The Thief Who Couldn't

“Gentlemen, can’t we talk about this? I mean, it was just a scroll. One scroll out of thousands of scrolls in the library!”  The man looked between the two guards outside of his cell, batting his eyelashes and smiling his brightest smile. The guards looked at one another, very obviously caving to the prisoner’s charms.

“Well, he’s right, ain’t he? It were just one scroll…” the first guard said, tentatively pulling a ring of keys from the pocket of his jacket.

“And he did do a real poor job of stealin’ it…” the second guard agreed, looking the thief over with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, just the worst! I may as well have announced my intentions to the entire township!” The prisoner agreed amicably.

“As long as you promise not to do it again, I can let you out.” The first guard said, holding the key an inch away from the lock.

“I swear on the grave of my mother!” He said solemnly, neglecting to mention that his mother was still quite alive and owned a thriving tailor’s business in Glensdale, about twenty miles east. In fact, he wore the lovely crimson traveling cloak she’d just sewn together for his 30th year, not a week previous.

That seemed to be enough for the guards, however, as the first slipped the key into the lock and released the prisoner, and the second graciously opened the cell door.  

“Much obliged, gentlemen! I’ll be out of your hair in a moment…” he walked by the table on which his ill gotten gain sat; an unassuming scroll sealed with old wax, then paused dramatically. “Right, nearly forgot my scroll!” As he swiped the paper off the desk, both guardsmen protested loudly. The thief put his hand up. “Now, good sirs, surely you wondered why I would steal a single scroll out of thousands, nay, millions?” This question brought the guards up short, and they hesitated. “It is mine, of course! Been in the family for generations! Wrongfully collected and stored away in that dusty mausoleum of dead tomes and forgotten ledgers!”

“Where’s your proof, then?” The first guard questioned the thief, sounding as though he’d asked something clever.

“I’m afraid I have none, other than to tell you I know that I know opening this scroll would unleash a curse of epic proportions upon the good townsfolk, so naturally I had to retrieve it and keep you all safe from an untimely death!”

“I… well, that does sound serious now, don’t it?” The second guard said, turning to his companion.

“It does indeed. Well, you best get it to safety, then!” The first guard straightened up, and pointed towards the heavy door that led to the upper floor and outside to safety. “Best move along!” He said this as though it had been his idea to free the thief, and allow him his stolen goods, in the first place.

With another flourish of his large hat, the thief made his way towards the door, tucking the scroll carefully into the pack tied at his waist. He confidently grasped the handle, and pulled… and pulled… and grunted… and stepped back from the door.

“Good sirs, might one of you assist me? This door appears to be exceptionally heavy!” He said, no trace of embarrassment or frustration evident in his tone. The guards looked at each other in confusion, and one of them walked down the short hallway to open the door. The thief bowed once more, then disappeared up the stairs.

“If he had trouble with this door, there ain’t no way he’s getting past the one that’s leadin’ outside.” The first guard said. They both laughed, then followed the cheerful thief up the stairs to help him escape the building.

The thief, Delridge von Stealsthings, waited until he’d made it outside the limits of the busiest parts of town before he cracked the wax seal on the scroll. He’d heard from a guttersnipe, who’d heard from a nobleman, who’d heard from a priest, that this scroll contained a powerful spell that would imbue anything he cast it on with the ability to generate gold. He chuckled to himself, proud of how he’d talked his way out of a very problematic experience. But his pride, and elation, drained away as he looked over the contents of the scroll.

He couldn’t read a bloody word of it.

“Chris, this character is useless.” Mark, the creator of the barbarian character that hadn’t been introduced yet, said with a roll of his eyes.

“No, I’ll just have him find the clergyman who knew about the scroll and talk him into translating it for a cut of the gold!” Chris protested, pulling out his d20 to roll.

“Seriously though, if you have to make checks on every single thing like this, it’s going to drag the game out way longer than it needs to be. Are you sure you don’t want to reroll your stats?” The GM, Samantha, raised a skeptical eyebrow as she asked the question.

“You couldn’t even open a door!” Mark added. “A DOOR. There are bound to be at least a few more of those during the game!”

“Whatever, I told you I was going to get through a campaign with a character that sunk all his points into charisma, and I’m gonna do it.”

“Can’t you at least like, raise your strength back up to 8 so you aren’t defeated by doors?”

Chris sighed theatrically.

“FINE. I’ll take my charisma stat down to put strength back up to 8. Is that good enough for doors, Sam?” He looked up to the GM after furiously erasing the “6” next to “Str” on his character sheet.

“Well you won’t be lock picking anytime soon, but regular doors should pose no problem to you.” She laughed at the look on her friend’s face.

“This is what you get for having a high charisma and a low everything else.” Mark muttered, taking a sip of his soda. This was going to be a long evening.

His Suit And Tie

He adjusted his tie, fixed his hair, and checked his teeth in the mirror. His suit was new (but smelled faintly of the inside of a closet), and his shoes were polished black. A garbage bag full of torn pants and dirty shirts sat near the door, waiting to be disposed of. The signs were already in the dumpster behind his apartment building. 

Ten minutes passed while he stood in his bathroom, and he couldn't say what he'd been thinking during that time, if anyone had bothered to ask.  No one did; not that day, not ever. 

Sunlight poured over buildings and pooled between the shadows of leaves on the ground, driving the man's spirits further downward as he walked to the corner of 9th and Stewart. One of the busiest corners in the city; the corner that had been his station until that morning. As soon as he'd donned the suit, he'd given up on his previous occupation. His previous life.  

He told himself he wouldn't do this, but he couldn't resist. Just one more visit. He walked slowly by the cafe on the corner. No one shouted obscenities at him, no one heckled him, and no one looked at him with pity. 

"The world didn't end like he thought, I wonder what he's doing now?"
"Probably killed himself. Can you imagine? How ridiculous would you feel if you went to bed expecting to be lifted up to some city in the clouds while you slept, and then woke up to the realization that you'd been wrong? Wrong for like... years of your life?" Two regulars he recognized conversed next to him, completely unaware of their present company. 

Their laughter burned in his heart, and blood rushed to his face. He considered walking into traffic. He considered wandering down dark alleys, looking for bad situations. He considered a lot of things in those few moments of humiliation and fear of the unknown. 

He straightened his tie, and continued his walk toward the daughter he'd disowned after she told him she didn't believe in his God. Now that they had something in common, maybe they could reconcile. 

Eric Clapton Is Pretty Neat

Sorry, all I can hear in my head is the song. You know the one. If you don't, you're missing out on some sweet, sweet earlove.

I could change the world right now. I am changing it, slowly. Not in any ways that'll impact you directly, unless you own that frozen custard place up on 5th. I may have relieved you of two pints of vanilla custard last night. Don't worry, I enjoyed them more than any of your customers ever could. I even left a tip.

It's pretty easy to change the world though, one small piece at a time. If you follow some of my easy instructions, if everyone did, the world would probably be a way better place. If not better, then definitely more interesting.

Teleport into a pet store and take the animals to a shelter. "What if I can't teleport?" You ask. Well, then this tip isn't for you, and your life is kinda lame.

"Don't you show up on camera?" I also hear you asking. Well, no, because I'm not stupid. I wear a mask. It's a pretty sweet mask. Quit distracting me, ok?

Spend a few of your hard earned dollars on some flowers. Tulips are a pretty good bet; they're simple and don't have a lot of emotional attachment associated with them. And, in the right places, they're like a dollar per flower. Pass them out to random people, especially tired-looking moms. If you don't get maced after you try to offer them the flower, you'll likely receive a surprised and genuine smile. You'll know it's genuine, because it reaches their eyes. That's another fun game; call out people who aren't really smiling and make everything awkward.

This one requires that you pay attention (for once in your life). If you're out somewhere and you notice someone didn't tip at a restaurant, or coffee shop, or whatever, and you know that person was kind of a jackass... make a big, loud show out of tipping FOR them. "Oh, miss/sir, this tip is for you BECAUSE THAT GUY IS A CHEAPASS." Etc.

Take flowers from a nice yard and put them into a shitty yard. Can you imagine this trashy, dirty yard with one really cool flower in it? That would improve the yard at least a hundred-fold. PS: Don't let the first person notice you doing it. Most people don't take kindly to grand theft flora.

When homeless people ask you for change, look them in the eye and tell them sorry, you don't have any change on you. Or give them change. Or offer to buy them food. Really, is it so hard to at least pretend that they're a fellow human being? Jesus Christ, people. I mean, I don't like the smell of urine any more than you do. And if you do like the smell, I won't judge you.

Be nice to animals. If you aren't nice to animals, I will come to your house and ruin your day.

If you see a kid being an asshole, and their oblivious parent isn't putting a stop to it... say something. I don't mean smack some stranger's child around, but ... you know, suggest it.

These are only a few of many things I could suggest to change the world. But it's time for me to finish off that second pint of custard.

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com. This is in response to the question 'How would you change the world?' )

Finally, The Flying Car!

In 100 years, there better be some goddamn flying cars. I don't need a Jetsons scenario or anything, but I expected something better than the crappy system we have going on now. Although, now that I think about it... it'll probably be worse to have people blowing stop signs hundreds of feet up in the air.

I'll step away from my doom-and-gloom scenario for a second here. Maybe we won't blow ourselves up or ruin our planet. Maybe we'll finally take a good look around and be like "Woops, oil really WAS limited!", and find something better. Cleaner. We'll have some cool nano-tech shit to play with. Maybe we'll speed up evolution in ourselves to become better, faster, stronger. Or maybe we'll mess some shit up and all grow tails.

Maybe waiting in line at Starbucks will take 2 seconds instead of 2 minutes.

Maybe we'll finally have a cure for Shitty Monday-itis. Or, you know... cancer.

And maybe, just maybe, they'll develop a remote that allows you to mute that lady you work with who has the really obnoxious laugh. Everyone has one of those.

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com. In response to the question 'What do you think the world will look like in a hundred years from today?')

I Said 'No Salt' On My Margarita

Honestly, if I see myself at all in 20 years, it'll be a miracle. If it's not the suit wearing creeper, it could be that I finally kill myself in a teleporting accident. Or maybe I'll read the memories off of some particularly nasty piece of work and go insane. Or maybe I'll get hit by a car when I forget to look both ways. Who knows?

It sure would have been awesome to have "Precognition" on my list of Shit I Can Do, wouldn't it?

I'll probably be living it up on a tropical island somewhere. I'll only drink my drinks out of a fruit (pineapples and coconuts, please!). I'll never wear shoes again. I'll lay in the sun until I look like a leather wallet. I'll probably never get rid of the sand in those hard-to-reach places.

The idea of having kids is a nice one, but I don't want to burden a wife, or a child, with the problems I have. And, to be honest, I'm pretty selfish. I don't know if that'll change, but I do know that it makes me a pretty shitty superhero. "Not now, bitch, I'm trying to finish this episode of Doctor Who", I'll say as I shut my window against the sound of someone screaming in the night.

Well maybe I'm not THAT selfish. But pretty damn close.

I'm not motivated enough to move up the corporate ladder. I don't have a lot of ambition in life, except to make it to the end. Maybe, in 20 years, I'll meet my Suited Stalker, and we'll have margaritas instead of a brawl.

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com. This is a followup to the story 'Real Life Slenderman')

Apples To Apples

The most important thing I can tell you is that QA is about as interesting as it sounds. Quality assurance. Here's how your shit is broken. Oh, you don't think it's broken. That's cool, but it is. Oh, you're not going to take my advice, and you're going to release it broken. That's cool, but now you have bad reviews. What do you mean, "this is QA's fault"?

That's my work. All the time. Sure, there are rewarding moments. When something I suggest needs to be fixed actually gets fixed. But that's such a small percentage in the face of all the times I deal with people who don't listen, people who don't care, and people who get hard-ons at the thought of meeting/exceeding a numbers goal. I don't give a shit about your 'records', you dick!

So my advice to you is that you do something else. Do something that doesn't involve people. In fact, just work with kittens and puppies. They're nicer, fluffier, and less likely to tell you that you're a moron for daring to suggest that their pet project is anything less than God's Work.

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com. In answer to the question 'What advice do you have for young people interested in your area of work?' )

Sweet, Sweet Lemonade

Life doesn't give me lemons. I refuse that shit. Who said you had to take lemons from Life? Who said you had to take ANYTHING from Life? Lemons, limes, strawberries, kiwis; none of it. In fact, I GIVE lemons to Life. That's where Life gets all the fruit from.

Anyway, so I'll be honest. Sometimes I get a little down about things. I can't be 100% awesome all the time, probably. When I'm not at my best, I like to teleport out to this little tree house I've built out on the Olympic Peninsula. You heard that story, right? I hope so, otherwise this part makes no sense.

This tree house is pretty basic. Nothing fancy. Since I teleport out there, I don't exactly need too much in the way of amenities. Just a nice, comfortable lounge chair, a bookshelf, and a ton of my favorite books. Most people who know me wouldn't peg me for a reader. But I eat that shit up. Rothfuss, King, Simmons, Gaiman. Everyone reads these books thinking they're only fiction. Since I know better, they're a lot more interesting to me.

"But," I hear you asking, "what if you can't teleport when you're having a bad day?" Well, Mr. or Miss Sassypants, you could probably just pick up a book and read it in your boring ass living room.

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com. This is an answer to the question 'When life gives you lemons, what do you do?' )

Brain QA

The future of my field looks pretty scary from this angle. When everyone is hooked up to the internet through a chip in their brain, what happens when someone needs troubleshooting?

Me. That's what happens. I'll come into your house, with my little box of specialized tools, and I'll crack into your brain. You'll take for granted that I know what I'm doing, and that I washed my hands after I took a piss. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't.

I'll bring up a little external computer that allows me to go into that cesspool you call your mind, so that I don't have to jack in directly. I'd bet that's a form of contact that would give too many people the willies to allow. I know I wouldn't want a stranger interfacing directly with my most private and sensitive bits.

Let's say the problem you're having is that all of a sudden, you can only see the color blue. Every other color is showing up gray scale. I'll plug in a little something something, tweak a few lines of code, and blam. You see colors again. I imagine everyone will be on pause or whatever during this procedure, but maybe if it's something minor like a color freeze, they'd be awake.

Maybe it's something worse than that. Maybe we'll be so dependent on the mental internet that, should something go wrong, you might not be able to access any financial networks. Your ability to purchase anything will disappear. I'll come in with a little bit of computer magic to fix you up right.

You'll pray that the Brain QA employees are honest people, and that they wouldn't find it funny to leave a porn app in your circuits. Can you imagine how distracting it'd be if you were on the freeway and a dick popped up on your HUD?

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com.  The question I answered was 'What do you think the future of your field of work looks like?' ) 

To Create A Better Place

I'd tell the next generation not to show their tits on a webcam.

I guess that's a cheat answer, isn't it? I can't just use that as the answer to every question. I mean, it's good advice for any generation, really.

Okay, okay. Basically, if I were President of the World, I would make sure parents taught their children not to be assholes. There's nothing worse than a kid who doesn't say "thank you" or "please". Well maybe there are worse things, but it's still pretty high on my list.

I'd grade parents on their parenting. Your kid knocked every shirt off a display rack and you watched them do it, and didn't make them clean it up? You get a D-. Your kid is obnoxious in a theater and you don't excuse yourself to take them out of the room? You get a G. Yeah, a G. Don't ruin my fucking movie, it's expensive to get in there and watch it. And don't get me started on the popcorn. As President of the World, popcorn would go back down to a reasonable price.

Basically, I can't help the next generation, because that involves fixing this one. And this generation is a hot mess of entitlement and playing WoW instead of making sure their kids aren't calling other kids "faggot".

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com.  The question I answered was 'How would you make sure the next generation is better prepared to move the world in a good direction?' )

For The Children, And The Children's Children

If this planet is not reclaimed by nature, vines creeping up over skeletons of people and cars alike, by the time my great great great grandchildren are a possibility... well...

I would want to tell them not to show their tits on a webcam. Obviously this doesn't apply to greatgreatgreat grandsons. Although who knows, maybe in the future it'll be a thing that everyone has a pair of tits. And there probably won't be webcams either. But the equivalent. Don't show your goods to random people. Have some respect. Too many stories in my day (is it too early to say 'in my day'?) began with "She made the mistake of flashing some random old guy her body..." and ended with "Police report..." or "No remains were found..." or "Now she's a stripper". I wouldn't want any of that shit for my children's children's children. I mean, I wouldn't want it for my children either, but you get the idea.

Maybe I should go carve this on a stone somewhere so it's not lost to time. I'll make sure not to do it by an ocean.

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com, answering the question 'What message do you want to deliver to your great-great-great grandchildren?' )

A Well Kept Secret

I don't tell anyone that I can teleport. Can you imagine how many people would want to study me, pick my brain, or weaponize me? All I want to do is skip the hassle of traffic. I mean, it's not like teleporting is particularly useful. It's fun, sure. But I can't carry extra weight, so practical trips to Costco are right out.

Mostly I just use it to get to and from work. If I crave a midnight snack, sometimes I pop into a late night grocery. No, I don't steal from stores that are closed. I tried it once, and felt too guilty about the shoes to ever do it again. I ended up giving them to some homeless lady just so I didn't have to look at them anymore. "Did you think to put them back?" I hear you asking. Well, yeah, I did think about that, but I figured as long as I'd already stolen them, I might as well do something good with them.

I can teleport to places I've never been to before, but it's risky. Since I have no idea what's gonna be sitting in the way when it happens. If it's just a small thing, like a small box or maybe a rock or something, I experience a really unpleasant numbness all over my body, and I appear shifted a little to the side of the object. Sometimes, I lose things when that happens. I don't know where they go. The biggest thing I've lost on a trip like that is a shoe. I'd hate to think about what would happen if I accidentally teleported into the wall of a building, or a cave, or a tree.

I've been able to do this since I was little. But this isn't a story about my childhood, it's a story about how I get to work. And the answer is; I teleport into the women's bathroom, handicap stall, and I pray no one is in there when I do it. I've been pretty lucky so far, but I'm looking forward to a really awkward day in the near future.

(Mini-serial I wrote on storylane.com.)

Telepathy Bombs

Telepathy bomb causes the near extinction of the human race.

If there had been any journalists left behind (who cared), or news organizations left in tact after the bombs went off, that's what the headline might have read.  But I'm not much of a writer, so that's what you get.  Hell, at this point, we don't need journalists OR the news.  We just listen, and there it is.

Apparently it takes a pretty strong mind to shut out the incessant noise of another person's brain, let alone the rest of the world's collective brains.  Those who slaved away in their hot yoga classes benefited, as did much of the Eastern world.  Various other people escaped the bombs with a terrible head ache and an instinctual ability to stop listening/seeing/whatevering. It took some time, and a lot of advil, but we managed.

I'm no scientist, so even with the vague knowledge I have of what happened that day, I can't explain it very well in writing.  It was a form of chemical warfare; I know that much.  It was intended to be something beneficial for humanity.  No idea who thought it'd be a noble act to bomb the world with a barely-tested formula, but it happened, and I had other things to worry about.  

Bombs were 'dropped' all over the world, and the condition is highly contagious.  There are a few people left who aren't infected, but they've holed themselves away somewhere.  In mountains, underground.  We try not to know, but we have a general idea.  They don't broadcast their thoughts like we do, uncontrollably, but if we listen for them, we hear their silent pleading to be left alone.  So we leave them alone as best we can.

And that's the problem, really.  Most of the population went insane when they couldn't stop hearing thoughts, or seeing images.  The survivors learned how to stop listening, but we're pretty sure we never learned how to stop broadcasting.  

At first, survivors converged to the same locations to be together.  But we quickly discovered that knowing what someone thinks about you, if they know you, is really hard to handle.  The brutal honesty that you weren't used to having someone else hear, that was all out on the table.  Even if you didn't Listen to them... the temptation was always there.  Many people drifted apart, content to seek communication telepathically if they were so inclined.

Sex sure became interesting, though.  There were even a few of us who'd become pregnant since the incident... we wondered, what would happen to the babies?  Would they be Listening in the womb?  Be born full of the knowledge of the world?  How awful.

Language isn't a barrier anymore, either, because if we can't understand the language, we can understand the conjured images pretty well.

Which is how we understood what the Valn were trying to communicate when they showed up.  When we saw their ships in the sky, we all Listened, excitedly chattering at each other about the event.  We tried to send them images of doves, olive branches, other stupid images of peace. It figures that the first time we'd come into contact with an alien race, it'd be because we were the loud, shitty neighbors.  They politely asked us to shut up and stop polluting the universe with our incessant squawking. We hadn't even considered that anyone else could hear us.  Humans really are inconsiderate assholes.

Real Life Slenderman

For the love of God, 13-year-old-me, don't take that fucking book you found in the woods. Just because it's dirty and appears abandoned doesn't mean it doesn't belong to someone.

So I have a bunch of superpowers. No big deal. I hate calling them that even; they're not super. They have unfortunate side effects or consequences, and although I can do some cool shit, it doesn't always end well for me or for other people. Like the teleporting thing. Really, it's just like when you watch a video of some professional gymnast doing something insane, and you think, "how can that be a real thing he/she is doing?". It's like that, only I haven't run into anyone else yet who can do what I can. And what I can do is cooler than pole vaulting. And seriously, what the shit is the point of a pommel horse?

My abilities don't work on whatever's been following me around since I was 13. Time to get serious, folks. I don't take much seriously, but this guy... he's no laughing matter. He hasn't gotten close to me yet, or spoken to me, but I figure it's only a matter of time. He gets a little closer every year.

The book's cover was nondescript. Black with some silver script on it. Well, the silver was pretty dirty, so it was more like grey script. I didn't recognize the words, and I couldn't see the picture that used to be on the front. I cracked the book open, and there was nothing inside it. I thought hey, maybe this would make a cool gift for Amanda. She was some gothy chick I had a thing for when I was 13; no idea why I thought black lipstick was hot. That's another thing, 13-year-old-me; goth girls aren't any more interesting or deep than girls who don't pretend to worship Satan.

So I took the book with me. That night, I saw him. In the distance. I looked outside my window into the woods outside my kitchen. About as far on the horizon as I could see, there was this guy in a suit. I couldn't see his face. I would say his face was blurry, but he was just too far away for me to make out any details. There was absolutely nothing normal about a guy standing in the woods wearing a suit, since there was nothing in that direction for miles. Since I had a giant pair of balls when I was 13 (I'm not going to lie; they've since shrunk down to a more normal level), I stormed out of the house, thinking I could confront him. He was gone.

I've only seen him a few times per year, but like I said, he appears a little closer every year I see him. I've tried teleporting to him; no dice. When I appear where he stood, he appears just as far away as he had been before I moved. I've tried reading his mind; it's as effective as reading the mind of someone's bowl of cereal. And a lot less delicious than cereal, I'd bet. When I was 15, I put the book back where I found it. When I was 16, I tried to find it again to light it on fire, or rip the pages out, or... whatever. Get rid of the fucking thing. Apologize to the guy. But the book was gone.

I'm not sure what'll happen when we finally meet. But I'm willing to bet it won't be a cool fight scene like in the movies. More likely, I'll shit my pants and die in a heap of shame. My mom always told me to wear clean underwear in case I got into an accident, but I bet she didn't consider the scenario in which a real life slenderman was going to scare me to death.

[From Storylane.com]

A New Storylet...

This will be brief!

I was emailed by the CEO of Storylane.com, and it was suggested that I start posting over there.  So, I have! The site is set up to be pretty... vain.  But only if you let it.  So I'm choosing instead to use all of the prompts as small writing exercises.  I was going to tackle it with many types of stories and many voices, but I'm finding myself fall into one voice.  

http://www.storylane.com/fancylala

This is where I've started writing.  I will probably post some stories from this blog, and cross post back to here with random things I write over there.  If you're interested in reading it, or just making your own, you should definitely check it out!

And Then I Waited

The love of my life reincarnated a few days short of our fifth anniversary.  We hadn't gotten around to the wedding part yet, because we weren't in a hurry.  It was nearing his 31st birthday, and had just passed my 30th.

I say reincarnated.  He died; but I think his spirit, his soul, his whatever, immediately returned.  If you're sitting in a room with just one other person, and they get up and walk out of the room, it's obvious to you, right?  That's exactly how it felt when Grayson passed away.  It was as though a part of him got up and left the room, left the serene half-smile on his old body's face as his grip on my hand slackened.  

He'd been in the hospital for over a week with some sort of fever he couldn't shake.  He hadn't even felt out of sorts until he'd collapsed upon our kitchen floor, in the middle of making dinner with me.  Just the day before he died, my best friend Alice was admitted to the hospital to give birth to her first child.  It's almost too much for a person to take, moving back and forth between happy expectancy to fear and a rapidly diminishing hope.

I didn't grieve the way maybe I should have, since that "he just got up and left" feeling persisted.  As the nurses rushed into the room, I followed the feeling out of it.  I immediately lost whatever trail I'd been on, and burst into tears in the hallway. More nurses rushed in the general direction of Alice's room, so I followed them for a distraction.  I couldn't bring myself to be happy about the new baby, but at least I could pretend for a few minutes.

When I passed the threshold of Alice's room, I was overwhelmed with the sense that Grayson was standing near me.  I looked down to see the wailing baby in her arms, who had abruptly ceased crying as soon as I showed up.  My friend looked so exhausted, so happy, and a little out of it.  She'd opted for a drug-free birth until the contractions started, then quickly changed her mind.

"What's his name?"  I asked her.  She looked down at her new son.
"We're going to call him Alex."  Alex and Alice.  Well, that would never be confusing.

Grayson's funeral, every day leading up to it, and a few days after it, felt like a dream to me.  I cried until I couldn't cry anymore, and then I manged to find a new reserve of tears and kept going.  I found myself drawn to visiting Alice, her husband Nathan, and their new baby.  She returned home, both mother and son with a clean bill of health.  The nursery was painted with the browns and greens of a forest.  I knew Alex would grow up well-loved, and I was both hesitant and delighted when Alice asked me to be his godmother.   I didn't know what implications that would hold for later, but it at least allowed me to stay close to the family and watch him grow up.

I babysat him when both Alice and Nate had to work to support their house payments, car, and baby.  I lived only a few blocks away, so it was never an inconvenience for me.  I picked him up from school for a few years, listening to his incessant and excited babble about stars, oceans, other kids, and bugs.  He loved playing with bugs. 

I listened to his awkward and clumsy stories about girls he had crushes on at school, and strangely enough, had to resist the feelings of jealousy that crept up inside me.  I was a middle aged woman, for god's sake!  I couldn't think of a more inappropriate feeling to have.  

I alternated between deep depression, and joy that Alex-Grayson was growing up in such a blessed home.  Alice started getting worried.  It's been 10 years; isn't that long enough to grieve and move on?  Shouldn't I be finding someone else to be with?  I told her I was happy, and she let it go.  I don't think she ever believed me when I said it. 

When her son turned 16, he started becoming moody.  He'd lash out at his parents, especially his mother, and occasionally me.  I had a hard time scolding him like an obnoxious teenager instead of treating him like an adult I'd fallen in love with just over two decades previous.  As he grew older, I found he was more and more like the Grayson I remembered.  

I never told anyone about the situation.  Who'd believe me? It would sound like the death of my boyfriend had broken some tenuous hold I had on reality.  Sometimes, I even doubted myself.  Deep in the night, with one half of my bed remaining cold, I wondered if I'd just talked myself into believing in reincarnation to comfort myself.  Surely Grayson hadn't just disappeared into the ether.  Surely, the only reason I found myself impatiently waiting for some sort of milestone in Alex's life was because he was actually someone I'd known before he was born.  I rejected the advances of other men, I craved contact with someone and had nothing.  I was waiting and suffering for something that was pathetic at best, and insane at worst.    

Alex kept growing.  Went to college, where I could no longer really keep an eye on him without actually stalking him.  Alice found me in his room once while he was away, looking through his things to see if he kept a journal.  She joked with me about it, but was uncomfortable with me after that.  She was a little more wary when I was around.  Nate hadn't changed.   Alex wrote me letters as if I were his best friend, telling me he missed my advice, and my cooking.  He talked to me about women he was having trouble with, and said he felt like he was missing something.  I couldn't tell him that he was missing me.  

I went to his college graduation, him 22 and me a ripe old age of 52.  The age he should have been, had he not been taken away from me.  What if he never remembered who he'd been?  What if he never remembered me the way he should have?  I tried to fill my life with new hobbies and my work, but even more so now that Alex was grown up, I found myself distracted. Impatient.  Was I waiting for nothing?

We lost touch for a few years, then.  I could no longer have children, and I was opening myself up to the idea of attempting to find someone.  He no longer sought my advice, and had been with someone for at least three years.  I was lonely.  Terribly lonely.  The pain of losing Grayson the first time around really hit me then, because I'd finally let go of the hope that I'd meet with him again in my lifetime.  I sobbed myself to sleep on a nightly basis.  Alice and I no longer spoke, and Nate and I were barely more than casually friendly with each other.  Other friends of mine suggested I get an animal, that it would cheer me up.  So I did; a cat and a dog who managed to get along well enough to share my couch with me.  

At 61, I couldn't get out and do as many of the things I used to love.  I could still work in the garden, but I couldn't go hiking nearly as often.  I did a little bit of traveling, but was mostly content to do old lady things.  Knitting, reading, baking.  I knew that I could have done more with my life, I could have let Grayson go and moved on.  Anyone who reads this story might call me foolish.  I waited for love... for nothing.  But I had no regrets; I'd never desperately wanted kids, and the pets were handfuls enough.  I'd learned bits and pieces of other languages to utilize when I'd gone traveling.  And ultimately, I liked to think I helped raise Alex to be a good man.  

My doorbell rang.  It was just a few days into autumn, and the light coming through the windows was golden and low in the sky.  My house smelled like apple cider and hopefully not like old ladies.  I'd always made a point to make sure I never smelled like an 'old person'.  When I opened the door, I nearly dropped the mug I'd been holding.  Instead, I just splashed drops of hot cider all over my shirt.  

"Alex!"  He regarded me seriously, and didn't smile even after I reached out to hug him.  "What's wrong?  Is everything okay?"  I asked, concerned.  I hadn't heard from him in years.  He looked at me, into me, and through me.  

"Natalie.  I know who you are, and I'm so, so sorry."  Without hesitating, he leaned down and pressed his lips against mine.  31 years of waiting disappeared in that instant.  I'd lost valuable time, but he'd found me again.  The wait was over.  

The 36

Mid-July sun warmed my face as I waited for the 36. The bakery behind the bus stop, Cup These Cakes, caused a lot of drama with the conservative women in town, but filled the air with the delicious scent of fresh-baked bread. It's hard to complain about the name of the place when the gals behind the counter produce some of the best lemon glazed pastries I've ever had the fortune of sinking my teeth into.

I didn't move quickly anymore. I didn't care to hurry, even if I had still been able. I walked with a cane, and I found myself accosted at nearly every street corner by well-meaning girls and boys looking to earn their 'Help A Geezer' badge from whichever group they belonged to.

The bus pulled up, bringing along with it the usual scent of gasoline fumes. Dust coated my tongue when I inhaled, and I coughed violently. The kind of cough that shakes your frame and makes you wonder if you're about to pass out. Or throw up. A woman behind me put her hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay? Would you like some water?"

"No," I said, once I stopped coughing, "I'll be fine. My lungs just don't agree with all the fresh air the bus brings with it."

She laughed. With the aid of my cane, I carefully navigated up the steps of the bus. Swiping my card, I heard the familiar "beep" that meant I was allowed to sit for a few blocks. I moved slowly down the aisle, careful not to trip over anyone's extended foot or poorly-placed backpack.

I sat near the back, asking first to make sure an empty seat wasn't taken. It wasn't. It felt great to be off my feet, even for just a few minutes of a bus ride. My knees felt creaky. I sometimes wished I was a robot so all it would take was a can of oil to fix me up. My granddaughter Leslie would love to be related to a real Tin Man. I chuckled to myself at the image.

The bus began moving once the new passengers all seated themselves. The seats vibrated as the engine worked to bring the bus up to speed. A mother a few seats behind me worked to keep her children from running all over the aisle and other passengers. A man in front of me struggled to keep his music device working; his curses and the broken pieces of a woman's heartfelt lyrics alternated to create a new song entirely.

Before anyone could figure out what had happened, we found ourselves in the middle of a bus crash. Horns blared outside, and the bus jerked sharply to the right. Strangers fell against me, against everyone on my side of the bus. The squeal of metal on metal would have bothered me more, were it not for the fact I was busy trying to breathe. Everything went into slow motion, like it does in the movies.

All I knew was that we'd hit at least one car, and from the sound of it, one had run into the back of the bus as well, probably causing more issues behind them. We came to a stop, and most of the passengers had stopped screaming. One woman in the back continued to wail, in fear as well as in pain. Warm, thick liquid dripped down my forehead, and for a moment, I hoped it wasn't mine.

A sharp pain in my chest warned me that someone's misplaced elbow might have broken a rib. People struggled away from the right side of the bus, and a child began to cry near the front. The smell of rubber and hot metal filled the interior of the bus, and I began to cough again. Sirens filled the air as police cars and ambulances showed up to help the injured from the vehicles involved in the wreck. Hopefully to arrest the asshole who caused it all, too.

My heart beat painfully in my chest. How terrible would that be to die in a bus crash, not because of the actual crashing, but because of a heart attack only minutes later? EMTs helped people out of the bus and checked everyone. No fatalities, thank the Lord, and only a few injuries serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. One medic sat me down on the back of his ambulance. My heart still worked overtime in my chest, and I gripped my cane firmly.

"Are you okay, mister? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"I can't see how many fingers you've got up, son. I'm blind." I said. I smiled, perhaps a little sardonically. "Been blind my whole life."



Writing Exercise: Write a story about a bus crash from the point of view of a blind man. Don't let on that he's blind until the end of the story.

The Many Paths

I'm a drifter, a squatter. I have no life of my own. I hear it happens sometimes; a soul gets displaced, and is able to wander about between realities to see every possible life he or she could have had. If it sounds glamorous, I can tell you that it's most certainly not. You never feel... comfortable, in a life. Or maybe it's just me, because I found love and searched through so many lives to find my happy ending. I'm still searching.

I met him for the first time when I was 24. We met through work in the life I'd chosen to settle in. I'd known since I was little that no life was truly my own, but by my mid-twenties, I'd decided I had enough skipping about alternate lives.

When we met, it was a taste of destiny. I can't say that there was an angelic chorus, but it was close enough. An immediate connection, the way he looked at me, everything was perfect. If you could overlook the ring on his finger. I wanted to, and maybe on some level he did as well, but that's not the way things work out. It only took a few weeks before I decided to look for a life in which things could have been different with him.

I found him again when I was 14 years old. I was out shopping with my mom, and saw him at the food court with his friends. I stopped by his table, my mom went ahead to order us some food. We made eye contact, and a subtle bell tone played at the edge of my hearing. Deja vu, soul memory, whatever you want to call it. We stared at each other, he smiled slightly, and I turned my head and walked away. 14 was too young for what I wanted from him, and you can't really explain to a man that you've loved him in other lives.

I found him in a life where he wasn't so perfect for me. We were together for a few years before alcohol convinced him it was okay to be verbally abusive... physically abusive. With tears, I left to search for another time in which we could be together.

I found him in lives where I died young. I found him in lives where tragic accidents took him away only years after we'd met. We remained faithful to each other, that was a constant. There was passion, always. I'd never met anyone like him, and didn't care to look further than him. I skipped past lives where we'd never met at all. I wondered, how long can I keep this up? How long will I be allowed to jump between lives until whatever higher power there was decided I'd had enough fun?

There's no real passage of time, for me. I don't know when I'll be satisfied. Maybe when I come to a life where we get at least fifty, sixty years to love each other. Maybe then I'll let my soul move on, die happy as an old woman with spoiled grand children.

I met him again today. I'm in my mid twenties again. His eyes are the same, intense brown that the have been every other time we've met. The sky is a little bluer in this life, not sure why. The sun burns with a warmth that seems more fierce. Maybe some catastrophe will strike us in a few years, and I'll move on again. But he introduced himself in the coffee shop, a script of his spread out before him on the table. His hand was warm, and familiar in a way he'd come to recognize, and a way I'd known from life times spent holding it.

He told me he felt like he'd met me somewhere before, and asked if he could see me again. I smiled, wrote down my phone number, and kissed him on the cheek. He was surprised, pleased, by my confidence. We were meant to be, and I'll look until I find our life together.

A Sketch

She walks into the parlor, admiring the decor and the lighting of the place. It's not too bright, nor too dim. The candles on the walls are numerous enough that they match the light from any bulb she's seen, and there is something to be said for the mellow flickering of fire verses the almost harsh light of a lamp.

"I've heard so much about you," she says, clasping the artist's hands. They aren't calloused hands of a worker, but neither are they the soft hands of a man who spends too much time avoiding work. She smells something faint, and pleasant, coming from an adjacent room. "They say there's no one better with a pencil."

He smiles, and it reaches up to his eyes. She feels a little more at ease with what she's signed up for. He's pleasantly surprised by what he sees. He expected another high society woman; haughty, her hair pulled back too tightly, her face covered by too much paint. With this woman, he sees he won't even need to ask her to take her hair down. It's already in gentle curls around her face and resting on her shoulders.

"I'm flattered. I just find there's peace in drawing, and if I can make someone else happy while I do it, so much the better. Please, have a seat."

She sees the small table covered with various artists tools, and the easel that's waiting for its paper. She seats herself on the chaise lounger while he sits on the stool next to his station.

"I do have a privacy screen I can put up while you undress, if you'd like. Once you're in a comfortable position, I'll need you to be as still as possible for the duration. Don't worry too much about needing to scratch your nose, I understand that the body does strange things when required to stay in one place."

"I understand, and..." she blushes, "I'd like the privacy screen, please."

He smiles again.

"Of course."

He stands the screen between them, looking away politely as she begins to remove pieces of her clothing. She notices that he's mentioned nothing of the reason she's there; the fiance she knows will love this surprise. She wonders if this is standard practice, and finds that she doesn't want to be the one to bring him up. While looking into the artist's eyes, she'd all but forgotten the reason she called on him in the first place.

He's seen more beautiful women than his client, but there's something about her he can't quite put his finger on. Perhaps in drawing, it'll come to him.

She stretches out on the chaise, feeling vulnerable, embarrassed, and a little excited. She tries not to think about how many other women have been here before, just as naked, waiting to be studied by him.

"I'm ready... I think." She giggles, then cuts it off abruptly when she hears the obvious nervousness in the laugh. It's just a drawing, for pity's sake! She hears him chuckle in return, and he slides the screen to the side.

She's laying on her side, head resting on an outstretched arm. Her other arm is stretched down the length of her, with her fingertips resting lightly on her thigh. "Is this okay?"

He nods once, taking in every detail of her body... for his sketch, of course. He tries to be purely objective, this is a job, after all. But he thinks it would be foolish to deny what the candle light does to her skin, the curve of her hip and the swell of her breast. He takes out his pencil, and a fresh piece of parchment.

"I hope you're comfortable, you're going to be here a while."


There is no time when there are no clocks ticking. There is no night and day when the only light is candle-born to begin with. He starts with basic curves, gentle lines. He stops every few seconds to make sure the angles are just right, that he's bringing her to life on paper. He's trying desperately to forget why she first came to him, and instead focuses on the slight smile that keeps creeping to her lips, then disappearing. He's drawing the smile whether or not it's on her face when he looks at her, for it does something beautiful to the rest of the picture.

He's studying her. He's drawing her. He's falling in love with her.

She's never been looked at this way. She's wondering if coming here is the mistake, or if the mistake is her plan to marry someone else.

Neither of them know how many minutes or hours have passed once he drops his pencil for the final time. He continues to stare at her. She knows he's finished, but can't bring herself to look away. She wants to approach him, be close to him without the privacy screen coming back to bring her to her senses. In her hesitation, the moment passes, and he's left her to dress. In his hesitation, he's stopped himself from a potential embarrassment and serious breach of etiquette. The screen divides them.

He memorizes the picture on his easel as best he can. He knows she'll come back to his dreams, but will her image be this clear in his waking life? She pulls the screen aside, tucked safely within the confines of her clothing. Her cheeks are still a bit flushed, and she looks a little sad. She's feeling as if something is missing, and doesn't want to admit what it is.

He shows her the sketch, and another nervous giggle escapes her. She takes the drawing and hastily looks away. "It's... well, I've never seen myself this way."

"You hardly looked at it," he teases, fighting the urge to tell her she can't have the drawing, that he wants to keep it for his own. He doesn't want another man, who's probably seen her naked dozens of times, to see this picture.

"I'll look at it more closely when I'm not being looked at. I can't stop blushing."

She's already paid him ahead of time, so there is no exchange of money. She stands at the door, and sees that night has closed in around them. They stare at each other again, and the air is thick with everything they aren't saying to one another. "Thank you." She whispers, turning to leave his home.

He says nothing as she disappears. He waits another few endless moments, plagued by indecision.

"Oh, hell." He says to the silence. He grabs his coat and dashes out the door.

Less Writing, More Pictures

I haven't been writing in my blog lately (clearly), but I've been doing some writing in a story I'm working on. Instead, I thought I'd share where I've been posting the pictures I've been taking with my new camera. Specifically the albums from my Oregon trip, Mt. Rainier, Testing 123, and Markets and Bars. Enjoy!

http://s42.photobucket.com/home/FookinPikey/allalbums

A Missed Flight

Stars twinkled overhead, dulled much by the city's light pollution. It seemed worse than usual, and the smell of garbage overtook the man standing in front of his apartment complex.

"God... I hate this city," Steve muttered to himself. He checked his watch, impatient for the cab he'd called fifteen minutes previous. The cab was the first step to a glorious vacation; a cab ride, an airplane, and then all the tropical drinks he could stand. He was excited, too, for he was going ahead of his wife to surprise her. The thought of the clues he'd left behind to lead her to her ticket cheered him considerably.

The cab pulled up in front of the building as if his complaining had teleported it from locations unknown. The driver stepped out, a small man with a large bald spot on his head, and an almost obscenely bright orange shirt.

"Evening, sir! Can I take your bag?" The man asked, sounding pleased to be of service. Steve smiled, handing the bag to him. He walked around to the left side, letting himself into the back seat. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed, but there was another man slouched in the seat next to him. The smell of too many air fresheners made Steve's nose burn slightly. As the driver returned to his seat, a flurry of chaos hit the car.

The man next to Steve, with one deft movement, dropped a black bag over his head. He struggled in vain, for the bag reeked of something that was causing him to feel as if he were swimming through molasses. The driver was shouting something unintelligible in the front seat, and the man to his left was also shouting. Steve thought he heard the words "wife", "money", and "gun". He felt the barrel of something cold press against his neck, and his already pathetic struggles ceased.

"I don't have much money..." he said thickly, getting the taste of whatever pungent chemical they'd used in the bag all over the inside of his mouth. This caused another chorus of yells from both strangers in the cab.

He felt the car take many twists and turns, and found himself praying to a God he wasn't sure existed. All he'd wanted to do was take a vacation with his wife! Would he ever see her again? The car stopped, and Steve was pulled unceremoniously from the cab. He was marched a few feet, dropped into a chair, and had his ankles and wrists bound. He heard the distinct sound of a knife being sharpened, and his heart pounded with a fear he'd never known in his life. Not during any horror movie, or stupid stunt when he was a kid, had he ever been so frightened.

Now it sounded as if 20 men were yelling at him, and he heard the sound of a metal door being pulled shut. The bag was yanked off his head, and he shut his eyes against the light pointed directly at his face.

"Please, please! I have a wife, I don't want to die, I'm too young..." Steve was shaking from head to toe, and was thankful that the ropes binding him weren't cutting into his skin. He felt as if he were about to lose his dinner.

"Die, Steve Geller? You won't be dying here tonight. But... you will be on CANDID CAMERA!"

The light shut off, and he found himself staring into the grinning face of a tall man in a business suit. There was a crew behind him, laughing and cheering. He noticed the two cameras, one in front and one to his left. The camera's red lights blinked, taking in the wet spot on his khaki pants, and the lack of color in his face. The taste of that chemical was still in his mouth... and Steve threw up all over the front of his nice Hawaiian shirt.

Candid Camera: Extreme Edition, was terminated after the pilot was previewed by a select panel of viewers. Steve Geller won his lawsuit, and is now living comfortably with his wife on his own private island. The show's host Martin Adams sustained only a fractured arm and a bruised cheekbone once Steve had been untied.