead set on happening.  The author I don’t think will be here but some publisher people will, and other important players in Twilight’s success.  It will be almost like a Twilight CONVENTION! Twilight CON! hehehe.

The Cullen houses in Forks – The Real story.

Currently the house they are using as the Cullen house is really a B and B.  I didn’t take an official picture of it because its not what I imagined the house to be like.  It is the location of the mail box, and the white board with Esme’s messages to Twilighter’s.  Before it was a B and B this house was owned by a doctor that worked here in Forks and DID have an adopted son.  However it is not that house Stephenie wrote about.  Spooky huh? :p

The real house that Stephenie wrote about she found in an ad online in the Forks paper here.  The actual house description she modeled the Cullens place after is REAL and I have in my possession (after much begging) a hand drawn map to its location 13 miles out of town.  (no I will not tell ANYONE the location – as people aren’t really supposed to be bothering them and they have a large dog)  Basically hardly anyone knows about this place.  It is an old Victorian house built in the late 1800′s.  This will be the real Cullen’s place.  The person didn’t even have a picture of it but I’m going to get one if it kills me.  I promised them I would send it.

This is a small town, a very small town.  When Stephanie came to Forks she went to the local church and was quite excited to meet an old woman that GREW up in the house Stephanie used in her descriptions in the book.  Apparently she was pretty damn dead on.

The Swan House -

The cabinets in the Swan house match the description in the book.  The family that lives there does have a teenage daughter that lives upstairs and there is a bathroom up there as well. 

Twilight and the Press -

The local paper here is holding back issues of the paper from Bella’s birthday.  I’ll be picking one up tomorrow morning.  Forks is going to explode.  Almost every place I go has a guest book to sign.  So this site has been plugged at every establishment I visit (tehee).  November 17th Channel 5 Seattle is going to be running a piece on Forks and Twilight (the town is very excited about this one).  Looks like this is the link to it. http://www.king5.com/eveningmagazine/

The youth of the town have an elitist mentality.  They pick apart the story for its inaccuracies about the area they grew up in.  Where as fans that come here – walk in the world they only dreamed about.  I’m a fan I guess, or I wouldn’t be spending all this time taking pictures and documenting my trip not just for me but for everyone.  I have learned so much more about this then I ever thought I would.  There is new bits and pieces of information EVERYWHERE I turn.

I’m losing daylight here, and I was told to go have dinner in La Push at this place that can see the sunset and I don’t want to miss it.  I was able to get the location of the Baseball field as well, so that is on my list to do in the morning, as well as buzz the tower on the Ole Cullen place.  No Port Angeles tonight it seems.  My ferry leaves at 2pm so there is much to do before then.

Cheers Internet.

Dear Alice,

Hey how’s it going.  Hows Edward, Bella, and the rest of your family?  Hmm I bet you probably saw this letter coming.  Do you have really nice hand writing like Edward or what?  My mom thinks I going insane for writing this letter to you even though she thinks your not real, but she is so wrong I know you are alive and real.  So can you write me back with a Picture of you for Proof.  So I can rub it in my moms face and say Ha Ha Ha you were way wrong.  Just because Alice Cullen is from a book doesn’t mean shes not Real.”  I just got back from Forks, La Push, and the Moro Camp Ground D-62, I wanted the one strait across from D-62 Just because it was big and it had lots of trees to climb.

How was your trip Hunting in Denali…. Don’t ask me how I know that I just do … ok fine Esme left a note at your front door, I stoped by to say Hi and all see if you wanted to be friends or yeah I guess not.  Well I do want to be your Pen Pal if thats okay with you.

I look at the pictures at the forks commerce and saw your picture so I tride to remember and draw a picture of you.  You do have short red hair write, well I hope so.  Ouch (P. drew a blood spatter on the paper and colored it red) oh no sorry about the blood.  When I went to erase a letter the lead of my mechanicall pencil re-opened a previous cut.

Oh guess what I hop you like  puppies because my dog Ginger she gonna have puppies.  Ither tomorrow or later.  ouch hold on … (more drawn and colored blood spatter)  Sorry I just a napkin to wipe the blood my face oh I uh mean a,a,a bandaid yea thats write a bandaid he,he,he shew that was a close, oh snap no eraser and I just – you know what just ignore that, because I’m no vampire … or am I bum bum bumm hehehe.  You know I wish though.

Hey you should tell or ask Carlisle to come her eand turn my into a vampire I’m about 3.6 hours away.  Crazy hu, um maby in a while because I’m leaving to go back to school in Oregon (I’m visiting my mom in Washington to.)

Hey Alice? is forks vampire capital and do you like forks.  Oh and have you seen lake cresent buetiful hu.

Have you heard of My Chemical Romance and Jack Johnson there both musitions and good ones two.  I’m not sure if Stephanie Meyer wrote your histor in any of the books or what so I would love it, if you could send it to me.  hey I just notice that i’m Left handed, what hand do you write with.  who do you thin is strongest out Aro, Caius, and Markus.  I think caius is.  Oh hey I hered about the wedding decor and saw (once again don’t ask me how I know i just do) it awsome.  I give it a 69 kabillion jillion thumbs up alice good job.  Thank god you weren’t crushed in Eclipse (the fight), hey hey no offence I’m not calling you small.  well thats not true but hey at least you aren’t as stupid as that filthy four legged mut Leah sorry if shes your friend its just that seith is the oh cool wolf man guy thing in La-Puush.  oh hey an eraser yes.  Oh well I could go on forever but I’m sorry I do half to go write bella a letter, by for now.  (Oh yea Ally I mean Alice please explain the spots of blood to your family, thanks Alice)

Dear Isabella or Bella Cullen,

Wow I’m used to writing Swan not Cullen (more blood spots drawn in, oh so cute) OW oh NO I do hope alice Explained the blood.

So I heard about that love letter from Africa I would ask emmette or jasper to hunt down that guy.  Owch blood every were oh watch out I just saw Jane and Aro go by lets hope they don’t smell the blood, “what the heck 1,2,3 … 31, 32 da 36 were wolf sam, jacob, uh oh bells there coming toward me help there pullen and pullen my leg just like I’m pullen yours Ha Ha Ha.  Well its what 11:55pm I got to go to bed I promis I’ll write longer next time.

Love P.

Love P. (for Alice)

ps.  You both should be  my pen pals it would mean a lot

Thanks

Driving around Forks and to La Push today just put me somewhere else mentally.  What you Twilight fans are imagining this would feel like, it is.  All those times that Bella, Jacob, Edward, Billy or Charlie drove that road just comes flooding back into your mind.  It was an intense 14miles there and 14 miles back.

Ps.  La Push has an abnormal amount of Dogs just running around (no joke).

The great thing about fall up here in the Pacific Northwest is the color spectrum.  Reds, yellows, greens, browns, and oranges.  All kinds of shades and tones.  When I got into the more “foresty” parts of Washington the eco-systems totally changed.  The plants were all greener, the forest was much more dense and there were lower canopy plants spread all over the place.  When I stepped into the forest at the Big Cedar Tree I was instantly transported somewhere else.  You can just feel it all around you, it was so beautiful and mysterious.  Its difficult to explain, but its a place I would feel comfortable being for a LONG LONG TIME.

On to Forks…

I stopped at the Visitor Center and explained that I was the ambassador for my chapter of California Twilight fans.  The ladies face lit up, she gave me my packet.  They have made maps to give to people that have a layout of the city and where all the Twilight points of interest are.  She had binders of photos from events the town has had, and even a collection of letters that people have written to the Characters in Twilight.  Yes that’s right, Bella Swan gets mail, so do the Cullens.  She showed me a love letter to Bella from a man in Africa it was interesting.  I’m going to head on over tomorrow and ask for some 1 on 1 time with that binder so I can read what people are writing to the characters.

This town is 100% Capitalizing on the Twilight popularity.  There is merchandise EVERYWHERE and the signs are very funny (check the Gallery).  I took pictures of a few things, but there are other things I wanted to take pictures of when there is more light.  They have done some very cool things that I’ll save to tell you about till tomorrow.

Facts I have learned so far from coming to Forks

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- Stephanie Meyer has only been to Forks 1 time that the lady knew of

- The movie wasn’t filmed here because of some sort of tax reasons but the director and crew came and planned out where the shots were going to be.

- Bella’s birthday is officially Stephanie Meyer day in Forks.  They have done it twice.  Last year and this year.  The first year it was only like 100 people.  This year it was over 1000.

- They have a state tax on lodging here, and last month it was up 48%.  Twilight is bringing people to Forks in droves.

- The story of Twilight was pretty much figured out before Stephanie had a place to put it.  She didn’t actually write it around the Town of Forks, she googled places that didn’t get much sun :p … Forks can thank the google for their popularity.  Of course that was for book one, there was no way she could write the rest without doing some research on the area.  But she was able to do that all from the internet.  She didn’t live here or anything.

- Restaurants around town have named dishes after the characters, the Bella Burger, Bellasagna, and there is a place with a full on Twilight menu.

Well I think thats it… if I think of anything else I’ll post more.  Tomorrow I’m spending the day here, so I’ll head up to La Push and get those shots I wanted to get when there was more light.

Night night Internet.  Hunting time.

ps.  The beach scenes at the end where Willie’s ship comes out were filmed in Ecola State Park which I passed on the way in (I knew I should have stopped).  There is a place there called, Cannon Beach I believe.  Has the huge rocks in the water and such.  Very awesome looking as I was driving by it.  I would have went back and got pictures but it is a 40 minute drive because you have to go through the Town of Seaside which takes forever.  Also, Michele is correct.  The Restaurant they go into was constructed for the movie.  While you can goto the location, there isn’t anything there but a picnic table.

Okay I’m off to Forks! Cheers!

The destination was Astoria today.  It was a little over a 5 hour drive to get up here and I didn’t stop but one time for some coffee in Tillamook.  All I can say for Tillamook is that if the Cheese thing didn’t work out, that place should be condemned.  The town smelled like there was an explosion at the Cow Fart Bottling Plant, and the town is still recovering from it.  I think there is a ban against open flames there… and for good reason.

Once I got past Florence things turned a lot more, “piratey.”  Lots of places had Captain, Cove, and Pirate in the name.  I even passed by a Pirate Pastry shop.  I got into town and sought out some wifi to make sleeping arangments.  I wasn’t feeling much like exploring but I poked around for a while.  Figured I’d take it easy and sleep a lot tonight.  I’m currently finding the locations of all the Goonie landmarks so I can hit them in the morning and be in Forks before lunch.  Kind of uneventful today, just a lot of driving but I took some pictures and put them in the gallery.  The drive was beautiful.  By far the best scenery yet.

At Safeway there was a beer there called, “Dead Guy Ale.”  It native to the region so I figured I better have some.  Also when I was checking out my phone number didn’t take for the discount.  So they Lady asked me to tell it to her and she would punch it in.  I never had someone ask me where area code 530 was before.  Not in Kansas anymore!

I fired up my crappy wi-fi and started to look for the places Sarah told me about.  I got the addresses for the bank (needed cash in wallet), coffee shop that Sarah mentioned to me, and Los Bagels (another Sarah place).  I totally got lost like Helen Keller trying to read a stucko ceiling (oops to far), looking for the coffee place so I scraped it.  Streets and Trips and DanEEE really saved my ass.  I was totally turned around, but found my way out.  I did find Los Bagels however and had the Sea Food Deliah bagel sandwhich.  I have resolved to have as much SeaFood as possible on this trip since I’m on the coast.  The odds of it being fresh are in my favor here and I like that.

Gas’d up, caffine’d up, poo’d up, and shut’d up.  I still haven’t seen any Ocean worth a damn at this point.  The fog was so thick you couldn’t see past about 50 feet.  As I drove up the 101 I kept seeing turn-offs for different beachs and vista points.  I finally gave in and went to Patricks Point where I took some of my first pictures (see the side  bar at the top for photos).

After that I started driving through crazy winding cliff roads and small coastal villages.  Did you know that the Red Woods of Northern California is the number one exporter of Chainsaw carved bears out of random wood? Yea, true story Internet I saw it with my own eyes.

I then saw a sign for The Trees of Mystery.  Now I didn’t go on many vacations when I was kid, but the ones I did go on were memorable.  I know my family is reading this so there you  go .  One trip we did take was here in the Red Woods area and we went to the trees of Mystery so I had to stop here and reminisce.  It was just like I remembered, the depressed Indian guy on a horse made of wood, seriously why are all Native Americans sad? Its not like we… (oops yes we did). Movin’ on…

Paul B. was there with the guy inside talking to people as they walked by.  Cat calling at senior citizens and offering promises of candy to any little kids who came around to the back of the boot and knocked three times.  Babe the big Blue Ox was there and so was Babe’s Packaged which I will sum up in this hymn:

UNT I REEEEECITE <coughs> …

Babe oh babe, Ox of Blue.

Your legend is known through-out the land.

There are no words for what you have been through,

Paul has always been there, to pat you with his hand.

It seems you have been diagnosed with a horrid condition,

Deeper it puts you into your ruts.

Babe, just learn to be happy with your affliction.

You have huge freakin’ nuts.

Title: Your My Boy Blue … By: Danny Machal

I decided to push on through and get to Coos Bay where I intended to stop and rest for the day.  I got hungry around 2:30 or so and decided to stop at the first insane hole in the wall I saw.  The Crazy Norwegians Fish and Chips in Port Orford delivered.  I had the fish and chips even though they offered more things.  I figured it was this Crazy Guys specialty since its on the sign.  They were pretty damn good I must say.  When I went to pay I think I got a look at the man himself.  Dirty apron, scragily facial hair, white headphones connected to an old school Sony WALKMAN! There was no mistake, it was him.  I was pleased and stopped at the Port to suck down some coffee and take pictures of the Ocean when the sun was out.  (see photo gallery).

Got to Coos Bay and cruised around for wi-fi or a visitors center so I could figure out where I’m sleeping.  Thankfully down town Coos Bay is blanketed in a city sponsored wifi hot spot so … awesome.  I didn’t want a Motel 6 so I called the Edgewater and reserved a room.  (pics in gallery).  Whenever I get into a hotel room the first thing I do is strip down.  I don’t know why but its how I mark the territory.  “I can be naked in here! THIS IS MY AREA!”… something like that goes through my head.

Took a shower went to Hitler’s Kitchen the Blue Heron and got to some of my German roots.  Good food and good beer, I was stuffed.  Grabbed a bottle of Oregon Native wine, Stone Wolf Vineyards Pinot Noir.  It’s okay, not that impressive.  Maybe if I wasn’t drinking it out of my complimentary coffee mug set, I might like it better.
Sorry if there are any errors I’m beat and I need to get this wine gone so I can sleep like a baby.

Good Night Internet.

ps. Photo Gallery on the top if you are blind.

pps. Astoria tomorrow!!!! Can we say, “HEYYYYYYYY YOUUUUUUUUUU GUYYYYYYYYYYYYYYS!”

ppps.  The comments have been great

As a tribute to the great American way of road trips, I’m shacked up at a Motel 6 at the moment.  I’m really glad I brought a sleeping bag, who knows what bodily fluids are all over these beds.  I also had to  pay an extra three bucks for this crappy wi-fi signal that drops off every 5 minutes.  Ah well, its cheap to stay at places like this.  However I think in the future I’m going to eat the cost and stay places where I’m not afraid to touch things.

Sarah told me a couple places to check out in the morning so I’ll be scouting for them for breakfast and coffee.  I’m also very much looking forward to seeing the Ocean tomorrow and taking pictures of it too!  I’m planning on getting up to Coosbay tommorrow for a meal at a place Jack told me about.  I think it was in Coosbay anyway.

Good night internet.  Time to sleep.

I made most of this a couple of weekends ago.  I decided I should have at least some sort of layout of where I’m going and what I might do.  It has not been edited to be posted.

Itinerary and General Overview of trip

10/17 – 10/26

Friday 10/17

5pm – leave Chico

10pm – Stop in Mckinleyville

Saturday 10/18

9am – leave up the 101

4 hours of driving

Stop in Coos Bay, OR

ONWARD TO ASTORIA!!!

(11:53:58 AM) Casey: If I was going to take a trip like that

(11:54:04 AM) Casey: It would be up to Astoria Oregon

(11:54:05 AM) Casey: Man

(11:54:09 AM) Casey: I want to see that place!

(11:54:18 AM) Casey: The place where the movie The Goonies was made

(11:54:25 AM) Casey: Kindergarten Cop

(11:54:33 AM) Casey: Shoot, a bunch of movies

(11:54:40 AM) Casey: That place looks beautiful!

Sunday 10/19

8 hours to Forks be there by Monday Morning

Monday 10/20 – 10/22

Forks, WA

Wednesday 10/22

Catch last ferry out of port angles to Victoria

10/22 – 10/26

Victoria, Canada

- Maritime Museum & Ghost tours

- Royal BC museum

- Butchart Gardens

- Bengal Lounge in the Fairmont Express

12 hours back to Chico from Port Angeles on Sunday 10/26

Long winded and for that I apologize. What do you guys think?

I might add more to this one later, but I’m tired of it just sitting in a text document forever… updates to follow I’m sure.

• Character Creation, and Interactions
• The People you play with, Guilds and online Friends
• When it’s all over, what are you left with? What have you taken away? What are you missing?

I am beginning to ask myself why I am even writing this. The truth is it is for two reasons. I’m doing it for me, and for you, easy as that. I feel as though a lot of people don’t understand the way I think or my reasoning for doing what I do. So this is my message to them. Oh for the record The Half Blood Prince is due to be released the 21st of November so CLEAR YOUR Calendars PEOPLE!!!!

——————————————–

You know those moments in your life when things become crystal clear? Those times where you know exactly what you are going to do or what you want? Think back on all those tough decisions you ever had to make. Take yourself to those final moments of Zen and Aw when you finally felt comfortable enough to move on. I bet they all share a commonality that you didn’t really even know you were doing. These moments of clarity can easily be accomplished everyday by, “being in the moment.”

The moment for me was driving home from work one day. Stressed out of my mind, I was fueling my own lingering thoughts of depression and confusion. On the final stretch of road to my house I saw a woman pushing a newborn in a stroller. I thought to myself, “Life is beautiful sometimes.” I slowed my car down and said out loud, “I am going to learn to appreciate the wonders of life and the world around me.” I was doing something at that point I didn’t know. I was using a type of self hypnosis. The words I said out loud were called an affirmation. I was so engrossed in that moment in time that I was able to make a lasting impression on myself that I involuntarily feel everyday.

Now being in the moment doesn’t mean you stand in the middle of a busy street talking to yourself. There is great value in taking time to see and listen when your life is in a state of chaos. Turn your brain off, and just absorb the things your senses are feeling. This is it what means to be in the moment. It is when our intuitions take over and are able to make a lasting impression on us.

I’m a practical person, and I have learned to have these moments in my daily life of working almost double the hours a week that most do. I’ve done this standing in line at the bank, walking to my car in a parking lot, sitting at a stop light, or waiting in line at an eatery. I stop and feel the small things. The weight of my clothes, the pressure of my feet in my shoes, the sounds of people talking, the sight of trees swaying in a cool breeze out of a window, are just a few of the things I have learned to pay attention to and it has given me great insight into myself and my reality. I’m the happiest I have ever been, all it took was for me to stop for a moment and truly experience it.

—————————————————————————-

Time: End of January 08′

Let me preface this section by saying, “the path to your spiritual self is a personal journey and my own path follows no specific version of any sort of doctrine. I aim to take bits and pieces from all ways of spiritual belief and culminate my own spiritual understanding.” That being said lets move on…

I was at work when I got a support call from a customer that was having trouble with her email. Her name is Mildred “Micky”. She is an aspiring astrologer, a good psychic, and only just recently found her own spiritual path. The woman is 84 years of age, and I tell you she is just amazing. She has such a great feel and energy it is unreal. So I’m talking with her and we talk about psychic phenomenon and astrology. She then mentions the word that has been bringing up more and more things in my life over the last couple weeks. “Hu” yep two letters that have changed my life and put me down the rabbit hole to finally sit down and ask the big questions. Yep… what is a soul? Where does it come from? Is there really a big guy in the sky? Is life on this planet all there is?

Now “Hu” is an ancient name for god. It has its origins in the eastern parts of the world. Mostly around the country of India. She recommended to me a book called, “The path of the masters.” Which is an American priests account of following around a spiritual leader from something called, “Sat Sang” or “Sat Mat”… there are a ton of different names. But it all centers around this organization called the RSSB, the American version is called, “Eckankar.” I don’t entirely understand any of it either, so don’t act like I don’t know you are confused because I sure as hell am. However this concept of god.. or “Hu” as they call it, has been calling out to me. Something has been calling out to me, I think Hu is just a tool to help me get my answers.

So my drivers license expired on my birthday this year, so I had to get it renewed and lo and behold there is proof I live in this town. So I finally had the means to get a library card. I went there on the Monday after my birthday after work. I got my card and started looking for books about palm reading and found a nice little book about hands, that also had hand writing analysis in it. “The Whole World of Hands – Gilda and Melvin Berger.” Nice little fun read for those interested in such things. I stayed in the Library because I know it is a good place for picking up women and I wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss any opportunities. So I finished my book after wussing out of my window to talk to a girl and I check out my book and start walking out. I turn to look at a table next to the conference room, and there was a yellow card on it. “HU” it said, “a love song to god.” I’m thinking, “this shit isn’t happening to me.” Normally I would just shrug this off and go about my day. But this one time I thought, “fuck it, lets see what happens.” So I stop and look at the rest of the literature, and I see a flyer on the door for a dreams and spirituality group at 6:30 that day. I looked at my watch and it read 6:25. I was just in time. I saw four people in there and some chairs, thanks to some people skills I had learned recently I wasn’t afraid to approach them and ask what was going on. I asked them if I could sit in and they greeted me with open arms. They were part of a group called, “Eckankar.” Micky never mentioned them to me, but here was Hu again but from somewhere else. Things were really starting to trip me out. We talked about Eckankar and what it was all about. They have some good ideas, but it isn’t something I would ever follow. They told me there was a get together and potluck where they sing the Hu and talk about the study of the Eck. That is on Saturday and I will be attending. Not because I really want to, but because I have to. I feel compelled to, that it is part of my spiritual journey. I leave and go about my business. At work the next day or so, I get a package from Mildred that contains a personal letter, and a whole array of literature about, “Satsang.” Which was her path to the Hu and much truer to its roots. But even it has corruptions. Bam the 3rd sign was bright and obvious. I knew I was on to something big here and I need to ride this wave out and see what happens. I order the Path of the Masters (still haven’t gotten it) and I set it all aside for this Saturday.

Yet still one more event would instill my nessessity to find out information. I was at Safeway last Saturday getting supplies for my book club (food). When a man approached me in the parking lot while I was smoking (have quit since I wrote this). A nice old man, and we talked about everything from Whiskey to Retirement plans. On a whim I asked him his name, “Hu” was his name. I was floored, but I kept my cool and knew that I should listen to this man. While I don’t think he is any sort of higher power, I do believe he had something to teach me. A message to bring that I better learn. I was right. He told me that, “everyday is a good day, but weekends were better.” And every morning when he wakes up if the mirror doesn’t break then he is going to be okay and feel great that day. We parted ways and I had more then enough signs at this point telling me to pursue, “hu” in all its glory. To see what I’m supposed to find. So I wait for Saturday and the meeting. Kasey, Kris and I have also decided to start a spirituality, mysticism discussion group. We had our first meeting last night. I’m looking forward to the meetings and the types of things that we will be able to understand and figure out about ourselves and eachother.

Well I think that pretty much covers everything that is going on in my world. Take it easy ole chap. Remember that no matter what happens after this. When you come back and read this, you are going to remember this time, and the uncertainty, the adventure, and the excitement of new things and figuring out mysteries, and learning about how you tick.

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This was the beginning of a transformation in myself that I am still going through. I have many more stories and “synchronistic” events to share, which I will do so when time allows.

Well now that that stuff is out of the way. Lets get down to business. Maybe you got here because you know me and thought about being some sort of internet snoop? Wondering if I have written anything about you specifically, you came here looking for something I wouldn’t tell you to your face. Sorry to disappoint no crazy inner secrets revealed here. Just the normal daily hubbub of conversation that you would find if you engaged me off the street. For the stranger, internet pervert, or regular Joe out there I share this sentiment, “Question everything and never take any information without seeking it out for yourself later.” If I say, “President Bush is a closet homosexual,” and you run and tell your friends the, “news” then you have failed already, and I am sad. There goes my republican conservative reader base … thats a shame we just got here too!

Everyone always wants to write so much on Day 1, I figure if we don’t start full steam we can’t slow down. So thats it for today.