The "Men" Down Under

“Well, I’ve never seen one like that before.”

“I reckon nobody has. I mean, look at the thing.”

“I do believe I have read about something like this. What was it called…?”

“I’m hungry. Can we eat?” The other three members of the small party turned and looked at him.

“Dadgummit, how can you think about yer belly when we got ourselves such a fine specimen for our viewing pleasure?”

“It’s easy. I’m hungry. Can we please just go eat something?”

“Absolutely not! I forbid it. This is too rare an occasion. You’ll have to sacrifice food for a short while. You are the only one among us who has to—“He winced as I shot him a sharp glare.

“Could you please just let us watch a bit longer? We’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, I guess… How long do I hafta wait?”

“Only a few more minutes more. Thank you.” I flashed a smile at him, and then turned on my companion. “We decided that we weren’t going to tell him,” I whispered tersely. “What the bumf were you thinking?”

“The insufferable half-wit can’t—“I slapped him hard across the cheek, sending his glasses off his face and onto the dry, cracked ground. A look of shock was plastered on his face. “I apologize. I lost my head a bit. I will keep a closer watch on my temper and my tongue.”

“Thank you.” I bent down and picked up his glasses, dusted them off, and handed them to him. “You know why he’s here. It’s easier for us all if he doesn’t really know what we are.” He nodded.

“Would you two quit dinkin’ around and look at this thing?”

We walked over to the edge of the cliff and looked down into the gorge below. The beast was tantalizing. It had legs too long for its round body, and a neck to match it. Its wings looked rather uselessly small; there was no way they could support its weight. Its feathers were an ugly brown color. We had seen a few birds before, but this one was singularly peculiar. Back in those days, we always stopped to watch the birds. It seems a bit silly now but to us, then, it was a treat.

(You must understand that animals rarely wander down into the Underplaces. Terrestrial animals, the ones who walk on the ground, were more common. Especially the more stupid ones like the cows. We always had cows down there. You can smell it, if you ever have the misfortune of going there yourself.)

Anyways, we were all enthralled by this lanky, awkward bird when this was said: “I’m gonna ride it.” We looked at him with a mixture of ‘that’s a funny joke’ and ‘are you an idiot?’ (He got the latter of these looks far too often for it to be funny. It was more sad than funny.) “I don’t care what y’all think of it, I’m doin’ it!” And with that, he leapt off the precipice and landed lightly on the ground far below.

“This is surely going to spell trouble for us, isn’t it?” my scholarly companion asked.

“It always does with him…” I answered despairingly.

“Ooh, I wanna ride it too!” The child said.

“No!” We both shouted. “You’re uh… much too small to ride a big thing like that, little one. Perhaps one day when you’re older.”

“Yeah,” I offered, “Also… he’s an idiot. You don’t want to be an idiot. Trust me.”

“Aww… You guys never let me have any fun,” he pouted.

“Listen, how about after Uncle gives up trying to ride that bird-thing, we get you some food. Sound good?” He nodded, but kept his angry face on and his arms folded. I turned back to watch the unfolding spectacle.

He glided slowly over to the bird, not risking the sound of footfall. When he was about 20 feet away it twisted its neck and looked straight at my companion, who we called “Uncle” for the benefit of the child. Uncle stopped moving altogether, showing no signs of life. Its body twisted around to face forward. It looked at him stupidly for what seemed like a long while. Then it emitted a strange half-honk, half-shriek sound and flapped its stubby wings. It sounded like it was speaking the language of the Fifth Circle. Uncle stayed perfectly still. Soon, it got bored and the awful noise stopped. Uncle resumed his snail’s pace movement toward the bird. It only tilted its head to the other side. Uncle kept moving forward. Suddenly, the bird’s neck went stiff and it honk-shrieked once more, and then started off on a run away from Uncle.

“Blasted thing! I was this close!! I coulda—“And then we realized the bird wasn’t running from Uncle. The ground began shaking violently, and the temperature started spiking.

I quickly turned to the child, nodded at my companion, and said urgently to the child, “It’s time to leave.”

“Where are we going this time?” He whined.

I thought quickly and replied, “We promised you food, remember? Now, let’s get going.”

The child issued a scream of joy, to which my companion quipped, “’Now’ being the operative word.”

“What about Uncle?” I had almost forgotten completely.

I glanced down the ravine. Cracks were already starting to appear, the pressure under the surface growing. Uncle was racing down the ravine as he spotted us and shouted, “What in the Seventh Circle are you two thinking?! Get out of here!!”

“Uncle’s going to meet us there, okay? Come on, let’s hurry.”

“But I wanna go with Uncle!” He folded his arms in defiance. His attachment to Uncle had become a hindrance. A burst of steam released from the ground a ways off. They would soon be everywhere.

My companion and I moaned in frustration. “Uh… umm… Ah! It’s a race! We’re racing Uncle! Come on, we can’t let him win!” With that, the child gasped and started running off in the same direction Uncle did. We sighed out of relief briefly, and then took off after the child.

The steam geysers were getting more frequent. We had to get to Sanctuary quickly, or we’d be done for. I wasn’t sure the child would make it. The temperature was already hotter than a summer’s day at high noon. He was panting heavily and sweating profusely. We encouraged him to keep running. His stamina was quite impressive for that of a young human.

After the ground sloped downward, we were on the same elevation with Uncle, but he was still behind us a little ways. I looked back at him then told the child, “Uncle’s catching up to us! Run faster!”

“Clever, no?” My companion remarked to Uncle, not too far behind us now.

He laughed. “Yessir, that’s using your noodle.” I smiled to myself at the wittiness of my motivating deception. I turned back to offer a small thanks for the praise, and stopped.

Uncle was gone. A crack in the ground was coming toward us, and I spun and started running again. “Teacher,” I called quietly, as to keep the child out of earshot. “Teacher!” My academic companion turned his head. “Sohrenzael,” I mouthed. His brow furrowed in confusion; the language of demons wasn’t easy to lip read. “Uncle,” I mouthed exaggeratedly. Recognition spread across his features, which he quickly wiped off and replaced with determination. Facing forward, he picked up his pace. He passed the child, who responded by putting his head down and pushing his body to its limits to keep up with my only remaining companion.

We turned sharply down a narrow ravine in the dark blue wall of rock. As it widened, Sanctuary began to materialize in front of us. It was still a hazy shimmer; we were only passing through its outer barrier, but the temperature was dropping almost as quickly as it had risen. We were almost to safety. We were going to make it.

The child’s pace began to slow noticeably. “Don’t quit now, we’re almost there!” I shouted.

“I… I can’t… can’t go… any farther…” he panted. We were so close, within a hundred yards now.

“Come on!!” I yelled, anger filling my voice. If he were to die, it would spell disaster for Teacher and me. And here? So close to safety? The irony was too much for me to bear. Maybe we’d find Uncle again in our new Circle. Or maybe, he met a luckier Fate. “Don’t make Uncle’s death meaningless!”

Horror spread across the child’s face. “Uncle…” he breathed out. I started to swear, but was interrupted by a loud, sharp roar as part of the ravine wall was torn out and started to fall on us.

“Go, now!!” I yelled. The child scrambled up to his feet and began running awkwardly, regaining his balance as he moved. I moved quickly, but the rock moved quicker and fell almost directly on top of me.

I kept running, hoping the child didn’t witness that. We were close. Teacher had already made it inside Sanctuary, behind the inner barrier, hiding him from view. The child was close behind. I sighed in relief as a burst of heat seared across my back, slicing through my being, turning my sigh into a shriek.

The rockslide had created another crack, which had swallowed me in the most intense heat imaginable. But at least it was within the realm of imagination. It could’ve been worse. Much worse.

I now was being pulled into the Void between the Circles. I looked around and saw nothing. The heat dissipated as I left the Third Circle behind and entered the Void, but dread took its place. What new terrors and torments awaited me below were beyond anything I could possibly hope to imagine.

In Memoriam.

The following stories either begin or end with a bang. A sound that stopped the hearts of many. A sound of evil. A sound that can never be forgotten. The stories are partly fiction—some more than others—but they’re based in fact, and the memories of that day are all too real.

TRAGEDY.

I put down the receiver, stunned and speechless. I knew my heart had just been ripped out, but it had happened so suddenly that I hadn’t really felt it yet. I felt the dread slowly creep into me, into every corner of my being. It couldn’t be true. It felt like a nightmare. And the truth is, it was a nightmare… but I couldn’t wake up from this one. I still can’t.

The dread continued to swell until a small voice broke the silence. It said, “Who was that on the phone, mommy?” The dread stopped seeping in—and it started flooding in. My last thought before I was completely overwhelmed was this: “Oh no…. I have to tell them.” Then the grief overtook me.

I collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. I could not move. With my back to my daughters—twins at age five, the youngest at three—I slowly regained my composure. I felt that I had to be strong for them.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Girls—“ I started, my voice cracking hard. I drew in a deep breath. “Girls… I need to talk to you about something.” I stood and faced them. Looking into their expectant, innocent eyes I was almost lost to grief again. With all my effort, I swallowed hard, and was able to tell them, “Let’s go into your room. Sit on the bed, there.” We walked back into their rooms, and I helped sit them on the edge of the bed. We sat in silence for a moment.

“When will daddy be home?” I felt like vomiting. I choked back the tears and looked at my daughters, one by one.”

“Sweetie… Daddy’s not—“ My voice broke again. Another deep breath. “Daddy’s not coming home,” I finally said. I hated myself for telling them that their father had died. It was cruel. They were so young.

“Can I call him on his cell phone?” They didn’t understand.

“No…” I had to say it again. Torture. “They don’t have cell phones in heaven,” I tried, pleading that they could grasp what I meant. Tragic understanding spread across the twins’ faces. One of them, tears welling up, asked another question.

It was then that I heard the saddest thing ever spoken:

“Can the postman get a letter to him there?”

MIRACLES.

They were ushering people down the stairs, trying their best to evacuate everyone.

“Hey!” One of them shouted. The others turned. He directed their attention to a room of about fifty or so people, all sitting down. They ran to the room, but when they arrived, they noticed why they were sitting down: everyone in that room was in a wheelchair, or in a walker.

“This isn’t good…” one fireman breathed out. But they were determined to save as many people as possible. They called for those who could walk to come quickly. A few stood and ambled over, using whatever crutch they had. They told them to follow, leading the way down the stairs from the 27^th floor.

They moved slowly, with eight firemen leading, seven bringing up the rear. Every man in that crew fought back tears trying not to think of those they had to leave behind. They hurried on.

As they made it to the stairwell, the floor gave way, and most of the group fell with it.

“No!!” A couple of men shouted. They stared for only a moment as they stared after their comrades, brothers, and sisters. The stairwell had remained intact, but it wouldn’t hold for much longer. There remained only the eight firemen in the lead and one elderly woman. One of the men turned and asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Josephine,” I answered.

“Josephine,” he repeated. “We’re gonna get you out of here.” I nodded and we pressed onward and downward. The movement was slow, but we kept on. The farther we went, the harder it got. God blessed me with the strength to make it this most of the way down. I had already made my way down fifty floors on my own before the firemen showed up. We were on the sixth now. I couldn’t go on any longer. I had to stop.

The firemen were understanding, but I sensed their urgency. It was a miracle we had gotten this far. Maybe God’s miracles only go so far. But I had to remain strong. This tragedy was not the work of God.

At that very moment, a terrible noise erupted from every direction. The tower was collapsing. We were finished. It was the end. I felt terrible for slowing these noble men down, and being the cause of their death. They could have lived if it weren’t for me.

“I’m scared,” I said.

“We’re all a little scared,” one replied to me. He put his arm around me and I felt comforted.

Soon the noise stopped. We survived the crash, but we were trapped in the stairwell with no way out. The chief called on his radio for help. No answer came. He kept trying, sending out a distress call, repeating the word “mayday.” He tried in vain for what seemed like an hour. Then we heard the sound of hope:

“Go ahead with the mayday.”

“We’re in the north stairwell,” the chief said excitedly. “Ladder 6.”

“Copy, Ladder 6. How do we get there?” the radio answered.

“Enter the glass doors, turn down the first hallway on your left, and you’re here.”

“Negative, Ladder 6. We can’t find you.” The chief looked confused. He had given clear directions, but he only knew the way through a building that still stood. He continued trying to navigate our rescuers to our location. It took several hours until we saw a beam of light appear from beneath our feet. We all sighed in relief and hugged each other. They continued clearing away the rubble, but realized they couldn’t get me out safely downward. They would have to come in through the top.

A helicopter appeared above us, and another fireman came down and offered me his hand. “Come this way, doll. Give me your hand. There you go. We’ll get you out of here, doll.” The fireman who’d comforted me earlier grabbed him arm and looked him hard in the eyes.

“It’s not ‘doll.’ She has a name: Josephine.” The other fireman apologized.

“Josephine. Let’s get you home.” With that, I was pulled to safety.

I will always remember those men. They were my guardian angels, though they always call me theirs. I have remained close with my angels since then, and I always will. I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for them.

That day I learned that God’s miracles never go halfway. God sends his angels among us to work His miracles.

[Josephine Harris passed away in January of 2011.]

SACRIFICE.

I sat glued to my seat in terror. A group of men had taken over the plane, they had a bomb and knives. I didn’t know what to do. They had already stabbed the pilots and a flight attendant. Would I survive?

There was a man sitting in front of me, whispering with the other passengers. It seemed important. I leaned forward to hear. He noticed.

When he turned his head toward me, I sat back and tried to act innocent. I never was good at acting.

“You for it?” he asked.

“Umm…” I stammered.

“We’re voting on whether or not to rush the hijackers.” I was shocked. Here I was, passively allowing these men to lead us, most likely, to our deaths, and this man—normal by most standards—was organizing a rebellion.

“Are you in?” he asked again. I sobered myself and nodded.

“I’m in,” I said. We had to do something. The others cast their votes. It ended in favor of the rush. The man looked at us somberly.

“Call your families. Tell them you love them. It’s time to—“ he choked. “Time to say goodbye.” We took a moment to brace ourselves, then used what phones were working to call home. The man in front of me didn’t hang up. He couldn’t connect to his family, so he spoke with an operator. He looked at us. His eyes met mine.

“Are you guys ready?” I nodded. “Okay. Let’s roll.”

And with those words, we went into action, running for the cockpit. The man who had taken over the controls rolled the plane from side to side after hearing the commotion. We held onto seats and fell over each other. One of the attackers came toward us, brandishing his knife when the plane had stabilized. The people in front charged him and wrestled the knife away from him but not without injury; one passenger was wounded and another had been killed. A larger man stabbed the hijacker and we pressed on, stepping over the bodies of a friend and a foe. We could hear yelling from the cockpit as we came closer, and the plane pitched up and down violently. Those who could made their way to the cockpit and overtook the two standing guard.

The plane suddenly angled downward steeply as we broke into the cockpit, and I stumbled a bit. The man who was sitting in front of me ran to the nose of the plane, grabbed the piloting hijacker and threw him to the ground. He pulled up as hard as he could on the controls. But even with the attackers controlled, there was no way we could pull out of the dive. We weren’t able to save ourselves, but we had stopped the terrorists from accomplishing their plot.

We looked out the cockpit window, watching the ground rise up to meet us. We were all at peace when we died, I think.

NOT ONE FORGOTTEN.

I am a man on a plane. Terrorists have hijacked the plane. I know I will die soon.

I panic and worry and fret.

There is a dead someone in the aisle. I look away. I look out the window and see New York close below, flying by at an incredible speed.

I hear people crying around me, and I cry a little too.

I hear passengers calling their loved ones, saying how much they care about them. I have no loved ones to call.

I am a deafened man.

I am a burning man.

I am a dead man.

I am a name on a list on every news network in America, and some around the world. No one cries when they see me.

I am a name on a memorial. I watch people come and look at the other names around me and some weep. No one weeps for me, though. They read my name and then read the next one, and the next one, looking for one in particular, or maybe none in particular.

I am forgotten.

I am a man in the street. I am running late for my plane. I might make it if I hurry.

I am late because a hurried woman spilled her coffee on me.

I am late because every cab driver ignores me.

I am late because I slept through my alarm.

I am late because I got pulled over for speeding.

I am late because I fainted and fell down the stairs. Now I am in the hospital.

I am getting to the airport as fast as I can. I barely miss my flight.

I wait a long time for the next available flight. I watch the news on the airport television. I see a plane crash into a building. I see the flight number. I check my ticket.

It was the flight I missed.

I read the list of passengers’ names on the news. I cry.

I visit the memorial where my name should have been if that woman hadn’t spilled her coffee.

If I had gotten in that cab.

If I had woken up to my alarm.

If the cop didn’t pull me over.

If I wasn’t in the hospital.

I read the names on the wall. I shed a tear for every name that isn’t mine.

I stop at one name in particular. I sob openly. I collapse in tears.

We do not know him.

We will always remember him.

The Hunter

[Origin: I was feeling weird one day, so I spent most of it talking at Victoria, as she absorbed my ridiculous. So, basically this story... It's for fun. Thank you, Vic!]

[Also, I do apologize. This is quite overdue. Please forgive me]

He was crouched low in the dense underbrush, eyeing his target. His palms grew steadily more sweaty, and he gripped his knife tighter. Though he had done this before, he could never seem to stop his palms form sweating. He didn't mind so much, though--it had become the first sign of the incredible rush, that primal urge he had fostered so long.

It began long ago--by now, almost 40 years. He was just stepping onto the brink of manhood. Up to that point, he had led a relatively unfulfilling life.

Yet one day, he was a bit out of sorts and particularly bored, and something suddenly seized upon him. He had never felt anything like this before, so potent, so forceful, so natural. That was the strange thing to him: he was not a violent person by nature. But still, this desire, this lust for violence felt so natural. Frightened of himself and his feelings he sat bolt upright, and tried to push the feelings away. But they wouldn't leave; they were irritatingly persistent. He stood and paced, then began walking out of the door and into the world with no destination, still trying to expunge these horrid, base thoughts. He found himself at the park behind his house. He found a bench and sat down forcefully, frustrated. He put his head in his hands and wondered, Why?! when he saw the spider.

This was not just a spider though. It was a beginning, a spark, a leap. He watched it crawl along for a moment. He moved his foot and put his heel down near the spider. He slowly lowered the rest of his foot on top of the spider, crushing its body. There was a satisfying little crunch when he ended the creature's life. The dry autumn leaf that the spider had been on, yes, but it still fed the violent instinct rising within him. He was pleased. The urge abated for a moment but soon returned, stronger this time.

And thus the Hunter was born. There, at that park bench on a day in late October.

Now, it didn't go from spiders to the full-fledged hunting master that he was now. No, he escalated--like most criminals do. He wanted to kill something more satisfying, something impressive. He started with guns.

He went to target practice every day for a month and a half to improve his aim, though naturally gifted. Soon he began hunting animals in a nearby range, but it was not enough. He didn't know what else to do though, so he went on more and more dangerous hunts, each with bigger or more deadly targets. With each progressively thrilling hunt, however, his primitive aggression drive also grew stronger and stronger.

He always remembers the last time he used a gun. Oh, that was certainly scintillating! It was his most dangerous target yet, simply called the Hound. Now, this wasn't really a hound. Imagine a dog with the strength of a bear, but the speed of a fox, and clever too.

He was in the dense rainforest of the Amazon, walking as stealthily as possible, always alert to his surroundings, and also a wary eye out for his mark. They told him it was useless. They said you didn't find it; it found you. He ignored their warnings, confident in his abilities. He was wrong. He heard the rush of leaves too late, and the beast clipped his arm as he ducked. He got a shot off, but missed--which was rare. He saw the great animal turn to attack again, and dove sideways while firing his weapon toward the space he previously occupied. As he rolled, he heard a thump and something heavy sliding across the over-vegitated forest floor. He quickly faced the sound and saw the Hound lying still. It was nearly as big as he was, though it looked less frightening as a dormant creature on the ground than a dark blur. He approached the conquered target and began examining the evidence of his victory. He bent down to look at its claws while holding his own wounded arm. He felt a hot, moist breeze on the back of his neck as the claws extended and the paw flailed, knocking the Hunter backwards and his firearm somewhere into the dense foliage. He grunted as he collided with a tree, with a great, loud cracking sound his previously uninjured arm snapped.

He fell to the ground and rolled toward the lunging, feral animal managing to slide underneath both sets of lethal claws and behind it. As the Hunter ran from the Hound, it dug its claws into the thick trunk and swung its body fully around the tree, almost literally flying after its assailant. As it pursued the Hunter, the tree fell to the ground behind it, the trunk being almost completely severed through. The Hunter veered right, taking note that the Hound was favoring its left side--he must have hit one of its right legs. The Hound pursued, tearing through the vines and vegitation. The Hunter knew he only had moments before he would be overtaken, so he turned left hard, making a complete circle, now running nearly at the Hound. He jumped and grabbed the Hound's neck with his bloodied arm, barely missing the still-quick, yet slowed slash of his enemy, swung around the beast's body, and locked his broken arm around its thick neck.

Blood ran freely from one arm, and intense pain pulsated from his other, but he held onto the animals neck and his consciousness as tight as he could. The Hound tried throwing him off, but he held fast. It tried throwing itself into the wall-like trees, but the Hunter deftly maneuvered his body out of harm's way. With every violent motion of the Hound, the pain and blood pouring out of his arms increased. The great beast slowed, and slowed, and slowed and the Hunter could feel the life draining out of its body--the most satisfying sensation he had ever felt. Eventually, it had all been squeezed out, but the Hunter held tight for a moment more, then took out his knife, and slashed the Hound's throat, spilling warm, dark blood onto the disturbed mess of underbrush. He fell to the ground, exhausted but triumphant.

He would never forget the rush of pure adrenaline as the life drained out of the Hound, annulling his pain completely. Ever since, he searched for that feeling. And decades later, he still seeks to satisfy the primal urge to kill.

Never did he take a human life, however. Though he may have liked to, and nearly had on some occasions, he knew he must draw and maintain a line to keep himself in the right. Without it, he would just be another animal. He lived to hunt, not to be hunted.

He waited patiently in the thick foliage as he reminisced. not moving, his breathing imperceptible. A stag was slowly walking toward him. It stood about as tall as he did, the size of a large horse. Being perfectly still was crucial, and also nearly impossible. But he was good--good enough at least. He knew of no one else who could deer hunt with a knife.

The stag stepped right in front of him. He needed it to move forward, just a little. If it was walking, it would take longer to change pace than if it took of bolting from a standing position. His mark lifted its front hood and began to walk. The Hunter had him. He thrust his free arm forward and caught the stag around the neck, and was propelled onto its back by the forward momentum of the stag. He rode the deer for a short while before bringing his knife up to its neck and slicing cleanly across it.

The stag's front legs buckled and it hit the ground hard, throwing the Hunter off, who aimed carefully to avoid the antlers. He waited for the familiar feel of grass as he somersaulted to avoid injury, but it didn't come. Instead, he kept falling. Falling, for what seemed like thousands of feet.

He recalled his surroundings; he hadn't noticed a cliff anywhere nearby. He was too good for this. His end brought about by failing to obey the first rule of hunting: always mind your surroundings. How ironic, the greatest hunter in the world, felled not by a great beast, but by his own foolishness.

No, it couldn't be. He was too good for this!

He noticed that not only had he failed to master his terrain, but he now had no terrain to memorize and become familiar with. Darkness was all around him. He felt a pull in his core, dragging him downward, farther into the darkness, faster and faster.

So, this was death. His senses abandoning him as his mind emptied itself. He readied himself for the impact of whatever surface would be the canvas for his very personal splatter painting--he never was much for art. He felt this was a just end--he deserved this fate for his fundamental error. He accepted it as he fell and fell and fell, until finally... he stopped.

An Introduction

Somewhere, out in the deep recesses of the universe, there was a planet. This planet was empty, except for one man and a chair. The planet was infinite in size, indeterminate in shape, its existence almost completely unknown, and it existed for one reason: the Cosmos wanted it there.

The man had lived on the planet for ever. Ever since things began to exist he was there, alone, on this planet.

But now, all that was about to change. He had discovered the planet's secret.

And so, at the End of Everything, the man waited. He sat in the chair, waited, and wanted.

"The Plan"

This isn't a story. Not yet. Not really. This is an idea. It's already in motion. Cogs are turning. Wheels are spinning. Other circular objects are rotating about their axes with a positive angular velocity (brought to you for a shoutout to my main girl, Vic. HOLLAAA!) (Which is a shoutout to another main girl, Kelsey.) (I have quite a few main girls... Does that make them less main? Who knows...). Anyways...

This plan will involve multiple posts. It will involve awesomeness. It will involve patience, as it will take a while for me to write the necessary parts. However, some are already in motion. So just keep your pants on.

I know one person is already excited for this. But no one else knew about it, so I don't blame you. I'm also super stoked for it. I hope it turns out as cool as it is in my head.

Good luck.

I miss you all. Desperately.

More Guest Authoring

Howdy, folks. The writing process is going more slowly than I had anticipated. I apologize. However, a wonderful piece of writing has been given to me, and with their permission, I share it with you now:

I trudge down the stairs in my Saturday morning best (though the day has long since progressed into Saturday afternoon), a baggy pair of faded green pajama bottoms and a worn t-shirt that has seen many better days. Even from the top of the steps I can hear little screams intertwining themselves with progressively more grown up voices; it must be playtime. My slipper-clad feet reach the tiled entryway and I turn toward the sounds.

Still rubbing the residue of a late Friday night party from my eyes, I turn another corner into the kitchen. I first discover that at least one of my four younger siblings successfully begged my stepdad to go out for donuts this morning, and I grab one from the now near-empty pink box on the stove. I lean on the counter to enjoy my treat and my tired face allows itself a smile as I face the adjacent family room.

My mom is lounging on the couch flipping channels on the TV, a magazine open on her lap, and as I respond groggily to her kind “good morning,” she settles on cartoons for the kids and turns back to her reading. Howie, my oldest brother, cranes around in his chair the instant he hears Spongebob’s laugh, and my mom playfully threatens to eat the last donut if he doesn’t finish his cereal soon. He grumbles and grudgingly turns back to his bowl of Cheerios. Adam, the youngest boy of the family, begins to beg my mom for another donut, and she chuckles as she cuts off his pleas, which is really her way of saying that she already regrets the piece she gave him earlier; after all, the high concentration of sugar has already caused the mischievous three year-old to forego his morning nap in favor of bouncing off the walls like an antigravity slinky. Adam soon forgets what he was doing and resumes his favorite activity, endlessly antagonizing Olive, who is texting her latest best friend about the woes of middle school drama. Her eyes stay glued to the phone until Adam begins driving one of his Hot Wheels cars over the bottom of her foot. She jerks away, shoots him a dirty “how dare you interrupt my infinitely important texted conversations about that cute guy in my English class” kind of look and kicks the car across the room, to which Adam responds by screaming indignantly and punching her leg with his miniscule fist before running to retrieve it. The family room carpet is littered with toys, including an overturned box of cars and trucks, several unrealistically colored dinosaurs, and scattered piles of crayons left over from someone’s most recent attempt to get Adam to settle down for more than ten consecutive seconds. Among these sits Lucy, the very youngest of us five children, oblivious to the familiar chaos as she stretches her tiny, chubby infant arms for a stuffed giraffe lying just out of her reach. It is my family chaos, though, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Did you see Brad on your way down?” my mom asks. I do not know my stepdad’s whereabouts, but just as I am about to answer no, he enters the room. He hugs me with a teasing “Good afternoon, lazy bones,” but I laugh and gratefully return the hug. His is a warm embrace; whenever I am wrapped in it I feel safe, and I am eternally glad that he crossed paths with my mom those few short years ago, bringing our family the hope and love we desperately needed after my mom’s ugly, drawn-out divorce from her first husband.

I lean back on the counter with my half-eaten donut, and my mom asks Brad if he would like to watch the kids while she goes grocery shopping today. He agrees, and falls comfortably onto the couch next to her, throwing his left arm across the back of the cushions and over her shoulders. I marvel at how happy and young my mom seems, compared to those days long past.

It is then that the weight falls on my shoulders along with the stark realization: This can’t be real. My heart starts to pound as it sinks from my chest to my stomach, where it begins to drown in the acid now pushing its way up into my throat. This is not real. The ugly days are not past at all. Olive, who rests her feet on the coffee table during her incessant texting, does not live here. She resides with our shared biological father, and I have neither seen nor spoken to her in nearly two years. What is going on here? Howie, here a strong, growing eleven year-old boy, was diagnosed with cancer on his second birthday and died a year and a half later, when I was only nine years old and in the fourth grade. This isn’t possible. I look at Brad, who smiles warmly back at me, and my head begins to throb painfully. Brad passed away unexpectedly one morning just over a year ago, only five short days after Lucy was born. To this day I do not know how or why, and I am too afraid of the answer to ask. A small, intruding voice in my head repeats my own thoughts me: The scene before you is impossible. It cannot happen. All that is left of your beloved family is a fragment of what it could have been. The words spread through my mind like poison, cold and unrelenting. They are the truth.

The family room, now a mocking fantasy, freezes in time, and my dream self, still leaning casually on the cold kitchen counter, allows itself the last twitch of a bitter and wistful smile before the scene dissolves. I am alone once more.

I awake in my bed, shaking uncontrollably under the covers. I force my eyes to stay shut and will my mind to retain those blissful, impossible images. I want nothing more than to fall back into unconsciousness, back into that unattainable world filled with hope and joy, but even as my body slowly gains energy, I know that I will not forget it easily. This dream is the most real, most

tangible, most maddeningly taunting trick my mind has ever played on me. All of my fantasies came true for those few moments, but it is a cement-cold, bone shattering, brick wall reality I inhabit now. There is no going back.

Eventually, my eyes open. It is Saturday morning. My bedroom is still, just as I left it the night before, waiting expectantly for signs of life. I sit up and push the sheets away with trembling hands, but cannot do more, and I do not even disturb the quiet as I fall back and begin to cry silently into my pillow. No matter how hard I try, I think, nothing will change. It can’t. There is nothing I can do. I am trapped.

I leave my room only once I gain sufficient strength to hide my tears. Nothing is resolved but the desire to keep my pain to myself. I trudge down the stairs. I did not go to a party last night, but spent Friday afternoon babysitting Adam and Lucy so that my mom could rest her injured back and knee. She gets so exhausted from caring for them on her own all week that I feel guilty going out with friends, or to band practice, or sometimes even to school, so I often decide to forget to wake her up if she naps in the afternoon. Friday afternoon turns into Friday evening with the kids, and with each similar night I become the second parent of the household. I reach the bottom of the stairs and shiver violently when my bare feet touch the frozen marble tile. There are no sounds issuing from around the corner. I turn into the kitchen. There is no pink donut box on the stove. The TV is turned off and the carpet is clear of toys. The couch looks cold and lonely. There is no family in our family room.

I sigh, but not because of my dream. I sigh for my reality. I sigh for what could have been, for what I’ve lost, and for the family I wish I had. I sigh, tired of asking “why me?” and resigned to life as I now know it.

Just then I hear voices. Gradually, a little laugh escalates into a scream, and a baby’s high-pitched squeal penetrates my moodiness from outside the kitchen window. Out of curiosity, I drag myself to the back door, slide it open, and find myself blinded by the glaring sunlight that fills our meager backyard. When I regain my senses I see that it is playtime. Adam flings dirt across the yard with a plastic yellow shovel as he attempts to carve out a hole under a bush, but he drops it to run and tackle my legs in greeting. Lucy squeals again when she sees me, but soon resumes gnawing on one corner of the blanket she’s sitting on, surrounded by her own pile of dirt, courtesy of Adam. My mom looks up from checking her email on her cell phone as I make my way across the soil-splattered yard. She is younger than she looks, and her careworn face shows the years of stress and countless trials in its creases. “Good morning,” she says, and she gives me a tired smile. Her hug is strong today, though, and I am glad that she feels well enough to have gotten up early with the kids this morning.

“How are you feeling?” I ask as I sit down on the patio chair next to hers, and she begins to scold me for letting her sleep all of yesterday afternoon, but she smiles as she does, and so I laugh, knowing that she is grateful. This is her way of saying thank you.

“I really appreciate it,” she says to me after a little while. “How you always pick up the slack for me when I’m not feeling well. I know it’s hard on you.” By reflex, I deny it, even though we both know it’s true. Things have been hard on all of us for as long as I can remember. Or what’s left of us, I think. Tears well up again, and I fight them like I always do when I’m around others. I do not have time, however, to linger on these thoughts because Adam begs me to come and play, and Lucy screams because she can’t reach her new favorite ball, having only recently learned to throw things. After rolling it gently back to her, I sit down in the dirt with Adam while my mom returns to her emails.

There really won’t be time to mope today, I realize. My mom starts to talk to me about groceries, but my thoughts are far away. I’m wasting what I have by dwelling on what I have lost. The intruding little voice from my dream that spoke of all those impossibilities falls silent now. Yes, I think. No matter how bruised or broken, this is my family now. Adam pours dirt on my lap, Lucy shrieks with laughter as she throws her ball again, and my mom just smiles. I smile too. My family, indeed.

A little Something to hold you over

I know it's been a while... I write slowly, I apologize. Some new business will be out shortly, I suspect. But until then, here's something really nice that I happened upon.

So I'm currently in a C. S. Lewis phase (one I hope doesn't pass quickly) and I ran across this. It's for all who are sad because they're missing someone. I know I'm in that boat quite often. So, this post is brought to you by Clive Staples Lewis:

"Bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience as love... It is not a truncation of the process, but one of its phases; not the interruption of a dance, but the next figure. We are 'taken out of ourselves' by the loved one while [he or] she is here. Then comes the tragic figure of the dance in which we must learn to be still taken out of ourselves though the bodily presence is withdrawn, to love the very Her [or Him], and not fall back to loving our past, or our memory, or our sorrow, or our relief from sorrow, or our own love."

This is from A Grief Observed. It's a book, but really a collection of journal entries from C. S. Lewis' own personal journal. He is writing shortly after his wife, Joy Davidman, passed away from cancer. It's beautiful, and has quotes like this and better scattered throughout.

This just made me think of how much I miss errbody and how much I find myself wishing I could go back to Provo, back to all of you wonderful, amazing people that are so deeply entrenched in my heart that I can never get you out, not even if I wanted to. I realize that we've got so many more adventures to come--better, more meaningful, more excellent, more fun, more perfect memories to make together. Like they say, life is to be lived forwards and understood backwards. I love all y'all, and I'm so excited to tell you all where I'm going on my mission, and so excited to see each and every one of you when I get back.