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.

My 'Anyone Else But You' Lyrics

Upon request, here are my verses to 'Anyone Else But You.' There is one unheard verse included here. That's because he wasn't there to hear it. You may find a few of the words have changed. In time to come, the words for your particular verse may change.

Jana's been all around the world

She makes pancakes, she's a really cool girl

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But her

Norienne's dad is in the Army

She grew up tough and got real smarmy

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But her

Vic is musical and academic

When it comes to conflict she is apathetic

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But her

Jimmy finds a way to make me smile daily

He loves to dance and play ukelele

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But him

When Shalysse dresses up she looks real fancy

She's like our mom, but she gets real pantsy

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But her

Brentl Kimbler, he's for sure a charmer

A heartbreaker, a night in shining armor

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But him

Y'all know Kelsey, the Sweetheart of the South

She says, "Appalatchin" cuz she has a broken mouth

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But her

Ryan's got the corner on beauty

Everyone agrees that he is a cutie

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But him

Jessie's in love with the Spanish language

She'll always make you laugh and forget your anguish

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else

But her.

If you're ever stressed or feeling blue

Please call me up, I'll be there for you

I'll drop everything and promise to do all I can

For you.

I'm just a guy playing 'round with this song

Please forgive me if I said something wrong

Words can never find a way to say just how much

I love you.

Untitled 2

This is the first legitimate short story I ever wrote... It brings back memories. I wrote this mid-senior year, in January I think. I like this one. Enjoy!


He stood in the back of the room, looking down and wringing his hands. He looked up, across the sea of black. He looked at the small, ornate wooden box. He looked at the small, neatly folded hands. He looked down again, a feeling of disgust deep in his stomach.

'Putting people in boxes,' he thought. 'Hiding them from the rest of the world. Hiding because the world can't bear to look a the truth. No one here knows the truth. No one here wants to. No one... except me.' And so it was. Only he had a grasp of the truth. It was his to know, to keep, to bear. It was his to hate.

There was a sudden ripple of movement in the crowd of people as the eulogy was finished. It wasn't a long one. But neither was the life it had been about. Sam only got four short years.

A hymn was sung. A prayer was said. A line was formed. Each spoke a sentiment or laid a flower in the small casket. Afterwards, some approached him and offered what condolences they could. He didn't know half of them. Nor did he care to. 'If they only knew...' he thought as he shook the hand of another nameless mourner.

After everyone had left the chapel and moved into the foyer, conversing quietly in low, somber tones, he slowly approached the casket. He looked at his daughter's beautiful face. His eyes were dry, though he desperately wished otherwise. He said nothing, for no words were needed. He thought of her mother--more specifically her mother's absence. Tracy's funeral had been last summer. He desperately wished she could be there beside him. He thought of how much easier it would be. He felt her hand on his shoulder. He took it in his and she moved to hug him. He looked up at her face and cringed. Her face was torn and shredded, bits of gravel visibly embedded in the open wounds. Though, it wasn't because of the ghastly vision that he cringed.

He was an island.

Looking at his daughter one more time--the final time, he knew--he wondered what to do. His mind couldn't conjure up a single thing. A long while passed. Finally, he offered a small "I'm sorry" to his precious Samantha, turned and left the chapel, passing silently through the crowd. He left the church with nothing but guilt and dry eyes.

About a year passed.

* * *

My ear-splitting alarm interrupts my recurring nightmare and brings me into the waking world. It's not much better. And, like every other day, even though I can never find a good reason, I roll out of bed and get in the shower. I hear that's a good place to think, the shower. They say it's because your shower time is the only time you truly get to yourself. As I shower, my mind is blank. I think of nothing. Nothing at all.

I am an island.

I go to work. I have a good enough job. Brings in a lot of money. Used to being a lot of satisfaction, too. But those days are long gone. Now all I do is make masks for people to hide behind. Talk about shallow.

I scrub up, get ready to start yet another grand day at Lake Mead General Hospital. Surprise, surprise--another person running from themselves. This one wants her nose "fixed." I'm not fixing anything. I'm just helping them hide. Everyone always hiding the truth, too afraid to be themselves, to own up...

I study the face of my anesthetized patient. She's pretty--quite beautiful, even. How could I help her? She didn't need my hands ruining her natural beauty. I'll probably end up botching the operation anyways. Then she'd sue me. Incompetent fool... What happened to the days when I did reconstructive surgery, when I did some real good, and actually helped...

My thoughts are interrupted by the image of my wife's battered and bloody face.

"Doctor? Is everything okay? You've stopped operating." No. Everything is most definitely not okay.

"Yes, everything's fine. Sorry." I hate hiding. I'm no better than the patient. Shallow, materialistic, delusional, depressed, alone, guilty... I'm not like you, you self-conscious, foolish coward. No.

I am an island.

"Doctor... Are you sure everything is alright?"

"Sorry. Just a little distracted, I guess. Won't happen again." Must've gotten caught up in my thoughts... again. I'm always doing that. Letting me get the better of myself. Jeez, I'm such a wreck. I can't even focus for five straight minutes. If it's not the idle thought, it's the pain. Sometimes it gets really bad.

The needle glints in my finger.

If I could, somehow, just make it go away, even for a moment. Be distracted. Something, anything.

I set the needle on the tray of surgical instruments. My ring finger touches the scalpel. A thought occurs to me.

The first drop looked like a red teardrop.

"D-Doctor! What on earth are you doing?!"

The blood flowed more freely now as the nurse extricated the scalpel from my hand. It dripped from my fingertips onto the floor of the operating room. It pulsated, in synchronized rhythm with my heartbeat. The pain got a little better. The incision wasn't very big. Quite small, in fact. Still, the blood flowed as if it had been held back by something that now released it. Like it always wanted to come out, but never could. Like it was hiding... and now it could reveal itself to the world.

I am an island.

So... what's stopping me?

It's clear to me now. I grab another scalpel, spin on my heels and leave the operating room. I walk to the nurses station quickly, grab the nearest paper and pen and begin to write.

The nurses all stand in silence as I furiously scrawl the truth on the back of a yellow patient discharge form. My arm shoots pulses of pain as I write, and there are bloodstains on the paper and countertop. I don't worry about that much right now. My mind is made up. I'm coming clean. I am done hiding.

I took the truth, walked to the Chief of Surgery's office door and pinned it there with the scalpel. I turn and walk briskly to the stairs. I get to the roof. I step up onto the short ledge at the edge and remember. I remember the night I stormed out of the house and Tracy followed me, running. I remember the small cry of surprise as she tripped and the squeal of the tires, the dull thud as her body made contact with the car and dragged her body twenty feet before finally stopping. I remember the tears left on her lifeless face. I remember the absence of them on mine. I remember the guilt. For the first time in over a year... I remember.

* * *

As he remembered, they read.

They read that he had snapped at his daughter for crying because she missed her mother. They read about him yelling and her running. They read about how Sam tripped and fell down the stairs in retreat. They read about how she died when she broke her frail neck as she hit the bottom of the stairs. They read about his tearless eyes. They read about the guilt. For the first time... they read the truth.

And then they ran.

When they reached the roof, he turned to them. Blood ran down his arm and wrist, off his fingers. He showed himself as he truly was.

The sound of silence was deafening as a solitary tear rolled down his cheek and onto his lip. He tasted it. It was salty.

He smiled.

The tears flowed freely, silently now. He looked at the world through his tears. It was beautiful. It was real. Nothing could hide from him anymore. He saw the truth. He leaned backwards, gently and fell... leaving everything he didn't hold dear behind.

He was no longer an island. He was no longer alone.

Carter Alan Rockwell committed suicide

on April 17th. It was a beautiful day--

72 degrees, partly cloudy, with a 4 mph

wind from the west. It was his birthday.

Alternate Ending of "The Pied Piper of Hamelin"

If you don't know the story of the Pied Piper, it doesn't really matter because I didn't and it made sense, haha... You can just take it as a short story edited/adapted/altered by my lovely lil sister, Sarah Elyse Pickett. Here's to you, Sis!! (I didn't change a thing--this is all her.)

"I was only joking! Did you really suppose I'd give you fifty thousand

guilders? You poor fool!" the Mayor retorted.

"Yes, I did. I didn't realize you were a lying fiend! You are going to be sorry,"

snapped the Piper.

"What are you going to do to me? All you've got is that flute of yours. Blow it.

I dare you blow that pipe there till you burst!" the Mayor idiotically remarked.

That gave the Piper an idea. "Fine, maybe I will." That ugly fat menace of a

mayor had no idea what was coming.

The enraged Piper unsheathed his flute and played a sickeningly mysterious song.

It made the town folk's skin crawl, made their hair stand on end as cool breeze

fluttered over the river and shook the town of Hamelin. The river had turned blood

red and had started to...almost…boil. Everyone slowly backed away, except the

Piper, who slowly, but surely walked towards the river with a mad look in his eye.

Hundreds, no thousands, of rats poured out from the river. But these weren't your

ordinary rats. They were more like R.O.U.S.'s (Rodents of Unusual Size) from

Princess Bride, but worse. The river wasn't kind to these rats. You could see the

rat's bloody bones through the gory chunks of torn off flesh. This is when the quite

shaken up people of this unfortunate town then realized the rats weren't alive. Or

dead. Many of these insufferable creatures were missing eyes, their organs dragged

on the ground behind them, barely hanging on to the mangled zombie rat's undead

bodies. A trail of gushing, sticky blood was left where ever the rodents trod.

The disgusted crowd, many green or puking, looked backed at the Piper with

outrage steaming out of their pores.

With a raving laugh, the Piper played a march, not a happy march, but a

loathsome march. A march that wanted to attack someone. The rats simultaneously

stepped towards the Mayor with vengeance ringing through their ears. The

deranged Piper played a single high, shrill note and the rats charged. Their claws

ripped open the screaming obese Mayor's flesh like a hot knife in butter. They

nuzzled their little noses into his rotting body, liking up some of his blood, but the

rats were very careful to not kill him, only cause him a lot of pain and scars. They

tore off his nose so he will never be able to smell the sweet smell of the bread

his town is famous for. The vicious rats gnawed off his fingers, toes, and tongue

to make sure he’d never utter another word, never do another day’s work in his

life. They poked out his eyes so he can't see the beauty of the world to come.

They didn't touch his ears though. The Piper wanted him to hear every child cry,

every woman shriek, every man run from his hideous face, his demented, mangled

body. He wanted the Mayor to wallow in the sadness of being the ugliest creature

on earth. His whole life. And the Mayor will have a very long life because of the

immunity spell placed upon him.

The piper left the rats to their work as he triumphantly strolled to the

deserted city bank and swiftly took 100,000 guilders (twice as many as promised)

from the bank. No one tried to stop him. They were too afraid of what more the

Piper can do. He stashed the loot in his bag as he went back to examine the scene.

Everyone left the Mayor to fend for himself. The Pied Piper guffawed. He

took out his pipe and played for the mountain wall to open and the satisfied rats to

scamper in. The townsfolk were slowly coming back. The triumphant Piper turned

to walk into the mountain, but he stopped. The people of Hamelin gasped, scared

out of their pants of what he was thinking now. But he didn't punish them anymore.

He turned around, smirked at the people, then started to laugh the evilest, most

crazed laugh anyone can't imagine. As the mountain walls closed, his howling

echoed off the mountain walls, never fully leaving the town's memory. For years,

the children who saw what happened would wake up screaming in the middle of the

night. Even as adults the occasional nightmare haunted their memory.

Hamelin will never forget the day they didn't pay the Piper.

Especially the Mayor.

Hindsight

Wow, that was a doozy. So yeah I know I said "short" story... Haha, I hope it satisfied your interest for all its length. By the way, the origin of that story started on January 12th, 2011. Just in case anyone was wondering. I feel like dates are somewhat important. I dunno when it finished exactly... days later, probably.

I find it funny that (at least I see it clearly) you can read through and kinda see exactly where I stopped writing the first day and tried to pick it up because there's a significant mood/tone change for the simple fact that my mood changed. Huzzah for completely subjective creative writing! Teehee!

Next to come: A special lil sump'n sump'n from my totally awesome and genius kid sister. I told you this isn't just for me. I honestly think her writing is better than mine. So, Sarah--props to you. Also, I love you!

Dunkernickel

Untitled 1

I doubt that any of these will be titled. I kinda like them better like that. But here's my first short story for you all. It's not my first chronologically, but that one is currently unavailable to me. So here goes:

Once there was a small boy named James. He was a very sad and lonely boy. At the same time there was a girl. Her name was Mary. She was always very happy, and she had the uncanny ability to make anyone happy. Once, many years ago, someone told her, "Mary, you have the uncanny ability to make anyone happy. Did you know that?" She did not. Since then, she spent all of her spare time making others happy. Then she met James.

She noticed him sitting in the cafeteria, alone at a table with his head hung low. Classic sign of sadness. He had a dark blue pullover sweatshirt on, the hood up as far as it would go. His appearance was very simple; no fun little trinkets hanging off of his red and black Jansport backpack, he wore only neutral or dark colors, no chains or black fingernails or thick black eyeshadow or any of that nonsense. She smiled, walked to him and said, "Hi! My name is Mary. What's yours?" confident she could brighten his mood. James raised his head slightly. Then he spoke.

"My parents will never love me."

Now, you must understand that this was usually all James ever said to others. They most often responded with an "Oh..." or sometimes an awkward glance as they slowly retreated. One particularly offensive child gave the most wordy response: "Maybe no one else will, either." James was accustomed to being alone.

Mary was taken aback. She did not expect such direct opposition to her talent. But she was determined. She quickly recovered and said, "Now that just can't be true!"

At this, James looked up. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me... Too bad it's not true." His head fell again.

Mary smiled. She had him. She opened her mouth to speak, but James cut her off. "It won't work, you know. What you're trying to do." Her smile faltered for a split second. No one ever recognized that she was actually tried to make people happy. She liked that they thought that it was just something that happened with no effort. But she was good, after so much practice.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I've seen you around." It was true; sad kids like James might not say much, but that doesn't mean they're not perceptive. "You seek out the sad kids to try to make them happy. you always find a way. But it won't work with me. Sadness is just a part-- it's just who I am. My parents will never love me. If you want to keep your perfect record, you should leave."

Mary was astonished. "Well, at least could you tell me your name?" was what came out of her well-practiced mouth.

James looked Mary over. "James." He repeated, "You don't want to do this."

Mary hesitated. This was new to her. Maybe she really couldn't make this James happy. Oh, posh! She thought. Of course I can, don't be ridiculous! "Well, James... I don't believe you. Of course your parents love you. They're your parents!"

"My parents will never love me."

"How do you know?" she asked, confident he didn't have an answer. He couldn't. How could he? I mean unless they flat out--

"They told me so."

The bell rang.

"I'm sorry you tried to make me happy," James said as he took his book and backpack and left the cafeteria.

Mary just stood there, stiff as a board.

During her next class she couldn't think of anything but James. Eventually, she reached the conclusion that she had to make James happy. If she could make him happy, she really could make anyone happy. She had to go for it.

After school, she waited outside the doors for James. She waited and waited. Almost all the kids were out now. Where is he? She looked down the sidewalks and across the playground. She saw a boy with his head hung, dragging his feet. It was James! She ran down the sidewalk, politely saying, "Excuse me," so she wouldn't offend anyone by bumping into them. She finally caught up with him after a while.

"Hi James!" She said, almost out of breath. James merely raised his head for a moment to look at her. "Do you mind if I walk with you?" No response. "I'm going to take that as a no." Still nothing. "Do you mind if I sing a bit?" Nothing. Mary smiled. She could sing happiness into anyone, and she knew it. I know the perfect song...

"Lollipop lollipop/Oh lolly lolly lollipop..." she sang. James did nothing. What? That always works! Mary thought. They continued walking, while Mary tried furiously to find a way to at least get James to crack a smile. She tried everything she could think of, but James stoically withstood all of her attempts, maintaining his sullen countenance.

Several minutes of this passed, and the two children arrived at James' house. James turned up the driveway and Mary followed. When he noticed this, he turned and looked at her. She looked back, and smiled. James let out a sigh and continued on up to the door, opened it, and went inside.

Mary could hardly believe her eyes.

The house was magnificent: ivory handrails down the stairs, polished wood floors, an ornate mirror hanging on the upper level, vaulted ceilings with wide windows to let the light in. But the most paradoxical of all of the things Mary saw that moment (at least paradoxical relative to James) was two little boys chasing each other, laughing. Laughing! And James never even smiled. She saw his mother, sitting on the couch, smiling to herself, enjoying the playful cooperation of younger children. This can't be the right house... Mary thought.

"I didn't know you had little brothers," was all she could say.

"Didn't ask." James' mother's head perked up at the sound of Mary's voice.

"Is someone there?" She called. James nodded toward Mary, indicating that his mother was talking about her. Mary walked up the few steps to the upper level.

"Hello. My name is Mary. I came home with James, I hope that's alright." James' mother stood and walked toward the landing as James kicked off his shoes and moved them into the corner of the closet.

"What a delightful child! Mary... It's nice to meet you." She extended her hand to shake Mary's. This woman is so kind. Mary observed. She obviously loves her children. How can he think that she doesn't love him?

"Your home is very lovely. You must be so happy with your family here," Mary hinted.

"Why, yes. My husband should be coming home from work any moment. And you've already seen my beautiful twins." She smiled. James walked past, up the stairs behind her.

"I just met James a couple of days ago, but he's a very nice boy."

"Why don't you come in? I made cookies this morning, and I can't let the twins have too much sugar, but I can't just let them go to waste either, you know how it is." She gave a laugh and went into the kitchen and got out a plate and put some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on it. She led Mary into the living room, where James was sitting in a wooden chair. Mary sat on the couch next to James' mother. "Have as many as you like." She smiled.

"Thank you, but I can't finish all of these. James can have the rest."

"Oh my husband can just finish the ones you don't eat, it's alright." Just then the door opened, and in walked a man. "Well, speak of the devil!"

"Hey, honey, I'm home!" James' father called to his wife.

"Welcome home, sweetie," She replied as she wrapped her arms around him. "This is Mary. She just knocked on the door a few moments ago and I just had to let her in."

Mary was a little confused. "Actually, I came home with--" she started, as she glanced at James. He just sat in his chair, staring back.

"Very nice to meet you, miss." James' father beamed and shook Mary's hand. Mary could help looking utterly lost. "Why, what's wrong, little one?"

Mary hesitated. "Umm... James brought me here. Or rather, I followed him."

"What is it?" he repeated. It was like he didn't hear her. Any comment about James didn't seem to register with either of his parents. They wouldn't neglect their own son so blatantly, would they? James stood and made to leave the room. I have to do something, quick.

"Excuse me if this seems strange... or bold of me to ask--but you love your kids, right?"

"Why, of course we do! Why would you ever need to ask such a thing?" they replied.

"So you love James, right?" She hurried to get her words out before James disappeared down the hallway. She waited for their answer, not exactly sure of what answer that would be. James stopped.

"Our twins are the greatest things that ever happened to us," they said. Mary just stared. She didn't understand. She turned to James.

"What are you, a ghost or something?" Mary cried in exasperation at James' back. She couldn't comprehend the situation.

James raised his head momentarily and muttered, "If only...." Mary frowned and turned back to his parents. She pointed directly at James so they could not misunderstand.

"Your son, James. Standing right over there. Do you love him?"

The parents' faces dropped. they could carry on no longer. They looked right at Mary. "We could never love him."

Mary's little heart stopped. Surely this had to be some kind of twisted joke. She spun to look at James for an explanation, who had started down the hallway again. He turned his head slightly only to offer these final words to Mary:

"Told you so."

Genesis

So this is basically Genesis for this blog:

In the beginning, there was a ginger. Then came ideas. Ideas became words. Words became short stories. Short stories became an idea. An idea became a suggestion.

Then there was a lack of short stories, which became a lack of implementation. Then words became lyrics. Lyrics became a new idea. The new idea became this blog.

This blog became the landfill for the ginger's ideas.

Now here's my thought process (a sort of pseudo-translation--any period means a large amount of time passed):

It'd be cool to write a short story someday. Man, today's a crappy day Hey, how about I write a short story? That was cathartic Maybe I'll do it more often in the future. I'm bored Let's write another short story! Hmm blogs seem to be a growing trend, like half of everyone has one Hey that wouldn't be a bad way to let people read my short stories Maybe I should get one and just put my stories on it Oh, but I only have, like, 2 Maybe it'd make me write more, that'd be good I dunno. 'Anyone Else But You' is really easy to play on guitar. I gotta think of a verse for Jana, Vic, and Norienne I should write a verse for everyone in the group. I get extra credit for Writing 150 if I turn in a short story? Sweet Oh that's right I was gonna put those in a blog Hey, why don't I put all my writing into the blog? It'd make up for the incredible lack of short stories.

And that's how it happened. I'll be throwing up a short story in a lil while. I'll put up the 'Anyone Else But You' verses for all you beautiful people after they're sung in the non-virtual world. To be honest I'm not sure how often posting will occur, but I'll try.

Oh, also, this isn't just for me. You can either give me your stuff and I'll put it up, or you can ask me to write a story for you. You cannot, however, ask me to write a poem for you. I apologize, but it just ain't gon' happen. I hope you enjoy!

Dunkernickel