The First Draught

2015-06-13T20:28:00.001-04:00

The novel project is over and the finished product has a new title. "Road Show" has been changed to "The Terror of Ed Killingworth". You can find it in the Amazon Kindle store for a very modest donation. Thanks to all my Alpha and Beta readers. Special thanks to Danielle Trombino for all her copy editing work. Couldn't have done it without you Danielle!

Novel Project News

2015-05-18T23:00:00.000-04:00

Announcing The First Draught Horror Novel Project!

(Originally Posted in November 2014) Each week, I'll be adding a new chapter to my supernatural, mystery, horror novel "Road Show". Since posts to this site appear in chronological order, if you're new to the story, you could stumble in mid-story. So here are some added precautions.

1. This intro will remain as the first entry each week on the home page of The First Draught. This should provide a little separation so you don't mistakenly start reading ahead in the story.

2. Each chapter has a tag like "chapter1" or "chapter2" that you can access in the sidebar on the right-hand side. Or search the drop down menu in the Blog Archive section, also in the right-hand sidebar.

I hope these modifications will enrich your reading experience. Please don't hesitate to post feedback & comments. Your input is valuable!

Enjoy the story. And from all of us here at The First Draught...pop the top, pour some more and sip sweetly!

June 2015 Update: The project has finished. Only the first 2 chapters are still here on the blog. The rest can be found in the Amazon Kindle store.

"The Terror of Ed Killingworth" -Chapter 1

2015-05-18T10:28:00.000-04:00

Waiting for the garage door to rise every morning really ticked me off. Was it getting slower day by day? It sure as hell seemed to be. Getting up at 4:30am everyday was bad enough. Driving an hour and a half just to get to the office was bad enough. Waiting for a 20 year-old motor to drag the creaking garage door up enough for me to duck under it was just too much.

You might think I'm way over the top on this one. And you might be right. But my two car garage is filled with the stuff of our lives. So much stuff that I can't even park a single car in there. Scraping ice and snow off your car in the heart of a Massachusetts winter is nothing to celebrate. Neither is staring at a garage-full of cardboard boxes with stuff you haven't looked at in 5 years.

Neither is losing your mind. Sitting in an idling car parked in a dirt-patch turnaround on the side of dark country road is not worth celebrating. I'm just about out of gas. I've been sitting here for the last twenty minutes trying to get a grip. And all I can think about is that damn garage door! What I should be thinking about is him. Or maybe, "it’s" out there. I’m not positive it’s a living thing.

To preserve what’s left of my mind, let’s say it’s a "he". Yes. That works for me right now. He's out there somewhere. There's no denying it now. I guess he's always been there. I just didn't know it.

What at first seemed like me following in his tracks turned out to be just the opposite. He’s following mine. All those people I spoke to, bought beer from or just smiled at passing through a parking lot. They’re all dead. Not because of him. But because of me. I didn’t understand why, up until now. Until I sat here staring at the snow falling through the beams of my headlights. I get it now. And I’m pretty sure that after all that’s happened, I’m going get it now. I’m next on his list.

In the autumn of 2012, I took a new job. Instead of working 25 minutes from home, I blew up my commute. Chasing the almighty dollar, I switched jobs and earned myself a ninety minute ride, one way. The higher pay sounded great until after a few weeks on the job, I started doing the math. Between gas, tolls, oil changes and all the other wear and tear that commuting produces, I would be in the hole five thousand bucks by the end of the year. And what about next year? Would my car hold up after two years of driving with a horde of speed freaks three hours a day?

It’s funny, starting a new job. Everything sounds glorious and new when you interview. The promise of change, getting away from all the reasons you hate your old job puts a bullet-proof edge on the new one. Until you get there. It doesn’t take long for the “old-guard” to fill the new guy in on all the problems of the place you just joined.

“Hope you didn’t burn any bridges where you ran from,” Tony said. Tony worked in the department I would be working in at the office. He gets all the new people “dumped” on him, as he put it. As a matter of fact, my day one orientation included Tony telling me all the reasons he wished he could quit. The list seemed endless. It was a miracle he got through them all in an eight hour shift.

“That’s how it’s always been and how it will always be,” he said. “The politics is so thick in here, even if one of the ringleaders was to get fired or something, the next exec in the pecking order would just fill in where the last one left off.”

“Nah. Really?” I said. “They can’t all be like that. I mean, doesn’t anybody want to change things around here?”

“That’s the point, Ed. They want to keep things just as they are. A small group holds all the cards. They keep their big salaries, make bonuses off the work us poor slobs do at below-market wages.”

“I’m not making below-market pay,” I thought to myself. I got a fat raise to come here. They must have really been screwing me at the old job. Those assholes!

“As long as they keep us in line, there’s no worries. All the big bosses have something that connects them. Either through marriage, church, kids in the same soccer league. It’s like a web. You step on a strand with the intention of cutting it. And all the spiders descend on you.”

“That’s pretty creepy, Tony.” I said.

“Well, it is close to Halloween.” He smiled. “But it would be true no matter what time of year it was. I’m telling you right now, keep your head down and follow orders. No matter how stupid they are or contradictory they may seem. If you take a stand around for anything around here, especially for yourself, you’ll be out. That’s how they keep things the way they want it. You know, the ‘tallest nail gets the hammer’ in this joint.”

Thankfully, I got to work with a few different people besides Tony as the weeks progressed. None of them came across as negative as he did. In fact, they felt the same way about Tony’s crappy attitude. I appreciated that. It was hard enough driving all those hours every day. Working with a bunch of miserable people would’ve had me looking for another job, again.

The ‘tyrants’ Tony described never did materialize. Did they ask for stuff at the last minute and change their minds all time after I spent hours doing market research for a project? Yes. Did it annoy me? Yes. But they were paying me good cash, so I let it go.

I did see someone get fired, though. This guy Scott who always seemed to come in late and go home early got canned. He sat a couple cubicles away from me. Sometimes I needed to ask him a question about stuff and he never seemed to be there. If he was in his cube, he was usually on his phone texting or surfing the web. I’m not sure why they fired him, but I wasn’t surprised. The weird thing was on the day he got clipped, he cleaned out his desk and walked by me on the way out. A guard from the desk downstairs walked a couple steps behind him. He was smiling and winked at me on his way out.

I watched his back as they rounded a corner to head for the elevator. “What the hell was that for?” I thought.

A few nights later, I sat at the kitchen table with Kaylyn and Emma. It had begun getting dark early and we hadn’t even set the clocks back yet. I was eating a re-heated plate of food. Kaylyn had made dinner for Emma at five o’clock. I didn’t get home until after seven most nights. She couldn’t make an eight-year old wait that late for dinner. Most nights, Kaylyn didn’t want to wait that long either, so I ate alone in the kitchen while they were in another room.

But on this night, Emma drew on a sketchpad with colored pencils while Kaylyn checked her e-mail. I yawned several times. Kaylyn put her tablet down and looked at me.

“Yawns are contagious, you know.”

“Huh?” I said.

“You don’t even have to see someone yawn to make yourself yawn, too. You just have to hear it. It works the other way around, too. You could see someone across a room, like at a store or even walking down the street. Without hearing the yawn, you’ll reflexively yawn too. They were talking about it on the morning show the other day.”

“What are you talking about?’ I said.

“You’re barely awake when you get home. Since you took this new job, we barely get to see you. And when you’re here, it’s like living with a zombie.”

“Zombies don’t sleep,” I said. “The undead have no need for it,” I smiled.

“You know what I mean. Can’t you leave work earlier and get home at a decent time?” Kaylyn asked.

“Hon, I just started. I don’t think it would be a good move to check out at four in the afternoon just yet. They just fired a guy for that last week.”

“They fired someone for leaving early?’ she asked.

“Well, I don’t know that for a fact. But he always showed up after everyone else and I bet he was the first one out the door every day.”

“You don’t know if that’s why he got fired,” she stated matter-of-factly.

I sighed and pushed some rice around my plate with a fork. ‘No. I guess not. But I don’t need that kind of attention. Maybe after a couple of months, once I get some projects under my belt I can leave early on Fridays or something.”

“Oooh. One day a week. That’ll really make a difference.”

I got up from the table and went upstairs and lay down on the bed. I still had my work clothes on. I think I fell asleep in about 30 seconds. When I woke up is 1:30am. I still lay on top of the comforter. I shivered. We decided to hold out on turning on the heat to save money on the oil bill.

Kaylyn’s sleeping face was illuminated by the digital clock on her nightstand. I got out of bed and looked in on Emma. She slept soundly, wrapped in her favorite blanket. Kaylyn’s mother had bought her the fleece blanket with a pair of horses running in field. She loved it because it was so soft and she loved horses. I gave her a kiss and tiptoed to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and slipped back into bed.

The next morning, I sat in my car waiting for the defroster to clear the windshield. I checked the screen on the dash. “5:45am and it’s 38°. What happed to fall? Old Man Winter’s in a hurry to get here, I guess.” I said. My breath formed a small cloud in front of my face.

Once on the highway, I drove 75 mph and stayed in the center lane. Cars and trucks blew by me at what had to be 90 miles an hour. Some of them swooped in front of me, coming dangerously close to my bumper. Then they would accelerate and jump in front of another car in the passing lane. “Where the hell are they in such a hurry to get to!” I said.

These Massachusetts commuters drove like race car drivers on those road courses that curve a lot. Except they were driving vans and regular cars, not high-performance speed machines. The weird thing is that I rarely came upon an accident or a car pulled over by a State Trooper. They must be pretty lucky. I didn’t think I could drive like that every day and not flip the car over or plow into a big rig.

Work crept by as usual that day. I left at the appointed time, not any earlier like Kaylyn and Emma probably hoped. The highway had no lights. With only two lanes in either direction, it could get pretty jammed up. But at this time, six thirty, I didn’t have to deal with many other cars. It started raining. I clicked on my wipers and was annoyed at the mess they left behind. Some kind of film coated the windshield leaving it streaked and harder to see than when there was just rain water to see though. I pulled on the wiper control for the washer fluid, but none squirted out. I pulled again and again, but got nothing. I could hear the wiper gizmo hum each time I pulled, but still nothing happened.

I had a long way to go but I couldn’t drive like this. I slowed down and strained to see the side of the highway. I picked up on the white stripe that marked the shoulder. On the highway’s edge, a gapless barrier separated the pavement from a slope. I had seen it in the daylight before it started getting dark so early. I knew there a gully down there, a stretch of tall grass and then thick clustered trees formed a forest’s edge.

“Hey,” I said out loud. I saw that the guardrail ended here. I slowed down some more and I could see a dirt path leading off the highway down the slope. A larger, gravel and dirt circle sat at the forest’s edge. I pushed the button for my hazard signal and eased the car off the road. The car bumped up and down as I switched from asphalt to dirt. I came to a stop at the bottom. My headlights shone on the swaying boughs of a hundred trees.

I thought I might have a jug of windshield wash in the trunk. I got out and switched on the flashlight on my cell phone. The rain had picked up and instantly coated my glasses with beads of water. Searching in my trunk yielded nothing helpful. I did find an old golf towel hidden under a folding camp chair. It had plenty of dried dirt on it, but I thought I might be able to get at least some of that grime off my windshield. I rubbed out a circular spot on the driver’s side glass. The dirt mixed with whatever was already on there.

After a minute the towel was soaked and dirtier than ever. I jumped back in the car, cold and wet. Tossing the towel on the floor mat on the passenger side, I switched on the wipers. They dragged back and forth. I could see the trees ahead of me a little clearer where I had scrubbed. But as the wipers kept working, they smeared the grime from other sections of the glass and smudged my clean spot all over again.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I said. The rain pounded on the hood and roof of my car. It was really coming down now. I thought about how the hell I would get out of this spot if the slope turned to mud. I reached for the shifter, ready to put the car in reverse when I heard the “whoosh” of air brakes. In my side view mirror I could see the illuminated roof of a tractor trailer. A bobbing flashlight moved to the edge of the slope. It panned back and forth over my car.

I pushed my door open and raised a hand to the trucker. The spotlight settled on my face, blinding me. I put my hand up defensively, shielding my eyes.

“You ok down there?” the man said, shouting over the noise of the road and the driving rain.

“Yeah,” I said. “But my windshield has some stuff on it. Trying to clean it off but no luck. I can’t see enough to drive on.”

“You picked an interesting spot to pull off. You know where you are?” he asked.

I shook my head. The rain ran down my back and chest now. It had soaked through my light coat.

“Let me get something out of my truck. I’ll give you a hand.” He disappeared out of sight.

I decided to wait in the rain. The seconds passed slowly in that downpour. Something the man had said suddenly jumped back into my thoughts. “You picked an interesting spot to pull off. You know where you are?” I knew I was on the Mass Pike between exits 9 and 8. But exactly where I was? No. Was this a Department of Transportation site that was off limits to the public or something? I looked beyond my car at the woods. The tree tops were swaying in the wind. I could hear a groaning sound, like some huge being struggling to move a heavy object. The trees strained against the wind. Some of them would snap tonight and fall to earth. Broken and twisted leaving a shattered edge at the point in the trunk that couldn’t take the strain.

My shadow loomed up large against the tree line. On the edge of my projected outline, something moved. Was that a person under a big pine? I wiped rain from my glasses but my hands had muck from the towel on them. “You’re an idiot,” I told myself. No. It had to be more shadows. A small tree or…

The sound of small rocks sliding came from behind me. I turned to see the trucker starting down the slope. I cupped my hands around my mouth.

“Careful! Looks like its getting slick!”

The trucker’s boots dug in as he descended. He jogged to a stop near me. He was wearing a hooded, orange rain poncho. He held a jug of windshield wash and a long-handled squeegee.

“Name’s Carl. Carl Goldberg. I’m from Tennessee. In the middle of a long haul to Nashua and back.”

I extended a filthy, wet hand and then pulled it back feeling foolish. Carl didn’t have a free hand and touching mine wouldn’t help either of us. “Ed Killingworth. I live about 40 miles or so from here. On the way home from work. Thanks for stopping.”

“We’ll try this stuff on it.” He held up the jug. “But even if it works, I don’t think that Civic is gonna get up that slope. It’s getting pretty slick.” I nodded.

He handed me the flashlight, then walked over to the car. He splashed some of the cleaning fluid across the top edge of windshield. As it ran down, he caught it with the squeegee and pulled it across. A grey sludge accumulated where the glass met the frame. He held the squeegee in front of the flashlight beam. He smelled it.

“Could be road oil or silicone. Not sure.” Carl pulled a rag out from his back pocket and wiped the squeegee blade. He went back to work on the driver’s side. When the glass looked done, he wiped down the wiper blade. We walked around the hood and repeated the process on the passenger side.

“Pop the hood, Ed. I’ll fill your washer reservoir with this.” When we were done, Carl and I looked at the slope with the flashlight. Small canals of rain water were running off the highway and down the dirt and gravel path. A car passed close to Ed’s truck and a wave of water splashed up and over the edge of the road.

“If I were you, I’d leave the car here until tomorrow. It’ll never make it outta here now,” Carl said. I nodded. My teeth were chattering from the cold rain.

“Tell you what. I’ll give you a ride to the next exit or rest area. Whatever you want. We’ll call the State Police so they don’t think you abandoned it. Got someone who can pick you up?”

“My wife’s home with my daughter. But I’d rather call my friend. Kaylyn doesn’t like driving at night in a storm like this.”

“Ok.” Carl said. “Let’s get the heck out of here.”

Carl went up the slope first. I shone the light so we could both see where it was safest to walk. His rugged boots had bright yellow letters that spelled CAT just above the heel. Once he gained the top, I started up. I slipped a bunch of times. Then I went down hard to my left. I bent my arm to protect the flashlight. My elbow took the brunt of the fall. My whole left side was now covered in mud. I heard Carl yell down to me.

“Ed! You hurt?”

I struggled to my feet. My elbow thrummed in pain.

“Nothing serious. I’m ok. Loafers aren’t too good for mud climbing.”

Carl put down his squeegee and jug. He came to my side and helped the rest of the way up to the road. Standing in front of the truck’s headlights, I looked at my condition. A soaking, muddy mess. I felt panicked for a second and patted my pockets.

I groaned. “Forgot the keys.” I looked back down at the car.

“I’ll get them, Ed. Give me the light.”

Carl managed the mud with no problem. I could see the door open. The flashlight moved around the Civic’s interior. It seemed like it was taking him a long time to just grab the keys. I heard the door slam and the chirp of the door lock. The parking lights flashed twice and then the car sat dark and quiet. Carl came back up the slope.

He handed me the keys and my work bag.

“Thought you might want to bring this home with you. No need to leave it in plain sight in the car. Some fool might break a window if they thought something valuable could be in there.”

“Thanks, Carl. You're a life-saver.”

“No problem, Ed. The road’s a dangerous place to be stuck. Been broke down enough times myself to know that. Go ahead and climb up the passenger side of the cab. Don’t get in right away. I have a sheet of plastic to throw over the seat before you dirty the place up.”

Carl waited for me at a table in the dining area of the rest stop. I did the best I could in the rest room to clean myself up and dry off what I could. They only had air dryers in the bathroom. Most of me was still either wet or plastered with semi-dried mud.

Carl sipped on a steaming coffee he bought from McDonald’s. He shook his head as I approached.

“You are a sight, Ed. Did you get ahold of Stuart?”

Stu was the friend I called to pick me up.

“Yup. He’s on his way. I called my wife and told her what happened.” I should be all set now. I can’t thank you enough, Carl.”

A second cup of coffee sat on the table. Carl pushed it toward me.

“Here. I bet you can use this.”

I reached out and picked it up. Just holding the warm, Styrofoam cup made me feel better. I smiled crookedly.

“Ever see those car insurance commercials for State Farm?” I said.

“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there?’ he said in a sing-song voice.

“Yeah,” I said. “They need to re-write that jingle and say Carl Goldberg is there. Helping me out has got to have put you off schedule for your trip.”

Carl shook his head. “Not a big deal, Ed. My brother-in-law is the dispatcher. I let him know what’s going on. You can’t make great time in weather like this anyhow. That being said, though, I’m gonna get rolling if you’re ok.”

I held up the coffee and took a sip. “I’m all set, Carl. Stu will be here in about 20 minutes.”

I held out a hand. This time Carl shook it. He smiled warmly.

“You be more careful out there, Ed. Not all truckers will stop for you when you’re stuck. Most of them don’t have family back at the shop running their schedules.”

“I will, Carl. I will.”

I watched Carl push through the glass doors and jog through the sheets of rain to his truck. I walked over to the big glass windows. I was too wet and uncomfortable to sit down. The lights came on as he fired up the engine. In a minute he was rolling past the gas pumps and up the on ramp.

I couldn’t see much outside because of the rain. The inside of the rest area reflected on the glass came into sharper focus. I looked like hell. Stu would have a good laugh when he got here. That’s when I noticed him. The man standing in the open archway leading into the men’s bathroom. Dressed in hooded coat that hung past his waist. I saw deep blue pants and boots on his feet. It struck me that he didn’t move. He just stood there facing in my direction. I closed my eyes for a long couple seconds and then turned to look over to the rest room. He was gone. I didn’t see anyone moving in the place except the counter man at McDonald’s and a guy in a light blue uniform mopping the floor near the entrance.

I started walking toward the bathroom. I don’t know why, but I needed to see where the hooded man had gone, though a creeping fear of him compressed my chest. My heart pounded like my rib cage had started shrinking. It thumped off the sides of its cage, seeking more room to beat. I tried to catch my breath and slow it all down. When I got near the bathroom, I saw muddy footprints on the tiled floor. A pair where he had been standing, looking in my direction and four more that went into the bathroom. Had he just appeared in the door way? Where were the rest of them? The guy mopping the floor was working near the entrance door about fifty feet from here.

I took another step toward the bathroom. I put my right hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. My nostrils flared, having taken over the work of oxygen intake. It wasn’t sufficient.

Another step closer. A shadow appeared on the wall just inside the door way arch. Quiet steps approached. I froze in place. The shadow grew larger. I could see the shadow of the man was holding something long in his left hand. I dropped my coffee cup and put my left hand over my mouth, two hands now barricading the scream in my throat.

The guy in the light blue uniform, who I saw mopping the floor by the door came out of the rest room. He had thinning, brown hair. I could see his scalp through most of what was left. A colorful set of tattoos covered his right forearm. The left forearm had intricate designs in black ink. Later I would remember that this was only an outline. It was unfinished. So many things are left unfinished.

In one hand he held a wood handled mop. In the other, a yellow, caution cone that had “Wet Floor” written on it. He stopped when he saw me.

Looking me over he said, “Bathroom’s closed. Hey, you gonna throw up?”

I almost said ‘yes’ since some bile had crept up my throat. I swallowed and lowered my hands. I whispered a hoarse, “No.”

“You drop that coffee,” He pointed to the floor with his mop.

I nodded without speaking.

He sighed. “I just did this floor.” He put the cone down beside my feet.

“Well, if you really gotta go or if you think you’re gonna really puke, use the ladies room. Nobody’s in there and on a night like tonight shouldn’t be too many people coming through. Just hurry it up.”

I backed away from him and the yellow cone. I turned and went inside the ladies rest room. I marched over to the sink. I wanted to splash some water on my face and snap out of this, whatever temporary madness had come over me.

The faucet worked on motion, no knobs to turn or handle to push and pull. I waved my hands beneath and received streams of scalding hot water on my palms.

“Ouch!” I said. Jerking my hands up, I inspected them for damage. Other than looking slightly red, nothing happened to them. I tried another sink and got the same too-hot water. I wanted nothing more to be dry so I approached the hand dryer. “You’re an idiot,” I said out loud. “Burned hands under a hand blaster throwing hot air.” But I did it anyway. I wanted to be dry more than anything. After the scalding water, it wasn’t bad at all.

I felt calmer now. My hammering heart stabilized. I felt better about things. I glanced around the ladies room and noticed there were no urinals. All stalls. It made the place seem so much smaller. The last stall in the corner was labeled with a handicapped emblem. I could see a pair of muddy boots under the door, positioned so that they faced the back corner of the stall.

I made a low groaning sound. My body went rigid and the fear took hold again. The boots lifted and turned. Clomp. Clomp. Now the toes faced in my direction. I needed to scream but my hands covered my mouth again. I turned and ran. Rounding the corner, I twisted toward the dining area and those big windows. I slid across the wet floor and my feet went out from under me. I slapped the tiles hard, my head rang. My vision blurred. A pair of dark boots appeared beside my shoulder. Then I blacked out.

Chapter 2

2015-05-17T10:54:00.000-04:00

The next thing I remembered with any clarity was sitting in Stu’s car. We were moving.

“Highway,” I said. The words came slowly to my lips.

“About time you said something I could understand,” Stu said.

My head ached. The rain hitting the windshield moved too slowly. It looked thick and ran slowly before the sweeping wipers. It took all my focus to turn and look over at Stu. My chin lolled to the left and stuck to my shoulder. The last time I felt this groggy, I had drank way too much vodka at a Fourth of July party.

“The car,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah. Your car is getting towed. Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you’re gonna be driving it anytime soon. We’re swinging by Ella’s house on the way home. I texted her and she wants a look at you.”

“Ella’s house?” I said.

“I’m not sitting in some emergency room unless she says to go there;” Stu said. “There’s a nice lump on the side of your head. I think you’re fine, but when your best friend is a doctor, why not ask?”

Stu, Ellen and I went to grammar school together. We rode the bus together right until junior year of high school. When we became seniors, I got a used car after I passed my driving test. I drove those two everywhere.

Memories of those nights cruising through town, weekend trips to Boston, and hanging out at Hodak’s farm floated through my hazy mind.

“Kaylyn,” I said.

“Yup. Been texting her too. She’s put Emma to bed. She’s worried about you. We’ll call her once Ellen gets a look at you.”

I braced myself against Stu walking up Ellen’s driveway. She met us at the door. I smiled when I saw her shaking her head like a disapproving mother.

Ellen didn’t have a family of her own. She focused so relentlessly on medical school and her residency that a social life took a distant back seat. I was grateful of that right now.

I sat in a chair in the middle of her kitchen while she looked me over. The recessed lights burned my eyes. My head started aching all over again.

After a few minutes, I sat in straight-backed chair in her mostly glass sun porch that looked over the backyard. Rain hammered the aluminum roof so I couldn’t hear the two of them talking in the next room, though they were only fifteen feet away from me. Stu shook his head while Ellen lectured him. I saw Stu pull out his phone and make a call.

“Probably calling Kaylyn,” I thought.

After a minute or so, they came into the room. Ellen pulled a foot rest over and sat in front of me.

“How you feeling, kid?” Ellen had nicknamed me “the kid” a long time ago. My birthday is late in the year and I was always the youngest kid in our class. My parents probably should’ve held me back and started school the following year, but they didn’t.

“Things are clearing up. My head still hurts but I can see straight and everything doesn’t feel like slow motion anymore.”

“That’s good,” Ellen said. “I don’t think you have a concussion. But you did hit your head on a hard surface and you need watching. I told Kaylyn what she needs to do for tonight.”

“Thanks, E. I owe you one. You too, Stu.”

“Yes, you do,” Stu said. “Let’s get you home.”

I called in sick in the morning. I didn’t tell my boss what really happened. I just said I had been throwing up all night.

“Sounds like a stomach bug.” He said. “Stay home until it passes. We don’t need you spreading that around the office. I’ll have Tony disinfect your desk just in case.”

“Really?” I thought. “I bet Tony will love that.”

I only slept a couple hours. Whatever rest I got was born out of exhaustion and mental fatigue. I woke up to the dull ache. It hurt less than when I was at Ellen’s, but I wasn’t 100% yet.

The entire day consisted of nothing but ibuprofen, tea and lying on the couch. Not only did my body ache but I couldn’t shake the image of the guy in the boots. It haunted me. I kept trying to convince myself that he wasn’t looking at me from across the rest stop dining area. But I knew he was. Feelings of dread covered me like a too-heavy blanket on a warm night. Sweat beaded up on my skin while I struggled to keep my fear under control.

The footprints. How could they just appear with no trail coming from anywhere that made sense? Where had he come from? What did he want? How did he get from the stall to right beside me when I fell?

I didn’t tell Kaylyn about him. Considering the fall on the hard floor, she would chalk up my fears to a mild concussion and delusion.

After hours of wrestling with all the ‘what if’s’, I had nearly convinced myself to let it go and move on. That’s when Stu texted me.

He wrote, “Dude – how you doing?”

“Better. Love daytime TV.”

“Good, Wanna get your car?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. I’ll leave work early. Get u @4.”

“Cool. Thx.”

“Hope tow guy doesn’t have muddy boots!”

I stared at my phone, re-reading the message. I didn’t remember telling Stu about the muddy boots guy. Maybe I mentioned it when I was going in and out of consciousness in the car. While I thought about what to write next, Stu sent another text.

“Cat got yur tongue? Or yur fingers?!”

I powered off my phone and put it on the coffee table.

Stu picked me up a little after four o’clock. We didn’t talk much on the ride to the towing company. He didn’t bring up the muddy boots guy. I felt relief that he didn’t go there.

We pulled into a wide parking area in front of a gray, sheet metal building as big as an airplane hangar. We could see a few guys working of some vehicles with hoods up or elevated on lifts. From inside a small office, a man in his 60’s came out holding a clipboard.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m here to pick up my Honda Civic. You took off the side of the Pike last night.”

“Right.” He looked down at his clipboard. He flipped a few pages.

“Here it is. Killingworth. Edward?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need to see some identification.”

I handed him my driver’s license. After looking it over he handed it back.

“That’s you, all right. Name’s Desmond White. I brought your car in myself last night. Pretty tough spot you picked to wash your windows.”

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t have much choice. Some nasty stuff on my windshield.”

“I saw that,” Desmond said. “Looked like oil. I got all of it off for you. Wasn’t too bad. I have some pretty strong stuff we use here. I put a can in your trunk in case that happens to you again. Get yourself some clean rags so you can take care of it right next time.”

I thanked and paid him. I thanked Stu yet again. He got all melodramatic and said, “Let this be a lesson to you, kid. How many times have I told you to keep that car of yours clean? Five hundred? A thousand times? Next time, I won’t be so quick to come to your rescue.”

“Get the hell away from me,” I said.

“No problem,” he said.

We went our separate ways for the night. As I drove down Page Boulevard, away from White’s Garage and Towing I zoned out. The processing part of my brain took over operating the car while I kept playing the events of last night over in my head.

The shadow in the trees on the side of the road. There, in the darkness behind the whipping rain and thrashing boughs. A space that was too dark. A shape that wasn’t natural. It was no shadow. It was him. I knew it had to be him.

“You picked an interesting spot to pull off. You know where you are?” Carl’s words repeated back to me. What did a truck driver from Tennessee know about a dirt patch on the side of one of a thousand miles of road he travels every week?

“Well. He must know something about it?” I thought. “Why else would he ask me?”

I didn’t watch the news regularly. I tried to think about what I had heard or read about something happening on that stretch of the Pike. Nothing came to mind. I mean, people had accidents all the time. I remember a Trooper being hit while he walked back to his cruiser after stopping a drunk driver.

I could picture a bunch of makeshift shrines on the side of the highway. You know the ones with small crosses and flowers. Sometimes balloons or candles were set up when their birthday came around every year. The Pike had been built in the 50’s, I think. So it had been around 30 years before I was born. Maybe something bad had happened in that spot. Carl was twice my age and I might talk with other truckers at rest stops all the time. He would know more about something like that than I would.

When I got home I talked to Kaylyn for a few minutes when small feet tapped into the room. Emma had drawn a picture of me. Daddy with an ice pack on my head and a thermometer sticking out my mouth. She handed it to me, smiling.

“Are you feeling better, Daddy?”

“Yes, little one. But Daddy’s real tired. I’m going to go lay down.”

“Don’t you want something to eat?’ Kaylyn asked.

“Not now. I don’t have any appetite. Maybe later.”

Emma gave me a hug. “Brush your teeth before you lay down, Daddy. You could forget and wake up with yucky-mouth.”

I laughed. “I will, honey.”

My boss, Mitchell Baker called me into the office as soon as I got to work the next day.

“You sure you’re feeling better, Ed? You don’t look like you’re 100%.”

“I’m not at full strength but my doctor says I’m clear to work. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“Fine. Check with Tony. He picked up the slack while you were out. And buy him lunch today. He wasn’t thrilled at having to wipe down your cube.”

“Sure, boss.”

I watched the clock all day. Nothing could motivate me to be there. The work from the past few days and some new requests that just came in stared at me in defiance on my monitor. By the time everyone around me was packing it in for the day, I had hardly accomplished anything.

But as people started saying goodbyes to each other and the office thinned out. I got a second wind. I looked at the clock. If I pushed through till 6:30, I could finish at least one these reports. I texted Kaylyn and told her I’d be late catching up. She wrote that it was no problem. She and Emma had rented a movie and would watch it after dinner. By the time I got there, they’d probably both be asleep on the couch.

With a small amount of satisfaction, I sent the completed file to the manager who requested it. I checked the time. 6:45pm.

“Not too bad. At least I won’t have to fight traffic at this hour,” I thought.

My car sat alone in the mostly deserted parking lot. The rainstorm that had swept through the region was long gone. Tonight was calm and a little warmer. I’d probably make it home by 8:30pm. I could see a couple more late nights in my future before I got my head above water at the office.

I drove with far fewer cars on the secondary roads around the office. “What a difference an hour makes,” I thought.

Once on the turnpike, I hit up the first rest stop to get gas and grab a coffee. The clerk, Arline by her pre-printed name tag, took my money. “Arline,” I thought “I wonder if they spelled it wrong.” Thankfully, I got in and out of there in about 10 minutes despite it being pretty crowded.

As I merged back into the three lane highway, the usual commuting traffic of passenger cars was replaced with big trucks. For every four-wheeler on the road there were five big haulers taking up the center and right lane. As long as I stayed in the passing lane doing 80mph, it was smooth sailing.

The truckers’ driving patterns reminded me of a flock of geese. One truck would pass another one as they climbed an incline in the road. Once they crested the hill, the heavier tractor trailer would gain speed and pass as many trucks as he could before the next climb. I wondered if it was a game they played. Maybe they were drafting like NASCAR drivers. How many points for passing one truck? Did you get double points for passing two? And what if…

Brake lights illuminated the entire road ahead. I hit the brakes and barely had enough room to stop behind the SUV I was following. I could see the driver throw two hands up in the air like I had actually made contact. “Whatever,” I said to myself. “Take a chill pill.” The traffic looked like it was crawling along where the Pike bent to the left.

I tried searching on the radio for the traffic advisory channel. Why didn’t I save it as a pre-set? Stupid. I checked the State Police Twitter feed. The last few posts were about accidents that were hours old, near the outskirts of Boston. The further we crept, I could see we were being funneled into the passing lane. “Road work or an accident,” I said to no one. After about 30 minutes I could see where the traffic was opening up again. I texted Kaylyn to let her know I would be later than I thought. She replied with a single letter; “K”.

Then I saw the overturned tractor trailer. The back double doors of the trailer pointed up in the air as the rest of it lay along the slope on the side of the highway. I noticed there was no guard rail here. My skin felt cold all over. I swallowed hard in my throat. The panic I had felt just 48 hours ago came rushing back in a flood of fear.

“No,” I breathed. The back of the trailer read “THS” in big block letters. That meant something to me, but I couldn’t remember what. The closer we crawled, I knew that was the spot where I pulled off the road. The exact freaking spot. I started to text Stu but my hands shook and I couldn’t spell anything right. I saw a Trooper putting new road flares down where the original ones were sputtering out. Once I got through the bottle-neck, I pulled over to the right side shoulder and put my hazards light on. I stopped the car and got out. I looked down the slope. Police spotlights lit up the disabled truck. On the side of the trailer I confirmed what “THS” stood for: Tennessee Hauling Systems. A sour taste climbed up my throat.

I stepped over the guard rail and started running down the slope. From my right, a Trooper who couldn’t have been more than 25 grabbed my bicep and stopped me cold. He was so strong my feet came off the ground for a second before landing again. He raised me up so I didn’t land on my ass.

“Where do you think you’re going, pal?” he said.

“Carl. Is that my friend Carl?” I said.

“You know the driver?” he asked.

“Is it Carl Goldberg down there?” I asked. Panic obvious in my tone.

The Trooper stared back without answering me. He examined me like a doctor looking for symptoms of illness.

“Well is it!?”

“Yes. The driver is Carl Goldberg of Oak Ridge, Tennessee. But how do you know him?” he said in a flat, even voice.

“He helped me the other night. I needed help and he stopped for me. He helped me right here. Right there.” I pointed at the truck with my free hand.

The Trooper’s eyes narrowed. After a few seconds he said, “Come with me.”

He never let go of my arm, but the grip eased up a little. We walked across the slope over to a two more Troopers. He told me to stay put, about ten feet away from them. He turned his back on me and talked low enough so I couldn’t hear them. The other two looked in my direction a couple times. One of them nodded and then walked up to the road. He shone an incredibly bright flashlight up the highway. I looked and saw he shone it on my Honda. He walked straight over to me. “He just checked my tags,” I thought.

“That your car?’ he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I had that car towed two nights ago from this location.”

“I know,” I said. “I called to report that I had to leave it. Oil on the windshield during the rainstorm. I picked it up from White’s Garage.”

“And you’re saying that this trucker, Goldberg helped you out?”

“Yeah. He tried to clean off the windshield, but the rain turned the slope to mud. He gave me ride to the next rest stop instead of trying to drive it out.”

“Huh.” He said. “Wait here.”

“Is he ok?” I asked.

The Trooper didn’t answer me as he walked back over to his cronies. More flashing lights rolled up on the shoulder. In a minute, two paramedics descended the slope carrying an orange back board. It was the kind that had handholds cut out all around the edges and several straps tied across to keep someone from falling off.

Insticntively, I ran down the slope toward the front of the tractor. The Troopers shouted in a single voice, “Stop!” I didn’t care if they arrested me. I had to see him. He could be hurt badly.

I made it around the rig and found Carl lying in tall grass. I’ve never seen someone injured so horribly. His eyes stared into the sky. His mouth gaped open. Parts of his legs were…were missing. His belly had been ripped open and his insides were all pulled out. The sour feeling in my stomach rose like a geyser into my mouth. I puked a hot stream of coffee and lunch into the grass. Bent at the waist, I coughed until it hurt. I dropped into a squat that lasted five seconds. I rocked forward onto my knees, gasping for breath.

With nothing left inside to eject, I shuddered. A coldness gripped me, causing me to shiver. My arms were pulled back by strong hands. I heard the handcuffs snapping into place. The merciless steel clamped around my bony wrists.

Coughing once more, I said, “Who…did this? What happened…to him?”

“We were going to ask you the same thing, Mr. Killingworth,” one of the Troopers said.

Another one said, “Let’s go.”

They stood me up, turned me around and marched me back up the slope. They ignored my repeated questions. I was stuffed into the back of a cruiser. I looked to out the window and saw faces in the procession of cars. Their scanned back and forth from me to the truck, back to me. I saw smart phones pointed in my direction.

I turned my head toward the woods. A couple minutes passed and I saw them carrying Carl’s body toward the ambulance. More emergency vehicles had arrived behind me. I saw firemen and guys with State Police coats carrying big utility boxes down toward the truck.

I wondered for a second and then I knew it was the crime scene guys. A Trooper broke free from the group and got into the front seat. He looked over his shoulder at me.

“Looks like your car is getting towed again, Mr. Killingworth.”

“Why?” I said.

He didn’t answer me. He put the car in gear and pulled into the mass of automobiles and trucks. He sounded the siren briefly and the cars opened a space for him. He gunned the engine and we raced ahead. He kept his flashers on and cars moved aside.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Barracks,” was all he said.

“I need to call my wife. She’s going to be worried about me.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. The rest of the ride was spent in silence.

6 Reasons the World Is Nearing its End

2014-04-06T05:39:00.000-04:00

Our lead story tonight: there's mounting evidence that human beings think less each and every day. The acts of thoughtlessness contained in this report will reveal the horrific fact that the world as we know it, is about to end. I've closely tracked several events supporting this theory. I've gathered, organized and analyzed the data needed for proof. I couldn't be more confident. Here's the evidence!

1. Head-Down Driving. In recent years, I've observed the plague-like spread of this insidious habit. Pass someone on the highway, pull alongside a car at a traffic light, or the worst scenario - be passed by another vehicle on the interstate. Notice the tilt of the driver's head. Cocked downward at 45 degree angle, busily texting or surfing the web, this driver is like a missile with no guidance system. You can spot them in the distance, constantly over-correcting, swerving in & out of their lane boundaries. Apparently driving a 4000 pound, gasoline filled, glass & steel behemoth is not the most important thing happening in their present moment. And I thought I was the daredevil driving and simultaneously eating a McChicken sandwich!

2. Public Bathrooms. Know why public bathrooms are filthy? Because we treat them like crap. Compare your bathroom at home to one in a gas station, the one at work or your favorite coffee place. Any similarities? Guys, would you dare pee all over the seat at home? Fail to flush the toilet? Miss the trash with your used paper towel and not pick it up? It's about ownership. We don't have to clean that bathroom so we don't feel any empathy to the poor soul who does.

3. Littering. Much like number 2, we're not individually responsible to clean parking lots, roads, movie theaters, restaurant tables/floors or event arenas. It's got to be the explanation for the amount and frequency of trash we leave behind without a second thought. At a gas station, I watched a woman exit the convenience store after purchasing a drink with plastic wrapped around the cover. She peeled off the plastic and threw it on the ground. She then sat in the car, door open, guzzled the drink and then placed the bottle on the ground. She closed her door and the driver took off. It happened so fast there was nothing I could say or do. So, I picked up the plastic and the bottle and put them in the trash can, four feet from where they lay on the pavement.

4. Reflexive Lying. I pull up to gas station. I pump gas, then move my car to the spaces by the doors, so I wouldn't block the pumps for others. I go in and buy a coffee. I come out to find a car parked so close to mine, I can't even squeeze between them. I go back in looking for the driver. No one had a sign hanging around their neck that said 'I'm an inconsiderate bastard". The need to use the bathroom arose. So I did. When I went back outside, the driver was in his too-close-to-mine car playing with his iPhone. I knocked on his window. He recoiled in horror like a lion got too close to him in a drive-thru safari. I motioned for him to lower his window.
He did and said, "What?"
I said, "Are you heading out? You parked so close to my car I can't get in."
Looking flustered he said, "Oh, well the person parked over the lines on this side so I didn't have a choice!"
I looked around and said, "This is the last spot. You're parked next to the drive thru lane. Are you going to move now?"
He turned beat red in the face and said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm going."
What's with the instant lying? He didn't even try. There's a ton of science on lying. It come down to this: we lie all the time. Sometimes it's to make other feel better. Sometimes to make ourselves feel better. When you lie to avoid blame for doing something stupid or wrong - think it through. I'll bet it won't end well. Go on YouTube and search for "caught lying". Enjoy yourself.

5. Willfull Collateral Damage a.k.a. Unintended Consequences, What? Picture yourself walking into a church. You are welcomed and handed the weekly news bulletin. Flipping ahead a couple pages, you are surprised to find what amounts to an advertisement for annulling a marriage. Their having a meeting to educate folks on the benefits of annulment. The way it reads, you're reminded of an slimy advertisement with a suspicious angle. "Free trip to Florida if you listen to our 90 minute co-op presentation."
Then, before mass starts, the lay-person who does the readings makes a special announcement from the lectern. Yes, it's about the very special annulment meeting where you too can learn about all the myths surrounding annulments.
What is going on here? What's the hype around annulments? You're becoming unsettled because you came to this church today with many members of your family and your parents. Your parents who are going to have their marriage of 50 years blessed during the mass. How can they be pumping the annulment message when we're about to celebrate 50 years of two people sticking together?
You settle down and mass lurches forward. It's a Catholic mass, so half of it is sung poorly enough that you can't understand the words. This results in your daydreaming about how good a few local TV commercials sound right about now. Then the big moment draws near. Mass is ending. You know that Mom and Dad are going to be called up to the front of the church for the blessing.
But before that happens, you are told yet another special announcement is next. A swarthy woman dressed in beige strides up to the lectern and launches into an energetic speech about, you guessed it...freakin annulments! Calling her words a speech is not accurate; it quickly unravels into a redundant, unorganized blather that has every member of the congregation looking around in bewilderment. She even says that she recommends annulments for everyone because having her marriage annulled turned her life around. Everyone? Really? So you're recommending an annulment to my parents who were married in this very church 50 years ago?
Her rant ends and the priest comes down to the base of the altar and calls your parents forward AND all the family with them here today. Not even a transitional statement - can you say 'awkward'? So you all shuffle up to the front of the church, the happy couple, their children, daughters in-law and twitchy grandchildren. Everyone is lined up in front of the altar like you're about to be sworn as deputies in a posse.
From here on out, you have to admit that the priest does a pretty good job with the blessing. He even asks the golden couple for the secret to a long marriage and shares it with the congregation. Ok, you think, this isn't so bad.
When it's just about over, you notice the beige-wearing Annulment Lady off to the side of the altar. You give her your best Clint Eastwood "Do you feel lucky, punk" glare. She casts her eyes downward in apparent shame. You're a Catholic, so even though you publicly shamed a woman during mass, in the front of the church there's no sense of guilt.
It all ends well as members of the congregation say 'congratulations' on the way back to your pews. As everyone is filing out, the choir is singing on, you wonder what message people are leaving with today.

6. The Face of Evil. I needed to buy a car. I see one online that's available at a local dealership. I stop in and test drive it. The salesman, let's call him Carl does a good job. No pressure. Super informative. Let's me take it home for a 24HR test drive.
It's during the test drive that I know this one's not for me. So I bring the car back and sit down with Carl. Based on the initial test drive the day before, he apparently thinks it's a done deal. As a matter of fact, he's already done all the numbers since I filled out some preliminary paperwork the day before. Carl even tells me it will go through smoothly because he used to be the financing manager. He knows all about the process. He says he talked to the current financing manager about my good credit and he offers me 1.84% financing on a used car. I wonder why he's not the financing manager anymore. Before I could ask, Carl offers to tell me why: he has three kids and the hours were crazy and being a salesman allows him to focus on his family.
Oh kay...so 1.84% sounds too good to be true, right? Wait for it...
I tell Carl that the car isn't for me and that there weren't any others on the lot I was interested in. He's obviously not happy. There's not much left to say. I leave. A week later I buy a car from another dealership. It doesn't go very smoothly, but no major surprises. Not like the surprise I learned about Carl and why he wasn't the financing manager anymore. It seems that convicted felons, felons guilty of insider trading can't have a job like financing manager for a car dealership. If you want to read more about it, here's the story.

If clicked the link and read it: that's crazy, right?! Only a couple months earlier, all that stuff was going down!

So that's it. The 6 pieces of evidence that prove mankind is nearly done with rational behavior and that the Apocalypse is upon us. Popular culture would have you believe it'll be a Zombie Apocalypse. Others will expect the traditional 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Hey, it could be the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man for all we know. I'm signing off. I'll be looking for the Gatekeeper. Gozar the Gozerian is coming...

Are You a Bricklayer?

2013-07-13T17:32:00.003-04:00

Staring at the ocean with nothing particular to do is giving me an opportunity to think. It's an activity I'm accustomed to. I spend a lot of time in thought while driving. My three hours of commuting is so robotic, my subconscious mind takes control of the navigation and I cruise from A to B and back again.

That leaves lots of neural freedom to ponder other stuff. A recurring theme for me is 'purpose'. The questions are mostly the same. Am I doing what I'm supposed to be doing? Am I doing what I'm doing because it pays the bills? Am I doing what I love? Am I doing my best? Do I do my best every day?

Understanding purpose is a huge deal. When someone find theirs, all else becomes clear. You don't have to worry about your next steps. They are revealed naturally, like those solar, glowing pathway stones after sunset.

But what if you haven't figured out your purpose? What if you don't like answers to these questions: "What am I doing here? Why am I doing this work? Am I happy? Have I been happy in the last year? The last five?

Ever hear the story of the stone mason? Check this out:

A traveler entered a town and found herself drawn to a section where a great deal of dust and commotion was happening. She walked up to a construction yard where she came upon three masons cutting stone blocks from massive chunks of granite.

The first mason seemed unhappy at his job, chipping away and frequently looking at his watch. When she asked what it was that he was doing, the first mason responded, rather curtly, “I’m hammering this stupid rock, and I can’t wait ’til 5 when I can go home."

A second mason, seemingly more interested in his work, was hammering diligently and when the traveler asked what it was that he was doing, answered, “Well, I’m molding this block of rock so that it can be used with others to construct a wall. It’s not bad work, but I’ll sure be glad when it’s done."

A third mason was hammering at his block fervently, taking time to stand back and admire his work. He chipped off small pieces until he was satisfied that it was the best he could do. When he was questioned about his work he stopped, gazed skyward and proudly proclaimed, “I…am building a cathedral!”

Three men, three different attitudes, all doing the same job.

Are you cutting stones or building cathedrals? If you haven't found purpose, it can be difficult to be enthusiastic about what's happening at the present moment. One choice would be to begin to ask the questions that will reveal purpose. Another choice would be to wait. While waiting, you could be any of the three masons. The choices are:

be miserable
be diligent but uninspired
do your best work regardless of the task at hand

I've reflected on this and can identify countless moments when I have been each of the masons. It's crazy how and when I make the choices I do. Mowing the grass: best work. Reading e-mail: diligent but counting the minutes until I'm done. Attending a particular meeting at work: miserable. On and on it goes. I show up differently at a variety of things though I'm still the same person.

How does it happen? State of mind. It boils down to how I feel. Feelings are produced by the quality of our thinking. Kinda tough to be inspired by something I dread. Even tougher to be miserable doing something I love. I read something recently that bears repeating. The author said that most human suffering comes from one of two places: grasping and aversion.

When you grasp something and can't let go, you fixate on it. It's hard to think of anything pleasant. You can be stuck as the first mason was. Unhappy with the present moment and doing less than his best.

When your mind desperately pushes away at something, refusing to to let it come, you're experiencing aversion. The amount of energy you spend worrying about something that hasn't happened causes anguish. And it hasn't even happened yet! Most times, the thing isn't even that bad after its over. We build things up to be awful, setting our expectations to needlessly painful levels.

Identifying when you're grasping or in aversion makes it easier to let go. Call it what it is and move on.

If you're curious about the book, send me a note and I'll give you the specifics.

A last piece of wisdom to leave with you: "Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is." Ralph Waldo Emerson

Uncertain Certainty

2012-12-20T21:24:00.000-05:00

I observe everything I come in contact with. That includes what I sense. The stuff I see, hear, read, touch, taste, smell all gets processed and judgments form. Based on those judgments, I act.

But what has me thinking today is stuff I sense. Sensing something is altogether different. Sensing is more about intuition and gut feeling. I might not bet a paycheck on my gut, but if my senses are right, I wouldn't be surprised if that thing came true.

So what am I sensing? Events in this world are shaking the foundations of our assumed stability and security. I don't have to go into the world and national events that have dominated the headlines for the last several months. I specifically don't want to do that.

I won't because that's what the media does. They sensationalize and dramatize everything from the tragic to the mundane. Every where you turn someone gives their opinion on the "why's" and the "who's to blame" and the "what doom is next". I get the First Amendment and those in the pulpit or the anchor desk are by law free to say what they will.

What I sense is that people simply parrot what they hear in a sound bite or a youtube clip and adopt it as their own thinking. The media, both televised and Internet can be damn persuasive. It suddenly saddens me that newspapers are fading toward their inevitable death. Maybe it's nostalgia speaking but didn't it seem like both sides of an issue were represented in the papers? Ah, maybe not. I'd like to think it was so.

Back to what I'm sensing. People's ability to think is dying. It's "I'm right, you're wrong." It's "You're so wrong I'm going to ruin your reputation so no one will ever listen to you again and you'll never earn another dime in this line of business." How did we get to that?

I say that there are as many opinions as stars in the sky. They can't all be right and they can't all be wrong. And if you think yours is absolute and above inspection, well you're just wrong. We don't have enough information. We're not that smart and they're not that dumb as Mark Horstman states in his laws of great management http://www.manager-tools.com/docs/Horstmans_Laws.pdf.

We're so busy that we don't stop to think. Our minds are bludgeoned on all sides by our fabulous technology. It shouts at us from every corner, every second of our waking existence.

When was the last time you drove your car for more than 15 minutes without listening to the radio, iPod, talking on the phone, checking twitter, facebook and e-mail or talking to the people in the car? I bet you can't remember.

We don't think. We feel compelled to be stimulated or say what we're thinking. The funny part is that when we talk without some forethought, we don't make sense. We repeat, change our minds, wordsmith the idea until we get it right. No? Does this sound familiar?

Ever listen to someone talk so much it sounds like they're debating a subject all by themselves? We actually don't talk most of the time. We chatter, like gibbering monkeys. Don't agree? Read most social media posts. Between the spelling, grammar and incomprehensible garbage people write, you can't convince me that much thought preceded the keystrokes.

The answer is that we want it all so fast. So fast that we don't have to think for ourselves. Let someone else do it and I'll just hit the like button or star it or whatever it. Blow it all up I say. Even though I use it regularly, I like my life better without all this connection.

I was flying around last week, attending a busy conference and didn't use electronics much. And you know what? I didn't miss a damn thing.

Holding Pattern

2012-09-02T22:14:00.000-04:00

Hello all. It's been a long time since I've posted here. I've saved my thoughts for short bursts on Twitter and Facebook. That's all I've made time for these past few months. It's likely the way of things. The blogging wave energized me for a time, but with so many other places to project my energy, I shifted direction.

I'll keep this blog alive, if only on life support for when the mood hits me. Though the key to a healthy, thriving blog is frequent, relevant content. As September opens and I reflect, I've chalked up great experiences in 2012. Many of them have come at work, in closed door sessions where insights blossom regularly. I've found that the more I accept that I don't have the answers, the easier the insights show up.

There's humility when standing in front of 20 to 80 people, and stating you're not the brightest person in the room. Finding answers to my own struggles in the reflections of others. A recent time where I admitted it publicly came after a session where I tried to answer a difficult question on Day 1. The group challenged me with a direct assault. I should've known better. It bothered me more than I thought so I did some homework and found a way to address it on Day 2.

I fell on my sword. I cited my error and the reference that backed my challenger's viewpoint. In the end, it's all about our perspective and the willingness to listen to that of others. It's so darn easy to think we're right all the time. The tendency to judge rises to the surface so easily for of us, including me. I don't think I'll ever outgrow the need to be working on it.

That goes for home, too. Or should I say, especially. Taking things out of context and leaping to conclusions when a room is a mess or something went wrong can be counter-productive. What really suffers are the relationships we take for granted. And only after the damage is done, we stop to say, "Crap. What have I done?"

Emotional, we are. Ruled by those emotions, can we easily be. My Yoda impersonation - I can't help it. Taking a breath to assess where we are, why we are feeling low and then mapping a route to clearer thinking helps us with the answers we seek.

I remember the last time I lost control and yelled in anger. Judged someone for a result without all the information. We make stuff up with our first impressions or the initial report. Someone I respect said that if you think you know someone's intent for their behavior, you'll be wrong 75% of the time. I'd buy that based on how often I've been wrong.

So, 2012 creeps along and I keep working on what I can't master. Even small improvements can make a big difference. A brilliant quote attributed to Helen Keller reminds us, "The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision." What do we see when we look within? Do we admire what's there? Respect it? Or is there something we can change, even just a little bit.

Crossroads

2012-04-28T08:00:00.000-04:00

I came to a writing crossroad over the last few weeks. I started a story I grew to hate and wanted nothing to do with. I had ideas for new stuff but felt guilty I hadn't finished the other junk. So today I made a clean break and dumped the last 6 posts to this blog that included my serial spider story. Gimmicky stuff like that just doesn't hold my attention. I can only assume you got bored right along with me.
So apologies for that garbage. I have an arsenal of observations to blog-ment on and some very short story ideas that should keep both our attention!
I also have an idea for a longer piece that I'm thinking about sourcing the web for ideas. I'm not in a writing group where I can bounce ideas off others, so why not the web. More to come!

Tracy Walton and ?????

2012-03-03T14:01:00.002-05:00

So my friend Tracy Walton put out a request for band name ideas. I couldn't resist giving it a try. Now I'm obsessed with finding just the right combination that will be what the artist known as Tracy Walton (he's always used that name, I think) is looking for.

Here we go.

From earlier submissions, Tracy Walton & The Black Top Two got some positive energy. I tried some others but personally I think they fell short: The Black Top Cruisers, Riders, Guild, Rovers, Pilgrim, Rangers.

Then I tried some random stuff. The Blue Wave Mission. Black Mountain Mission. Silver Stone Guild. Red River Revival. The Long Necks. Black Mortar Mill. Fate Grove. The Ranch Hands.

Then I thought that occupations make good band names. The Journeymen. The Attendants. The Tradesmen. The Brickmasons. The Surveyors. The Producers. The Machinists. The Craftsmen. The Riggers. The Miners. The Explorers. The Founders. The Agents, The Technicians, The Butchers, The Inspectors, The Caretakers, The Specialists, The Wardens, The Meatcutters, The Cashiers, The Stewards and there's probably a thousand more.

Then there some other random names and idioms: The Nomads, The Tribesmen, The Hacks, The Starters, The Entree's, The Transmissions, The Satellites, The Weathervanes, The Best Medicine, Your Own Medicine, 4 Out Of 5 Dentists, The House Divided, Thousand Word Picture, Against The Clock, The Same Boat, The Back Seat Drivers, High Water, Crying Wolf, Curiosity's Cat, The Dead Ringers, Drastic Measures, Fool's Gold, Brass Tacks, Graveyard Shift, Gut Feeling, Loose Cannons, Metal Pedal, Pulling the Plug, Both Worlds, Prime Power.

I'm out of gas for now. Any feedback, appreciative or constructive would be cool.

More Spider Stories coming tonight!

Overwhelmed

2012-02-16T06:08:00.001-05:00

Writing efforts have stalled lately. Man, is it easy to fall off the wagon.

I needed to turn my focus to other projects over the last couple weeks. it comes down to the Law of Forced Efficiency: there's not enough time to get everything done but there's always time to get the most important things done.

I'll be back next week with some new content. Specifically, a story that will make you check your locks and turn on all the lights in the house. Can't wait to finish that one off for you!

I'm on the road again. Check out the web site I helped produce: www.torringtonfootballclub.com

It's not done yet but off to a good start! Until next time...

First Draught Hangover

2012-01-27T23:13:00.000-05:00

It's been a week since I've written anything of substance for the blog. It really feels like a hangover. Whenever I get the thought to write again, my stomach clenches and I think of some mindless other thing to do. But I've become disgusted enough with myself to put a plan together. As painful as it might be, I will get back to writing daily. Even if it's just two or three sentences, something productive will happen. It may be garbage, but it will be output. I can edit later.

So musician Tracy Walton suggested that since most of the 30 first drafts I wrote ended with cliffhangers that I could write serials. Every post would be "continued next time". I like the idea of that so I started outlining some ideas. Ironically my favorite ones have nothing to do with any of the thirty story ideas I had for the project.

There's something to be said for working every day. You just don't get as attached to the old ideas and stories if you're constantly brewing up new ones. I've always wanted to write stuff that fit between the tried and true genres. Maybe the right label is stuff that will fall through the cracks and never be widely read. Either way, it will get written.

I'm thinking of a dark/fantasy/horror combo. The settings could be fantastic or real-life. Making them dark gives them the creepy twist that makes you think the author is writing from the padded cell. And horror is just so much fun to write!

More to come. I'll announce the first serial soon and then it's off to the races! Til next time!

#30 The Rope Bridge

2012-01-20T06:00:00.003-05:00

"Two months? That's impressive! The last thing I did that took two months to finish was pulling the stumps out of my front yard," Hanley said.

I shook my head at his comparison. "Do you really think pulling stumps and making a rope bridge out of native grasses are comparable?" I asked. "That bridge is over 100 feet long and can hold up to twelve people."

"Hey, if you ever tried to get a project done around my house, you'd call it even. It's like a Twilight Zone circus on speed. It's full of surprise laced with terror followed by regular intermissions of Tourette syndrome and manic depression."

"Hey, no one ordered you to have six kids," I said. "You produced your own freak show!"
We both laughed. Our guide, Coatl looked nervously back and forth between us. I don't think he had any idea what we were laughing about but he did his part to look amused.

We found Coatl, (pronounced Kwa tl) in the village at the base of the mountain. After a long boat ride upriver and a three hour trek inland, we rested our bones in Coatl's village. We drank some local fruit beverage and tried to cool off. A foolish hope during daylight hours in the tropics.

A man trying to sell us trinkets spoke a fragment of English. We got him to understand we needed a guide to see the old temple on the mountain. That's when he left and returned in seconds with Coatl.
"This guide, he Coatl. Coatl mean serpent. He find right paths, true paths even during night with no moon. Good jungle man. A bargain, too."

Coatl smiled wide. His dark face framed a gaping mouth with more empty space than teeth. Straight, ebony hair bordered his bony jaw and forehead. He spoke some words in the local dialect and motioned for us to follow him. We paid the merchant and fell in for our march.

I had to agree with the merchant. The price was right and Coatl got us moving at a brisk pace on a sound trail. Around mid-afternoon we rested at a long, narrow rope bridge.

"I see the temple from here," Hanley said, pointing to a stone structure erupting from a sea of trees. Only the uppermost portion of the ancient building rose above the trees. It still projected an impression of great mass. Thousands of jungle tribesman sweat, bled and died to build this temple.

"Hey, Coatl. How long before we reach the temple?" Hanley said.
"No much. No much," Coatl said, looking eager and excited.

"He understood you perfectly, Han. I thought he didn't speak a lick."
"So what? He knows the meaning of time. Big deal."
"I wonder what else he knows," I said.
"Forget it. The way he moves we'll be back at it soon. Save your energy."

Hanley was right. Sort of. In about five minutes Coatl disappeared. We called for him. Nothing. We started talking about heading back though it would be very difficult in a few places without him. The sun was already slipping toward the horizon.

"There! Look at that!" I shouted. The tail of a huge snake slithered into the undergrowth. We didn't see the whole snake but it was huge. Our minds both raced to the same conclusion. "Coatl!"

We shouted his name over and again only to see him calmly walk out of the bush, his less-than-toothy grin right where he left it. Only this time, I noticed a pair of long, curved fangs hanging down from Coatl's gums. My eyes widened in shock. And as though he sensed my awareness, the fangs receded, becoming shorter and shorter until they disappeared completely! Coatl closed his lips but the smile persisted.

I looked at Hanley. He missed it. I panicked.

Our guide looked back over his shoulder and began to laugh. Rustlings sounds came from the jungle where the snake disappeared and Coatl re-appeared.

I thought about trying to get back to the village. Instead, I did the opposite. I gently wrapped an arm around Hanley's shoulder. "When I say so, run across the rope bridge, follow me across. Whatever you do, don't stop. You follow me?"

Oddly, Hanley didn't protest. He said "OK, whatever you say." A very un-Hanley response.

A cone of silence descended on us for an awkward moment. So then I yelled, "Run". And we ran across the rope bridge for the first and the last time in our lives.

#29 Board Room

2012-01-17T22:24:00.001-05:00

I preferred the the tables being set up in a "U". The only problem is that no one ever stood in the middle. Instead we all sat around staring at each other. After the first hour my co-workers would loosen up and the inevitable jokes would begin.

Even when it began with others the instigators would get to me. And once they started in on me they never let up. Jokes about my height, my hobbies, my personality, stuff that happened years in the past. It was all fair game.

I put it up with it every time. I learned that when I fought back their insults got sharper and more frequent. None of the bosses we had in all those years ever stood up to them. That made it twice as bad. I wanted to fit in and every time I thought that it might be different, it wasn't.

That's when I decided to kill all of them. It violated my orders. But I rationalized that my orders hadn't been updated in six years. All my communiques to the mothership went unanswered. On the weekends I would access my hidden dropship and send additional coded messages. I thought the ship's transmitter might be stronger than my portable unit. Still no replies. No contact in six long years.

I decided some things. I decided I would let them know who I really was before I killed each of them. I decided Michael would be first. I wouldn't describe him as the ringleader but when the mockery started to get under my skin I always found Michael enjoyed it more than the others.

I decided I would leave clues as to who murdered each of them. They weren't coming back for me so I had nothing to lose. I decided if the police or FBI or any other agency tracked me down, I'd kill us all. I had the hardware to do it.

Michael looked surprised to see me on his front steps when he opened the door. Michael looked scared when examined the bindings that kept him strapped to his kitchen chair. Michael looked downright horrified when I opened my case of cutting instruments and laid it open on the counter. All the tools were rusted and dull. Just the way I liked them.

Before he lost too much blood or slipped into a shock-induced stupor, I decided to show Michael who I was. I ripped the human-flesh mask from my face. My natural face peered at him, framed by the human neck flesh and fluttering black hair. All six of my eyes locked on his two, terror-filled ones. He tried to scream through the dishrag soaked in oil.

Screw the orders. This was going to be great fun.

#28 Take A Chance

2012-01-15T21:17:00.000-05:00

Pierce turned his glass counter-clockwise on the bar. He stared mindlessly at the scotch, trying not to think of anything in particular. Being focused and specific, that's what got him in trouble. So he resigned himself to be empty.

That sounded good on paper, but when the door to the bar burst open and smashed against the wall, his mind was anything but still. A policeman who knew where to find him took three steps in and shouted.

"Pierce! We need you! Get up you sorry son of a bitch!"

Pierce turned his head in disdain. "Haven't I caused enough trouble for one day?"

"Get your ass downtown, now! You of all people know you need a short memory in the people-savin business. Some of 'em are just gonna die on ya! Now move!"

"Sargent Walsh, you sure know how to motivate a guy." Pierce threw back his drink and shuffled toward the door. He cinched up his tights and adjusted his cape. Made sure his mask was on just right.

"Where's the trouble, Walsh?" he asked.

"Vine and 7th. Domestic turned hostage situation. Husband shot the wife and took one of our boys as leverage. We don't have much time."

Pierce stiffened like he had a bucket of ice-water dumped over his head. "This was no joke," he thought. Was three drinks too many? On an empty stomach too."

Walsh drove like a maniac but they arrived in one piece. Some of the cops protested when they saw him. One of the surly veterans shouted, "Haven't you screwed up enough for one day?"

Walsh shouted back and the cop said no more. Pierce could see the movement in the second floor window, just as Walsh had briefed him. He turned to him one last time.

"Remember the code word. If I shout it, send in SWAT. Got it?"

"Crystal, Pierce. Now go bring him out. We don't care if the thug buys it. Just get Rodriguez out."

Without answering Pierce rushed across the street and into the door. He made for the stairs, not wanting anything to do with the elevator. He tried again to empty his mind. He only had this one shot and he had to come through. He banished the morning from his mind, again.

On the second floor landing, Pierce followed the voices to an open apartment door. "This is it," he thought, and walked right in without waiting. He stepped over a corpse in a pool of blood. The gunman entered the room from the kitchen.

"Shit. Random Man," he whispered.

"Chance!" Pierce yelled, summoning his super power. Pierce's clear mind held. A random super-power filled Pierce's being, called forth by his one word command. Random Man assumed the ability to subdivide his body into two equal halves. Those halves would then become whole and operate independent of one another.

The gunman froze in shock as Pierce's body split like a spirtual axe clove downward, head to pelvis. The halves folded over and suddenly Random Man existed times two. It was over before the killer could even fire a shot.

The next day, Pierce arrived at Doherty's Pub as Patrick Jr. was opening the door. He didn't act suprised to see Pierce because, well, he wasn't.

#27 The Telescope

2012-01-15T11:29:00.003-05:00

I couldn't operate the controls with my gloves on. But I knew if I took them off, the pain would be excruciating. I had no choice. I took them off and loaded the shells into the magazine as fast as my shaking hands would allow. Several dropped into the snow. I wasn't foolish enough to try and pick them up.

A cruel gust of wind stole the breath from my lungs. I crumpled to my knees. Blotches of bright red and yellow flashed in my vision. I clutched the pistol to my chest trying to keep from toppling over. I knew if I fell forward into the snow I wouldn't get up.

I got my gloves back on but I couldn't feel my fingers. I didn't know if they were even in the right finger slots so I bent them against my chest to be sure. They seemed to be in right. My head stopped spinning, my vision returned. It took me a couple minutes to stand without collapsing. I walked to the telescope structure.

I walked like a marathoner about to experience the helplessness of body shutdown. It took me fifteen minutes to walk the thirty feet from the station hut to the telescope. But I made it inside. I closed and locked the steel door. I rounded the massive telescope. Miraculously, the heater was where I left it and it still worked!

But then the door to the telescope building opened and my heart began pounding. The telescope obscured that side of the space so I couldn't see the door. I knew what came in all the same.

I slid off my right glove and all but touched the heating element coils. A slight tingle but not enough to allow me to fire my weapon with accuracy. I maneuvered it into my hand anyway

I tried to face the barrel where I thought it would come for me. It was patient. Terror gripped my brain anew. I scanned the walls and ceiling forgetting it could climb. The shadows made it impossible to tell.

The heater made a loud click-clack sound and the coils faded from glowing red to black. I thought about putting the gun barrel in my mouth. I knew my tongue and flesh inside my mouth would stick to the barrel. There would be no changing my mind.

#26 Reunion

2012-01-15T10:33:00.000-05:00

Ted looked around the train station. People walked briskly in every trajectory. He stood still like a pillar in the middle of all the hustling travelers. Striding forward he picked a twisting ribbon of people and joined the flow heading toward 42nd Street.

On the sidewalk he stood in line for a cab. In less than five minutes he lounged in the back seat as the car zipped in and out of traffic. He wondered about people who got uptight in taxis because of most cabbies' aggressive driving style. He had complete confidence in, he leaned forward to read the displayed hack license, Li Chang. Pictures of his wife and children were taped to the visor.

"Family man," Ted thought. "He wouldn't risk his livelihood by being reckless." He settled back into the seat and admired the sights. He wouldn't be in mid-town for long. Might as well enjoy it.

Ted needed a rest. His feet ached and sweat soaked his undershirt. He found a set of steps leading to a dark building that teemed with people Monday through Friday. On Saturday you'd find the doors locked and the lobby dark. Ted gathered himself. He knew he didn't have far to go from here.

He removed a piece of paper from his jeans pocket and checked the address again. He had done this same exercise so many times during the trip the ink smudged a little. He read the words for the thousandth time and shoved it back in his pocket.

Taking a deep breath, he bounced up off the steps. He raised both arms up in a V and exhaled.

"It's time," he said. Ted walked up the block and made a right turn at the corner. He followed the sidewalk for a two more blocks. He checked the paper again.

"This is it," he said. He threw the paper into a grate in the concrete. Narrow alleys separated the brick buildings on this block. Ted selected the alley on the west side of the building. He strode confidently into the shadowed space.

The scraping of a door opening on old hinges got his attention. He withdrew the pistol from the waistband of his pants. An outline of a man emerged from a doorway about a hundred feet away. He positioned himself in the middle of the alley holding something long.

Ted figured it out and shouted, " A shotgun, Dad? Really?"

The man raised the barrel toward Ted. "Really, kid." The man pumped a shell into the chamber so Ted clicked off his safety.

#25 Vines that Bind

2012-01-13T09:42:00.000-05:00

Being a member of the famous Swanson family has many advantages. Even though my uncle, Paul Swanson was the man to bring acclaim to our family, we all benefit from it.

If I go out to eat and pay by credit card or am recognized, the server or restaurant owner would come directly to the table. With wide eyes, they ask, "Sir, are you the Paul Swanson of Swanson Vineyards?"

When I say 'yes' to their inquiries all kinds of good things happen. I've had my check torn up. Bottles of wine and champagne magically arrive at the table. Humble requests for tours of the vineyards and wine cellars are common.

At first, I looked forward to the attention and freebies. That is, until I went to work for my Uncle Paul. My dad passed away while I was taking classes at our community college and working as an office person for a large greenhouse and sod farm. Dad and his brother built the winery from nothing. While Paul was the face of the brand and did all the publicity stuff, my dad devoted himself to the grape.

He never forced working at the vineyard on me. But when he passed I had this compulsion to take his place. Mom would've been proud of my choice, I think.

So I left school and the office job and joined with Uncle Paul. He was thrilled.

"Your dad's blood is in the ground, kid," he said. "His soul is out there with the vines. I know it. I can't tell you how pleased I am to have you here."

Uncle Paul set me up with my Dad's right-hand man, Vernon. Vern knew as much about wine-making as my Dad. For some reason he didn't get along with Uncle Paul. He pulled me aside on my first day with him.

"We're going into that barn." He pointed to a large red barn set back from the other buildings. "After today, you'll never go in there again. Understand?"

"I guess so. But why not."

Vernon looked around like he was afraid of something. Then he said in a low voice, "That's the fertilizer barn. The secret behind this vineyard's award winning grapes and wines. You never, ever want your Uncle Paul to know you've been inside that barn. Got it?

"What's the big secret? Is it something illegal?" I asked.

Vern looked around, rubbing his gray beard. He shook his head. "No. Nope. Can't now."

Then he put his arm across my back and turned me away from the barn. "Tonight. Meet me here at midnight and you'll learn everything."

#24 Hate Mail

2012-01-12T06:03:00.004-05:00

Vincent didn't spend much time socializing with his peers. Their constant complaining about work conditions created so much negativity it made him physically ill. Headaches. Stomach pain. He avoided their little circles in the parking lot or huddled around a delivery vehicle.

Of course, there were some points that were true but Vincent imagined every vocation had a negative aspect or two. What his colleagues spent zero time discussing were the benefits!

Vincent became a letter carrier at a young age. He never had any desire to leave the town he grew up in or all the familiar places where he felt most comfortable. His closest friends didn't stay. They off to college or the military and left him all alone.

He thought about their lives as he delivered the mail or drove his around town. Nearly every street, business or ball field held memories. Especially the baseball field but not for any athletic achievements.

The 1st base dugout was and still is a special place for Vincent. Yes, he played baseball there as a youth. He also drank alcohol there as a teenager. A stolen bottle of rum from a friend's house. He and his three closest buddies passed the bottle around until they all got sick. Of course the boy that stole the bottle was caught by his parents and the missing bottle discovered. But that didn't stop them from doing it again and again.

Their stomachs got stronger and their circle got bigger. Girls. Vincent lost his virginity in that dugout. Many times over he and his friends hosted parties that never got raided, never crashed by unwelcome guests.

He thought fondly of those days as he sat in the dugout this morning. He sifted through the mail belonging to people wanted to know more about. Mrs. Young on Crescent Street. Ms Wilson on High Meadow Drive. Mrs. Witteford on Ridge Road. He regularly came here and went through their mail learning all about their lives, their attachments, their desires.

Then he would drive by their homes, peer in their windows and deliver the mail. Sometimes at night he would go back out with his binoculars and night-vision equipment. He would watch and take it all in.

He slipped open a letter for Mrs. Young. "What do we have here?" he asked himself.

"I told you, fellas," announced a deep voice. "A tiger don't change his stripes."

Three men stood in the rain at the top of the dugout steps. Vincent's mouth moved but no sounds escaped. The opened mail lay in his lap. The husbands, Mr. Young and Mr. Witteford stood on either side of Ms. Wilson's father.

Mr. Wilson spoke in a tight voice, controlling a seething anger. "What are we waiting for?"

The other two men didn't respond. All three descended the steps.

#23 Swing Thing

2012-01-10T22:17:00.001-05:00

Edward loved this spot. From atop the ridge he could follow the line of mountains until they disappeared into the horizon. Living and working in the rugged conditions didn't suit all men. Men like Edward were rare, indeed.

When he was young, Edward had to be dragged from the deep woods by his family. Parents, grandparents and siblings lived all under on roof in the forest village. Edward preferred talking to the trees and animals to anyone in the house.

So when he turned eighteen, his father held up his promise and brought him to the lumber mill. There they gave him the names of three different timber men that Edward could apprentice under and later become a lumberjack.

A man named Hendelsen hired Edward. He thought he might be a little thick but he was strong enough and half as young as the rest of his men..

"You know he'll sign waivers about injuries and death and such?" He said to Edward's father. He's responsible for his own medical aside from whatever first aid I can manage."
Edward thanked God that his mother hadn't come along. She'd never have let him go.

Twelve years passed. Edward enjoyed working with timber.The saws. The men who preferred solitude and some element of danger. The scenic vistas where they worked provided the most joy for him. Edward couldn't be happy anywhere than in these mountains unless he was in some other mountains that reminded him of these.

Then came the day it all changed. It started quietly at first. Edward thought he heard a ringing in his ears. The longer it persisted the louder it became. Until suddenly it was deafening. He tried to drown it out by starting his chainsaw and went to work on a fallen tree. He hoped to drown out the screaming in his head.

It didn't help. The wailing only intensified.

He silenced his chainsaw, lowering it to the ground. "Maybe that will clear it now," he thought while rubbing his temples. He stopped moving about and rubbed his temples.

The words. He could make them out now.It was the trees! They were rebelling against the cutting. Screaming out in their moment of grief. How come he never heard them before now? Behind him, the sound of grinding and crashing through the forest forced him to turn.

What he faced was impossible. A hallucination. Trees didn't walk! Or carry their own axes!

#22 Roll-O

2012-01-08T22:15:00.001-05:00

Bill turned his pockets inside out. He checked again under the floor mats, the seats and in the center console. No more quarters. The clock on the wall read 8:10pm. The laundromat closed at 9pm. He needed quarters but the change machine in Fast Wash Fast Dry was broken and any humans that did work there were long gone.
Bill asked the other two people doing laundry to change his ten. One man didn't have enough quarters. Even when Bill said he could keep the change, the man eyed him warily and said he "didn't like feelin' indebted to no man".
"What is this, a cowboy flick?" he thought to himself.
The woman working four dryers at once, obviously a guest in America didn't speak a lick of English.
Bill went outside. All the other businesses in sight had closed for the night. Sweat broke out on his brow and his heart began racing.
"I need my lucky shirt. I need my lucky shirt."
All Bill could think about was tomorrow's job interview. It was the promotion he had been wanting for three years and he finally got noticed! The last project he led caught the right VP's eye and now this.
But it would all be for nothing if he didn't have his lucky shirt on. He needed that shirt.
Bill decided to drive the quarter mile to the nearest gas station. Hopefully he would have enough time to get back and dry his clothes a little. He could hang his shirt to dry overnight.

"This ain't a bank, man," the man behind the bulletproof glass said.
"I know, but if you would just give me some quarters..."
"Yeah?" he interrupted. "If I just give you some quarters, then what?"
"You'll never seen me again. I promise."
"No one might ever see you again, anyway," the attendant said. He raised a handgun from below the counter and aimed it at me.
"Whoah!" Bill put both hands, palms outward toward the man.
"I have an idea," the attendant said. "I have a roll of quarters right here." He slapped it down on the counter. "It's your for fifty bucks."
What?" Bill asked.
"You heard me."
"Twenty."
"Forty-five because you seem like a nice guy."
"Twenty-five," Bill offered.
"Ok, ok. Forty."
"Thirty. That's my last offer. Take it or leave it."
"Sorry. Forty dollars and I'm not budging."
Bill turned and walked away. "I'll look elsewhere then.
As Bill opened his car door and prepared to slip inside, the man called out to him to come back. "Your offer is fair. Thirty is a fine amount. Sold!"

Bill fumed all the way back to laundromat. It was 8:30pm by the time he pulled in. Hands buried in his sweatshirt pockets, hood pulled up over his head he walked toward the building.
A door opened from a car he hadn't noticed before and a powerful looking man got out. Not in a strong way but a commanding, in-charge kind of way. Bill half-expected the man to issue him some orders. And then he did.
"Your keys and wallet, please."
"What?" Bill stammered.
"You heard me. Valuables. Put them in this bag." He handed Bill a thin plastic grocery store style bag.
Bill took the bag. He reached into his pants pocket and wrapped his fingers around the roll of quarters. It worked in the movies. Then he pulled it out and back and socked Mr. Important will all his might.
Mr I. hit the asphalt pretty hard. He tried to rise but fell back with a thud. Bill looked at the rolled coin in his hand. Smiling he said, "Best thirty bucks I ever spent."

#22 Turnover

2012-01-07T09:04:00.005-05:00

"Man, this couldn't be any more inconvenient," Leon said to himself. He waited in a line of cars attempting to get into a parking garage. Since the garage around the corner had been closed for demolition, mornings became hell for Leon and every other commuter trying to get to work.

Not that Leon didn't have options; he lived within walking distance of a spot to grab a bus or train.

"The hell I will," Leon told his wife. "I'm not paying $450 a month to keep a brand new car in the garage!"

"So you'd rather be miserable five days a week?" Tina asked. "You should try living with yourself. I can't imagine how your employees deal with you."

"There as pissed off and ornery as me! And I think we've gotta right to be!"

"Would you rather have the old garage collapse and kill hundreds of people?"

"If I didn't have my commute all f'd up every morning? Hell yes!"

Leon finally got his turn to swipe his garage pass. The gate lifted so he rolled forward only to stop two car-lengths inside. The procession heading to the upper levels of the garage looked like a still life painting. Except for all the exhaust plumes. To his right was a ramp leading down. On impulse he turned right and drove into the dim tunnel.

The dashboard lights automatically adjusted to the reduced level of light. Leon never parked below street level. He descended one level. Then two. On the third level down he was ready to turn around and go back up. To his surprise and glee, there it was. An open spot right beside a door that had to be the stairs. He pulled in and shut the engine down.

He checked his watch. "Already fifteen minutes late." he grumbled. Leon grabbed his work bag and hat. Stopping before the door he looked around. Seeing no other doors or signs with useful information, he grabbed the handle and pulled.

Leon hesitated as he stepped inside. The stairs led down, not up. A jaundiced yellow bulb throbbed inside a shatter-proof birdcage kind of shell. He turned back to the door.

"Maybe I'll just walk up the ramps instead," he said.

The door wouldn't budge. Leon put his bag down and put his shoulder into the door. Nothing. He realized he was breathing hard, heart pounding.

"Alright. Think. Maybe the stairs lead to another corridor or ramp or something."

He picked up his bag. Taking a few calming breaths he started down the stairs. The light bulb blinked a final time and went out.

#21 Story in a Box

2012-01-06T22:54:00.002-05:00

Myrna experienced desperation before, but that was over two years ago. With the deadline fast approaching she needed a story. And it had to be something she could sew up quickly. The time to research and conduct opposing viewpoint interviews just didn't exist.

She decided to go back down to the docks and snoop around. She'd done a story on dangerous working conditions in the city a while back. Maybe someone would remember her and give her some quick information.

The wind coming off the water bit into her cheeks. It stung like a cold slap, the kind the nuns used to give her when she misbehaved in school. Though the wind turned her face bright red, Myrna had overdressed. Too many layers, but she was too far from her car to run back now.

She walked awkwardly along the pier .The planks were slick with seawater. She struggled to keep from falling but her foot shot backwards and she pitched forward toward the deck. She winced expecting impact. Instead, strong arms hoisted her upright and guided her into the wide doorway of a shabby office.

"Nearly had a rough go of it there, wouldn't ya say?" asked a man who looked as weathered as the pier she slipped on.

"Almost," nervousness obvious in that one word. "Who are you?"

"I'm nobody. But I know who you be. Things be much safer since you last come round."

"Glad I could help."

"It's no help, miss. Too many eyes that needn't be, are spyin' around here. Always casting about since your reportin'."

"I didn't know," Myrna said. She had her first thoughts about her safety.

"How could ya? Anyways, I'd bet a month's pay you're back here for another story."

"I don't actually have one yet," she said in all honesty. "I was hoping to find something new."

The longshoreman went to the door and looked around on the pier. He came back and opened a chest behind a desk. He put a box on the desk. It looked battered and filthy. A single keyhole on one side was the only clue.

"Your story's in that there box, miss."

Myrna looked up at him. He wasn't going to tell her anything, she knew that. She needed to open it herself. She reached out and took a key from the man's gloved hand. She held it a moment studying the box. Then with a deep breath she pushed the key in and turned. Click!

#20 Rest Stop

2012-01-05T21:24:00.000-05:00

"Is anyone sitting here?"

I looked up from my sandwich. A woman stood holding a tray with a salad and a bowl of soup. She had a bottle of water in the crook of her arm. I scanned the other tables of the rest area food court and didn't see an open seat.

"No. Go ahead," I said.

"Would you really have sent me away if you saw an open table," she asked, smiling.

I smiled back. "No. I guess it was just reflex. I didn't know it was that crowded in here."

"So long as that's true, then I'll sit here," she batted eye lashes that protected green eyes. I finally noticed how attractive she was. She settled in at the table meant for four travelers.

"I hate long road trips. Especially driving someone else's car."

"I know what you mean," I said. "Nothing is adjusted just for you. It's like wearing someone else's clothes."

"That's too funny," she laughed. "Is your car comfortable at least?" She took a long drag from her water bottle.

"Yeah. It's a BMW and I've had it for a year. It fits like an old pair of jeans."

"Wow. Good for you. I'm driving to Ohio. How about you?"

"Not that far. Just New York."

"Is that home?" She drank more water.

"No. Maine is where I lived the last twelve years. I did grow up in NY, though."

"You know what? I really need to use the ladies room. Guess I shoulda done that before getting all this, huh? Would you watch my stuff for just a minute?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem," I said.

When she didn't come back I knew I just got scammed. I went to my car. The door was partially open. All my valuables gone. In the manager's office , the state trooper and I watched a video. Our table was visible from a security camera angled over the cash registers of Sbarro.

"There," the trooper said. "She's texting under the table. Told her accomplice what car and what state license plate to look for." He looked at me and said, "Hope you learned something today, buddy."

Three years later at the same rest stop, a woman asked the guy at the table next to me if the seat was taken. She held a tray with salad, soup and a bottle of water balanced in her arm.

#19 American Idol

2012-01-05T06:01:00.000-05:00

Alice lowered the passenger side window to toss their coffee cups into the parking lot trash can.

"Pull ahead a smidge, Liz. I can't reach."

"I can't. Just toss it in," Liz said.

With a grunt, Alice tossed the cups. They separated in mid-air, moving apart. They struck opposite edges of the trash can's rim. One cup bounced up and fell inside. The other cup spun and then tumbled to the pavement.

Without looking over at Liz, Alice let out a sigh. She opened the door and the bottom edge scraped against the curb.

"Hey!" shouted Liz.

Alice turned her head to smirk. Just for a second. When she got out, the car raised up just enough to lift off the curb. She stepped up on the sidewalk and around the trash can to grab her coffee cup. Beside it lay an object that caught her attention.

She scooped up the cup and dropped it in the can without even looking, her whole attention now fixed on the object on the sidewalk.

Liz couldn't see Alice. The car door and trash can combined to obscure her view. "Alice! Let's go. We're gonna be late again!" Liz said.

Alice stood. Her hands cupped in front of her belly, she held the object. She searched her mind to find some familiar thing so she could describe it. Attach meaning to it. But this thing, a carving of some kind both confused and intrigued her at the same time.

Liz's patience ended. "Alice. Get your ass in the car. What are you doing?"

Alice turned her head smoothly. Locking eyes with Liz, she said, "Go on without me."

Furious, Liz unbuckled her seatbelt, slid across the seat and pulled the door shut. Once behind the wheel she threw the car in gear and shouted, "Fine. Good luck finding another job!"

Liz sped along the parking lot until she reached the entrance to the street. She looked back at Alice in the rearview mirror. Alice still held her hands in front of her belly. Whatever she was holding glowed and ghostly green. It cast a green tint over Alice's yellow shirt and white pants. Liz put the car in reverse.

Alice heard the gear drop and the whine of a car moving quickly in reverse. She smiled as she stroked the image carved into the idol. The octopus-like head with tentacle feelers in place of a mouth. Wings folded against the back. Webbed, clawed hands. It was, just, beautiful.