That's the world of crime...

I love scary stories, always have. The fact of the matter was, my mother sensed my intelligence and risked it once by buying me my first Stephen King novel when I was in the sixth grade. She sensed my reading prowness, coupled it with juvenile purient interests and then bought the book at a garage sale.

I was hooked into the grotesque.

Kinda explains my first marriage, come to think of it.

Time passes and my tastes mature. I move up to Clive Barker and Robert McGammon. Then I see the movie "Silence of the Lambs" and have to review it for a newspaper I was working for. To make the story fuller, I went ahead and found Thomas Harris' text and expanded on the topic.

And I discovered that sometimes truth is, by far, scarier than fiction.

Also, scare-ily like my first marriage.

Today's writing topic is what famous unsolved crime would I like to know the answer of. Well, the fact is, like Sherlock Holmes, I've read as many books as I can about good old Jack the Ripper. So much so, I have even developed theories as to he might be, but have never realy followed up in the reality department.

But, just like every other serial killer prior to him, I wanted to know the ins and outs. I could never hurt a fly, yet, here was someone who could drap intestines around someone's neck. That was where the fera came from and my interests--what could make the average person follow through on such a thing and yet walk amoungst us afterwards?

I would love to know who Jack really, really is. But here's the trick, frankly. I wouldn't tell a soul. The murders are passed now, everyone would question the answer as it was anyways. But I would love to find the solution and then apply it to the facts. The why. The where. The reality.

But the mystery is part of Mr. Ripper's mystique and I can never destroy that. Sure, it might give decesdents of his history some closure.

*) As I elaborate, I would also do the same for Zodiac. His trail was so twisted, I just want to see the answer just for the closure. But would say little--but his issue was that, in my research, he is either deceased or was captured, since we've heard so little of him since the seventies.

That's my story.

If I could change one thing about myself??

Wait...one thing?

Okay, okay, okay. All of us are on a journey in our life. Here's the problem, no one actually tells us what that journey is. Are we supposed to save puppies? Are we supposed to date that one person so they become famous and use you as the source for that one performace on hatred?

No one freegin knows.

Religion gives some ideas on the path we need to take for some. I'll buy that. But ORGANIZED religion merely just asks for money and sells platitudes for the masses.

I mean, have you seen New Life Church?

So basically, the plan is up for grabs.

And frankly, with all my writing as of late working on a novel, I've discovered somethign that makes me more whole. I could literally do this for a living, believe it or not. Just sitting and writng has caused me to lose weight and reduce stress, not exactly what I would have expected. So, obviously, putting pen to paper has a purpose for my journey in some way.

But knowing that I am improved in some way through the act of writing also proves something else for me. That I am greatly flawed. That there is something that must be improved.

Now, I give you this. I learned this long ago. When I went into college, the amount of information was incredible. I was constantly in awe and overwhelmed by how much I didn't know and was there to learn. Proof that I wasn't perfect. Not in the least.

So, okay then. I know I need to be smarter. But I have that down pat. I am always reading and growing.

If you look back at the first thing I noticed that improved when I started writing a novel in the long term...it was the fact that my pants were looser, baggier and longer. I had not done more sit-ups, I had even been sitting more than ever before.

If there was something I could improve? I'd lose weight. I'd be thin and beautiful. I have a husband that loves me just the way I am...but he has the waist of a 16 year old boy. I'm fat, folks. And worse, I know it. I think about it when I'm not thinking about eating. I exercise, to be sure, but it's not working any more.

So?

Let's return to my journey. If I keep this weight, I'll still feel bad about myself when I ahve to ask about how much weight a specific ride can hold at Disneyland. When kids impresonate me by putting a pillow around their midriff.

And fat people die early. We know this.

Not big on the dying bit. Would rather finish the journey.

So, yeah, I need to change my body shape. I want to feel good about myself there. My brain is in order. My social life is actually vivrant.

Now the physical.

That's what I'd change.

Do We Make Our Own Luck?

Ijust received some terrible news. A dear friend of mine met someone, let that person housesit for them, and they robbed him blind. Took the car, took the DVD player, took money, took all the things that defined him in his environment. The guy is broken and I feel terrible about it. I wonder if I could have done or said something more to protect my colleague.

Grant you, I doubt it, but if you care about someone, you don't particular want them to suffer.

At the same time, I'm having a terrible time at my terrific job. I can narrow down my aggravations to one specific person (see Monday's input). Now this woman's involvement in my daily existence is nominal, not at all like taking my friend's life in a box and dumping on their pride. But still, it brought me to today's question...

...do we make our own luck?

In Chinese cultures, there's the I Ching. The philosophy is that your luck will influence everything around you. Literally, everything, like coins in your pocket. And if you take the time to flip those coins, you can actually get a reading on the amount of luck that is floating off your body.

Interesting thought.

But I cannot help that we do make our own luck. WHat if, and trust me, I really trust this dude and think he's awesome...but what if he some how influenced this bad luck? My older brother is a fucknut. And bad shit happens around him constantly. And he lives for it. He brings it down upon himself.

Like, for example, they outlawed pitbulls where he was living. So he went out and bought one and then had a hissy fit when the dog was taken away. He likes 'loose women' but when the call back, he gets mad and then they harrass him and show up at my mother's parties and on and on and on.

But he continues to insist that this is totally out of his control. That some how, it was the woman's fault she was so loose and then, when she wants to see him again, he cannot seem to understand that he called her.

The difference between my brother and my friend? I think my friend is cool. And my friend doesn't make fun of me constantly.

I look at myself. I almost think I'm exasperating these problems with my friend so I can be fired and then lose my job and then have to move to Florida. And my friend, I'm thinking, just thinking, since he never really had a steady partner/lover, that he looks down on himself enough to find someone that uses him. And steal everything.

Did he know this person would steal everything? No. I don't think he did. But he played up the positive to a point that even if his gut-feelings came into play, he had a difficult time to see it. We all know, you should let a stranger into your house, even if you aren't fucking them.

Now there's an axoim to this. There are big ticket items I still cannot explain. The Tsunami. Katrina. 9/11. THose victims had very little to do with that. They did not choose to be in that building at that time. They did not choose to go on that beach at that time.

But I'm starting to think, in some ways, we make more of our luck then we think. The question is...why don't we want more good luck? No, not dream of good luck. We all dream of the lottery. But really, really, create situations so that luck will come hurdling our way?

Something to ponder.

Now, to go help my friend so his luck can change. Any single people out there?

The U.S. Constitution

The Republicans and their fellow Right Wingers (I collectively all them "the Flat Earth Society) amuse me. Yeah, I know it's a matter of perspective. When they had their man in the White House, Emperor Bush, they kept their traps shut. It's almost as if they realized through 9/11, Katrina and the bank crashes that their puppet was not one of their better choices. They wouldn't even quote him. Instead, they blanketed everyone critical as unAmerican, as if free speech and free thought were not be expected.

Now we have Obama in Washington, it's amusing what they find fault with. He failed to get the Olympics to Chicago...they jumped on that. Of course, no one actually died from this failure, like invading the wrong nation for personal reasons, but they yelled. Then he follows up with getting a Nobel Peace prize. They screamed, "for what?" Since they couldn't seem to read the treaties the Swedes printed on the internet.

Obama wants to fix health care. Now he might be doing it correctly, with that I can understand. Sorta like having an F student trying fix education by punishing all the teachers who wouldn't pass him...in fact, Bush failed out of school and yet he was the one who tried to reform education, but that's not the point. Obama moves forward and the powerful insurance companies, who have had control of Washington for years via their lobbists and controlling interests in the GOP, panic. They send a wave through their followers, via the churches and internet and these tea parties show up.

Never mind that you have a choice with this new program. You don't have to be part, but if you can't help it, you'll have coverage...these people go to meetings and I just laugh, cause what do they yell?

You're taking away my constitutional rights?

Um, what? Might as well say we will have death panels as well.

Oh wait, they did say that too.

I'm still not seeing how giving you another choice is taking away your constitutional rights. I don't understand it at all.

But this is what I do understand about the Constitution. It's actually kinda new in the history of countries. That's kinda interesting. And we still need judges to interpret it, again and again. Now some countries, like South Africa, still vote on segments of it, repeatedly and then it goes before committees to make sure that it helps the greater good of the populace and no one is ever left out.

For me, this seems to be a good idea. And it works in theory. However, knowing our system and how it was bogged down by personal interests and heavy involvment of large corporations, it could very well never work out. But I wish people would sit down and say, "there is a group being marginalized, what is this so in a free nation?"

Then, the churches say, "well, their mere existence puts us at jeopardy."

The retort would be, "so would every murderer and adulterer. Who do you deal with their existence?"

The dialogue would begin.

If only, if only.

Why Bumper Stickers Don't Lie

Okay, I know I wanted to avoid this. I've doing my best to scream the praises of my current, brand-spanking new job, but there's someone I work with who is driving me nutzo. I mean, literally. Like I cannot function when they are around. And I don't mean like they are extremely hot or posed for covers of magazines or anything.

I mean, they are driving me crazy.

Now, I am aware that this is a difficult forum to air my greviences. I know future employers might stumble across this and go, "I won't hire him, he might whine about me...and he's really good about whining!"

I'm not whining about my employers. I'm taking that out of the equation right now. I truly love my new job and the people within it's confines. In honesty? My last job gets worse and worse the more I work there--because I realized I was in the dark ages and pissing in a garbage can when I was there. When I left my previous job, I figured it was burnout.

But when an old coworker's first sentence in a recent email says, "glad you left this filthy cesspool of an employer," I'm sad. I knew it was bad, but I guess hindsight is 20/20.

I'm having stress at my new job. And you know that bumper sticker: STRESS IS CAUSED WHEN THE BRAIN OVERRIDES THE BODY'S URGE TO STRANGLE THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE WHO DESERVES IT.

Bingo.

This coworker is living in the dark ages. Now, I'm an author, through and through. I've loved the word "meddling." It's almost Dickensain.

Well, this person got this down.

They are hugely wealthy. And, now, having sent kids to Ivy League, she's returning to the work force. After 20 year absence. And she expects much to be the same as it was.

Things have changed. Like the fact that there are laws telling us how to work with each other.

And she doesn't do that. Instead, she writes my IEPs for me, and normally, I'd be fine with that...but I have to follow them! She then calls parents and tells them what a terrible job I'm doing. And then I have to meet with parents...especially parents I've been dealing with for some time and have, but now had, a decent relationship with....

I've spoken to her. The first time, I was nice. Since it happened again, i assumed the second time I would have to be more direct. Now we're onto the third time. I have to go over her head. Every time she opens her mouth, I have more work. I need to see someone above her.

And I can't drop it. I don't know why........

Commercials, or, Why I'm a Freak...

I fucking hate commercials. Now I need to point out, I'm referring to those galloping aggravations on television. I hate, hate, hate them. I am a man with usually a one track mind. It's why I'm having problems with writing my book this month. I hate having to break it up into daily, short, inputs. I want to sit down on Monday and type through until the bleeding tale is done.

Commercials turn me into a freak. Now, here's the further evidence I'm a freak.

Commercials do actually work. Even I, when entertained by a decent show or commercial, like the good ones they attached to a movie--I'm sucked right in. I cannot help thinking I'm trying to avoid them because I am such a sucker.

I keep thinking that I am not a slave to American buying machine. But look at me, I am all about commercialism. Cannot leave the house with a Mickey Mouse coporate logo. Starbuck's is fantastic. McDonald's chicken is decent!

Is there any escape?

Why I hate Maine

Seriously. The yahoos there voted down marriage equality. And, as usual, nothing happens. No one says a fucking word. Oh, wait, did I speak too soon? Yeah, straight people tell me to relax and point out it was only, by, like 2%. That somehow, losing, even tho another group of my people are out of equal rights, I should care about the small two percent.

Then I hear the asshat of New Lick MegaChurch, Haggard gets a twenty minute coverage about his new church. He's 'changed.' Folks? He's still as queer as a caring conservative. He still likes to hide in airport restrooms with a wide stance. Do I care that he liked boys? Not really. I thought he'd find peace, like so many exgays who go on to help others avoid such snafus. But no. And his mere presence proves that this nation is still healing from the damage done from Emperor Bush.

The fact of the fucking matter is, why the hell should they fucking vote. Do they vote on if everyone should breathe? Do they fucking have votes on which foods like you like? Fuck no. But they'll have a vote to see if someone should be seen as equal as the rest.

Frankly, I'm tired of it. So many gay youth out there who don't know who they truly are now contemplating suicide, 'cause they ahve so little to look forward to. How many closeted men won't move farther out of that hellhole because, well, whatthefuckfor? It's not like there's a future in self acceptance. That's wrong folks, just wrong.

In fact, I have been wondering if someone should say fuck it and burn the masses. Lock arms and sit in churches and town halls. Let the people know that the civil rights marches aren't over. Normally, I'd stand up and say, "now I'm not advocating violence..." No. Do you see what peace has gotten us? Nothing. Six states. Out of fifty. And even a government that wishes us to shut the hell up.

What about not dumping a turd on capital hill? Paint that white dome a decent pink one night for the sheer hell of it. Oh, I'm fully aware, it's all the haters would love to see. They'd jump up and down, leave their stalls in the airports and say, "see???And you to let these people be our equals?"

Folks. Come out. As straight or as gay. But be counted. Don't be soft. Say to people, "You're wrong and stupid." Don't try to be nice, don't try to play their games. Say, "deal with it."

And wear big boots.

Mark Twain really does speak the truth...

"Adopting a dog is the closest you'll ever have to picking a family member."

I don't have kids. I keep mentioning that teaching is the best form of birth control I have ever encountered. Grant you, we lack a uterus between us, so that makes it difficult when you really think about it. There's an adoption option, surely, which involves in basically giving a shitload of cash to people who are completely overburdened and just wanna check to see if you have a clean bathroom. Once they discover that, they'll ask for more money and then send you through the American court system.

Just so you can give a kid a life.

It's ridiculous. My life is stressful as a teacher. I have a lot of responsibility for many, many children and have to really follow up. And I will tell you, for every group of parents I meet, the signs can be mixed. For every one that really is working towards their kids' future, there is an equal an opposite one that is screaming and yelling about their clothing not being matched or that I'm too nosy.

Who am I to tell them how to raise their kids? I cannot see into their homes, I don't know what stressors pull them this way or that. But I have seen many more parents then they have.

I am so sick right now, I cannot even hear out of my left ear and both eyes are so overly infected with pink eyes that blinking can be somewhat of a chore. Yet, stranded to the bedroom with warm tea, who came to my rescue? My husband, of course, and he had a choice.

But someone else was there.

My dog. And she had more of a choice. Being only a foot off the ground, this house is truly a castle. I can only imagine what she had to struggle to do merely climb onto that bed. I did not ask her to be there. I didn't see to it she kept me company.

She came on her own accord. She left when dinner called.

She was there when she was needed. She left when her personal issues intersected.

Can kids be like that? Absolutley. Same with parents.

The drawbacks? I can't think of one. Heck we pretty much bought the house to indulge in a dog--I see very few drawbacks of having this dog.

Wereas, kids? Nah.

if a situation were to exist where we could be parents? Sure, I think we might do fine--but I am in no hurry to see how that pans out...

Change comes within

An excellent friend and I were discussing some random topic on Facebook and she inadverntatnly insulted me. She was talking about her aggravations with her coworkers, an all too famililar topic with many people over the globe, and pointed out ot her the Taoist concept of: "we can't others; we can only change ourselves."

My advice followed the logic that perhaps she would be best to just change the way she interacts with that individaul instaed of trying to get them to bend to her whims.

She called it a platitude.

A deep philosophy was just reduced to a fortune cookie.

However, I applied what I preached. This was an excellent friend and so I brushed it off.

The fact is, even my Taoist self still wants and hopes for changes in many peoples and many environments. I think that is normal and motivates us to do things within our world.

I can easily think of three things I would like to change within my own household:

1. As well as things are going here now, I would love for my home to be in Florida. I would love to see the ocean and have several more options on how to spend my free time. I would take better care of myself, for going to the beach kinda moves you to be more active. I want to be at a place where people would love to see me and I would love to be at.

2. I would love to see my husband employed. Now, don't get me wrong. He has done volumes to making our house more sellable. And there massive huge changes in his personality. He is not sick any more. He is funny. He smiles and giggles and wants to go out to eat. but the fact is, work does have some benefits. His rest is over and he is starting to be edgey. He is finding more fault and the chores are getting more and more distant. I cannot help thinking that he would benefit from the interactions a challenging, decent job might give him.

3. I could write more. I so love sitting here in front of the computer, but the fact is...i'm human. My energy wans and ebbs and flows. That's not fair. I have the motivation, but for some reason, not the follow through. What am I doing wrong? If given the magic of time, that question would easily be answered.

What I would keep the same?

1. My husband. He is still my best friend. When he left for a week, it was about one day before I said...okay, he needs to come back. It wasn't that I needed him like so many women (and gay men) who define themselves by their martial status. I don't. I can live on my own. But when you have a bad at work, you want to tell your best friend who knows how to cheer you up with no effort. You want to be with the person who you don't have explain anything to.

2. My pets. My furry family is perfect. They cause me stress but also remind me the beauty that exists in everyday. They are never stressed and always are there when I need them. Penelope hates when I hug and hold her, but she lets me, cause that's what I need. My stepcat has moved into my life that when she's not around, I feel the absence.

3. Strangely, I cannot think of a third thing to write about. That doesn't mean there's not a third, but my heart just can't access it now. I'm taking the advice I give my kids--keep writing and I have three minutes to kill. I suppose I should say my computers or my technology, but taht is just stuff that I can, in reality, jsut live without. My job is not my home. My extended family is not my home, either. Home is where I am. I can change me, but that would redundant.

There...my 15 minutes are up.

On a Snowy Afternoon

I hate this weather. I seriously do. I look out the window here at the Starbuck's and all I see is the heavy flakes of a witner that is encroaching. But it isn't heavy enough to clog the streets and give me the break I so need from working. No, it's just enough to annoy, and seriously, that is what it's doing. Annoying me.

And annoyance, as i probably already stated, means that something else is bothering me--I just can't put my fingers on it.

I think it is because I'm going through all of these life changes and rites of passage as of now but I cannot, for life of me, tell if they are what I am supposed to be doing. I'm a big believer in Fate. I equate the concept with God--in that, I cannot thinking that both have a plan that they are following and we are supposed to fall in line with. When Fate sends signals, its not because God wants me to know the path, but merely that I was attune enough to myself to read the symbols. Like this Florida stuff. I know I'm supposed to do something linked to Florida. Something. But am I supposed to go there? I just found out two of my coworkers are from the area I would like to find myself. Am I supposed to connect with them?

I wish, in my heart, I really could send an email. An emial to someone who would know. Some sifu or teacher or someone who has already reached a pinnicle and has soemthing to show for it. Someone like Oprah or George Clooney or even the President. I'd love to ask,"hey, what signs did you see? Or were there times when you were like...am I doing this right?"

That, in and of itself would provide me with volumes of information. That email would make it to a clear-view bulletin board so I can refer back and say, "SEE, you're not a total idiot!

"Just mostly one."

Until that time, I'll stick to meditating.

I ask this because a very obvious sign came to me. My husband and I LOVE the Space Coast. That is a place where we'd love to live and die. I applied for a teaching postion there, and was shafted by a cold hearted office assitant.

"Can you be here for an interview tomorrow?" The manx questioned, knowing full well i was in Colorado.

I was turned off the prospect of working there. If that was the kind individual they'd hire to answer thier phones, I could only imagine what else she was smoking.

So I shut down that blue chapter and went on living. I was saddened, to be sure.

And then, out of the blue...an email from the school district. They had all of my information for that district and I could now apply for positions. Not that there was any.

The door opened again. Why now? It was creepy.

But was it a sign?

I'm not a boss

I can't figure it out. I love my new job, I really do, but there is an aspect that is driving me zonkers.

I'm a boss.

Now, let's think about this, I teach children. One would think, with the supreme idiocy on the loose out there today, reining in adults would be a breeze. But the fact is, I have only read one management book: Mutiny on the Bounty. Beyond that, I've zero skills.

And I act more like their friend than their boss. I have the hardest time with that distance. I cannot do that. It is not the way I work. I see everyone as fully as I can. I've taken pride in that. It explains the success I have with my students, frequently. I know they are people with likes and dislikes and it would be silly for me to see them as cardboard cut-outs. Grant you, my government wants me to not care any more. That way, they can give their friends lucrative contracts, destory unions and earn more cash than everyone. And if they can disinfrancise use, sobeit.

Thanks Emperor Bush.

But I will continue to care, so help me.

it I do the same for my coworkers. I think of vets in war. No, not the kinds carrying kittens in trenches, but the kind wearing unflattering greens in the desert. They experience something unique between themselves and their units. How can they come back to reality and drop that.

I experience something unique with my coworkers. We all suffer the same amount of stressor in that classroom. How am I supposed to be above that? No. I can't tell them what to do. I ask. And I will continue to do so. But it's punishing really. I really, really like this job. I'd like to hold onto it, but this one thing is really weighing on my heart. I want those three people to be content enough to go to work. I need them to be. And I need to serve my students as well.

I hate it. I bring this up because my question for today was to think about a group project. Do I like to do them?

Fuck no. I've hated group projects and it only got worse. Teachers know about multiple intelligences. Yet they are seemingly the last to do use them. So I'm totally fucked in high school, undergrad and graduate school. I had to meet with others, usually off campus, to 'discuss.' We'd all decide to give each other A's. I hated it. Sure, I'd give ole lazy douchesnoozle an A, but I'd give myself a bad grade. I hated having to rate others who are more or less my supposed peers.

On the multiple intelligences, I was what was labeled 'self-smart.' Not people smart. Let them go get together. Let them party with their badass selves.

One wound i still have is one stupid project working for an 'ad' campaign. it was stupid from the start. It was all about money. How we could save money for college.

First off, when Mom and Dad are paying for a majority of students at the private school, do you think the froshlings care? whatever, the 'group' decided, and I was only one vote.

Moving on...I had to someone show enthusiasm for saving money on college, my last sememster of senior year. Thrillsville. But for the group I had to play along. I suppose this was training for real life. My group even asked if I'd do some articles for the school newspaper and for a local paper I wrote for. I did.

Then they got mad at me...because my articles were inaccurate. They had refused to proof what I wrote. But, boy, did they turn on me when I didn't do as they commanded.

I hate group projects.

And it's gotten worse over the years.

What's really bad? I realzied a chunk of that is borne out of my own social fears. Yea. I have them. And it has become more pronounced over the years. Perhaps it is from years of just seeing people pissing me off...and trying to really believe they are people. And getting more and more discouraged that, well, I cannot feel safe any more around adults I don't trust. I trust kids a bit more...they don't know any better.

That's two comments in one week. Good job.

What's your favorite color?

I suppose there is ome truth in this-some belief that people who like certain things like other certain things equally. It would make sense. Colors have long been linked to symbols of emotion, and since they are equivalent in some cultures, well, there you have it. The importance of stating your like your favorite color.

However, as I have grown older, the colors have changed. I'm not as to why. There was a time, when everything had to be blue, including my Slurpee. I couldn't eat raspberries in real life, but dang, I loved my blue razzberry lollipops. But, once, as I got older, i found a green sweater that cut me a better view and I noticed, I kinda like green a bit.

And no one held me to it. No one beat me up for liking both green and blue. I was into both and there was nothing. No violence, no color-guard to make me like one color.

What I did notice, however was a natural drawing to a specific spectrum. Blues, green and blacks tended to naturally pull my eyes to them. It wasn't until I was older that I got the picture. They had something in common.

The sea. The colors of the ocean. I loved their restful waves, their friendly apporach. My colors were now not a decision, but something that developed organically and wholly.

I like it over the pink triangle--a vulgar reminder of a days we should avoid thinking about frequently.

When no one really gives a ratz anus...

I've often wondered why I try. I mean, just today, my husband let me know he has an idea for a book. I knew it. Wanna make a bet, he'll write it whilst he's unemployed and sell it? Just *puft. I work my ass off for years and he'll get it out in one second or two.

I suppose I'm just trying to hard, but honestly, I don't think so. Look at this. July. The last time I wrote, it was July. That's not fair, it's just not fair. I gotta figure how the other writers do it. They have lives outside of their writing. They still teach and cough and raise kids and believe in goodness and, at the same time, pipe out enough vitrol that even Republicans might read it.

Not that Republicans can read. I don't wanna make any gross generalizations about something so obviously not true.

I quit my job. After so many years, I quit it. I needed something different. Something new. And it's facinating the change. Has the amount of work I do changed at all? Nope. In fact, it's a bit harder because of the expectations. But yet, look at me. I'm posting on my blog. I'm getting up in the morning refreshed. I am meditating again. I'm reading books and magazines. Even getting more nookie action then I've gotten in years.

But the job hasn't really changed. The needs and stressors are about the same.

It must be me.

I'm ready to be something else.

And I'm cool with that.

So, with this change, you'll see something here. I'm not going to post fiction these days. No. Instead, I'm thinking about the blogs I like to read. Those are the opinion pages. Those are the ones about some one writing about their passions and thoughts. Fuck it. I"m going to do the same.

My previous job, I recieved zero recognition for the tons of work I did. I was basically just given more work with the greatest statement ever to come from a superior's tongue--"you've done so well, we're giving you more work....because we trust you more now."

Did you hear a thank you?

No. Neither did I.

So now, I'm doing something else. I'm going to write so people will read. Obviously, my fiction can't cut it. Only gotten one post in several hundred months. If that doesn't work, I"m taking up archery.

That way, I nail those who refused me.

"Do you think boys or girls have it easier?"

Experience pretty much has shown me that everyone's life is pretty rough. There are no overnight starlets any more; there are no poor politicians. The world is set in it's ways, even if I've gone ahead and reappropriated my own. I would tend to think boys have it as a breeze. They own everything, they can pee standing up and not have to worry about dirty tiolet seats. You're allowed to pick your nose and fart and everyone just looks away.

But something happened this year past that changed the game. Obama was elected president. He is African-American. In an instant, those who were once put-upon are now in the highest seat of freedom in the world. This showed us all something. More can make it to the top than before. Even Hillary made a decent run to the position.

Things are changing.

What pisses me off? Those who don't want or are afraid of change. I heard a woman in the parking lot who's son wanted to carry her purse. She said no. "Boys don't carry purses." She saw me walking by, and in all my freakish-manliness and looked up, repeating, "right? Boys don't carry purses?"

"Only if it matches their shoes," I retorted. Fuck you old school bitch. The fact is its over. You want your kid to grow up your way? Defining a world that is dead and buried with ideals that stopped making sense about a week after they were established? Then take your tyke and lock him. Don't let him out. Don't let him watch television. Don't let him breathe either...the winds of change are in the air.

I'm not stupid, however. Think of it this way. My brother raised his little girl not to do girly things. No Barbies; no pink colors. But the shoes multipled. And toenails got painted. And the hair got done. Boys WILL be boys in many respects. Girls will be girls. it's working WITH those differences that make us who we are...it's not something to fight.

It's something to embrace. I know many a queer that is just into machinery as any straight guy, be it car, computer or stereo speaker. I know many a lesbian who actually does take a good 45 minutes to finish spiking her mullet to look pretty for all of her exes.

No. No one has it easy.

Louisa thought better about getting a job when she saw the mess waiting for her in the kitchen. She was surprised she had let it get to that moment, but the day was busy with laundry, as Thursdays always have been, and she was sure her constant munching and need for hot snacks paved the way for this demolition.
She looked to the clock again. She had time to finish the job and set about the task. A job would give her some extra cash then her allowance would allow, and that part she relished. On the occasions that Gary did let her go out, she was never really sure what to do anyway and the cash never really let her feel free enough.
Those choices removed, she came home still with a feeling of contentment. She said her prayers once more, knowing she was living the life her church had encouraged her to. She was doing God’s work by making the house fit for a home and family.
She knew that if she removed all the stressors for Gary when he got back from work, the dirty dishes, the laundry pressed, he would be relaxed enough to make love and she can finally create the child she was born to make. She just wished she loved the entire act of love-making. She felt much like the horses she saw as a child, forced into a stall until mated.
Silence is deafening. She banged the pots as best as she could. She had a radio once, but when Gary caught her listening beyond AM, that was a goner. He explained it well, but she missed that radio. She occasionally pondered what life would be like with a television, but Gary was quick to point out that it was highly addictive. She could not deny his evidence. All the people who owned one were fat and lethargic. She was fit and trim and he liked it.
Usually.
She was impressed with the work. She had the first half of the counter clean, and, after a glance at the clock, in record time. She waited two minutes until the clock changed to an even count and started on the second half, competing with her mental numbers. Both sides of the galley kitchen were exactly the same length, so she knew the tasks were equal.
She was about halfway when the ping of a cell phone found its way in through the kitchen window. In the rural areas of Iowa and South Dakota, fences are only if you have a dog or children. They had neither, though the child aspect was still being worked on. She was surprised at the volume of the phone, considering the young man wearing it was a good 25 yards away. He stopped. He was younger then her, a wrinked tshirt, clinging to his frame and lifting when he picked up the phone. He turned his back to her at this time, looking away to something in the distance.
She allowed her heart to swoon. But what would this young man bring to her that Gary did not? She had no idea if he had a job, though he looked a bit worn. He might be mean to her, meaner then Gary ever could be…and since Gary was the only man she’d ever known, well, the unpredictability of someone else was more then frightening. It was debilitating. She felt her heart rate rise without reason. She was loosing control. She glanced around the kitchen and by extension, the house. She’d lose everything by talking to that young blonde man. She’d lose what few things Gary had left for her—and she would have to adapt to things her mind could not imagine.
And she’d lose Gary’s respect if she didn’t finish cleaning the counter. She scrubbed harder now, making her knuckles go white with the pressure.

An Invisible Woman

An Invisible Woman

Elsie knew the change was coming; she had timed her whole day around it. She was waiting in the car, hoping against hope that it would go longer then ever before—but she could only predict the beginning. The last time she went see-through, it lasted a mere 20 minutes.
As she pondered the change in her light, she realized that it had already happened. She had wasted valuable time outside the door. Herb’s house was just beyond her line of sight and if she wanted to make use of her time invisible, she would have to hurry. But she hoped her aggravation would so worth it. She arrived at Herb’s house and used her key to come in the back door. She still looked around, fearing that is someone saw the portal open without help, phone calls would be made. Herb should be gone for another hour.
The boxes from her ex-husband still crowded the kitchen where she entered. There were the dishes he so argued for just a week ago, stacked as high as pancakes at a free breakfast. She discouraged her first impulse to hurl to the floor. He would know immeidiately she was there. And her advantage of invisiablity would be lost in a moment. She figured that the two rooms she needed to focus her search on was his office and his bedroom.
His office was the room most closely to completion. The boxes were present, but now empty, the computers and paper work neatly stacked like the previous plates. She had copied his keys long before the divorce, using the excuse that he might die before he gave her a chance to have a copy made. She knew that one day, some day, she would need to see if there was a will or other legal documents that could affect her.
But his journal was nowhere to be seen.
She moved to the bedroom faster then she probably had moved her entire life. She felt her hips brush the doorway as she moved in and wondered if that was the true reason he left. She found a full length mirror but remembered she was invisible. With a heavy sigh to add to her heavy panting she searched the boxes shrewn into Herb’s new bedroom.
Herb had always kept a diary before they even met. He wrote in it daily, every morning and every night, even when he didn’t have an assignment at the newspaper. She thumbed and thumbed. She looked for words that were scribbled hastily, signs of nerves and anger.
There weren’t any.
So she began to look for the time three years ago (yes, it was in there—he was a reporter by profession and kept his writing blissfully short) he did some work out in Washington DC. There were references to sights seen, coworkers and their affairs and food eaten. Occasionally, a political quip danced across the page.
But she found nothing that she was looking for. There was no lover, male or female, mentioned. Not even a mention of someone attractive.
Worse, there was no mention of her.
She searched further.
All mentions of her were also short. Without adjectives. Without emotion. Without feeling.
Once sentence stood out.
“Had to take Emily out to eat again so she’d look at me in the face.”
Emily wondered if she cried, if she would become visible again. As she looked down, she realized she had. And there was no one else to pin it on.

A new, third character

Okay, what you see down here is a third character built from the first two.....

And I think I might a use for him in my story!

A new character built from the two previous

JD thought the world had begun when he started that computer. With the amount of work he had to do each and every day, he loved to hear that hum before he even drank that first cup of coffee from the kitchen. He still liked to get ready for work, even treating himself to a tie or a bolo. They had stopped using the cameras for conference calls eons ago, most likely encouraged by his own self interests. He insisted that he was afraid to see his coworkers in their underwears. In reality, it was he was afraid to have to face a world that was so unlike the one he lived in.
Once that computer started, he’d do all the things need to live—eat, brush his teeth and such but still, he closed the door. He rationalized it as keeping the office cooler and keeping the bills from getting higher, but the fact was, he could handle the smaller spaces better.
He had friends he would call, but visiting with them was getting more and more strained and he could not understand why. His interactions with people were mere words on a screen; when he went to visit with them, he never could seem to get that his bluntness and lack of compassion was infuriating them. He supposed it would be easier to just hang up when they called-but they always called, so they must serve a purpose for him.
Everyone in the videos he watched, his nightly chore, had friends. He remembered a time, long ago, in private schools, when they all were on the same page. Nowadays, he could not figure out where this group was coming from. They told him he should date someone, ANYONE, but their needling was worth less and less in its repetitions.
One year, they bought him a social networking site. He thought it was just pornography and occasionally would browse. Slowly he realized, they wanted him to have MORE friends. What they neglected to let JD know was, you actually had to want friends.
JD just did not see it. Why need friends when the computer fills in those gaps?

Two Characters

Character ONE:

He was always burdened with self-hatred, a gift that no one could even match, even in the depths of teen angst. As a kid, he’d set up scenarios involving all the other kids involved in the neighborhood baseball games. He hated baseball and all sports. But he’d make an effort to invite these boys over and hang with them. Eventually, they would wander off, having nothing in common outside of the shared events of swimming in his parents’ pool. He’d run to his parents and complain of his new loneliness and they were always too busy to notice the fabrication. Even these days, after college, he would sit in his apartment and discuss the needs to leave and cook dinner and wash some clothes. But his daydreams would wander and he would see the repetition of it all and just decide not to do anything but stare at the walls. He had friends now, stronger people who could take the volleys of his personality traits a bit better then most—so he would find reasons to merely skip visiting with them, even forgoing answering the phone. All to keep the sad loneliness’ comforts in the front of his mind.

Character TWO:

Outside of the mirror the bathroom, the only thing one could fix their hair in would be their reflection in the oft polished tables and counters. The cleaning was a result of mere boredom. His whole life he had everything he could have wanted, so he never had to struggle. He thought undergraduate would have given him a chance, but when his parents saw he could get the same degree whilst living at home and saving cash, that idea was quelled. So he looked at all the people his age, like the couple that lived next door to him when he finally purchased the five bedroom, with a certain amount of awe and speculation. He felt nervous even when the invited him over for a BBQ, but he went, knowing he should try. But love? He read the poetry his English teachers provided, but they might have been written in mandarin. He had no point of reference. His only friends that were consistent were three computers. He talked to coworkers there; he spoke to his parents through them at this distance. Their lines were more comfortable then the couch, their images stronger then the nightly news.

A Letter From Inside the Story

Create a letter written by one of the characters in your story. The letter is not to be published as part. In this case, I’ll not tell you the story—but see if you are interested in it regardless.

To whomever finds this

I am writing this letter as an act of desperation. I have no will, I cannot think of any kind of line or note I left for anyone. There was always some time, I thought. Some time before this weekend. I came up here with my girlfriend. Her uncle’s cabin was a great idea, his buddies fun to be with. I am going to tuck this note away in my hip pocket in the hopes that his story will be found. I am currently hiding here in the crawlspace beneath the house, cabin, whatever. I can see the dark outside through some of the slots. I want to write this fast, so I can kill the flashlight and not attract any more attention.

I am torn. Do I tell you what happened? I don’t think these monsters that are after us clean up after themselves. I’m sure if you find me you will find that out. You will find my hide along with the rest of the rest of them.

Do I tell you what I wish? I know I am not a religious man. I could never relate to those neonazi groups that take up good television on Sunday mornings. But their message seems to have seduce many, many stupid people—and because of that, I know that when I die, it is okay. Losing so many of my friends in Iraq also confirmed that. So I am not afraid, totally, of being dead.

I am afraid of dying. The monsters surged at nightfall. They were smart, picking off many of us one by one. I cannot remember how we came across the first body. I thought it was even a joke, I laughed. And I know if anyone finds this note, I am truly sorry for that. I laughed because it was so far beyond normal, so horror movie-ish. They ate two people. And yes there were/are several. And they started at the throat and moved to where ever the soft flesh was, the places without bone. They saw the skin as nothing. The blood and stench did not frighten them.

Okay, I just graduated. Make sure that any money earned in this, like if someone sues someone or something, make sure my family is taken care of. Secondly, I have a series of sketches I made over the years—even after Ma told me to not be an artist—underneath the bed. I really think they are good and I was looking forward to using them as a spring board to take some extra classes in college. Do not destroy these. I thought I had everything. I thought this note would be my will. But as I lie here in the dirt, bugs in my hair, I realize I have a ton of stuff...but I have nothing to give to anyone.

If by luck I am found in pieces but alive, spare me the pain of being a burden to those I love.

The flashlight’s batteries are good. I can tell by the strength of the light. However, I hear heavy paws in the distance, probably up, upstairs, in the loft or on the second floor. I’m not sure how the beast got in there, but it means it’s above me and I cannot be found if I am to live through this.

I love you all.

Face Recognition

Face Recognition

*) 400 words

*) Write about recognizing a person’s face

I had climbed the same three steps three times. This was more of a task then it sounds, for the winter gifted a horrible snowstorm the day previously, those steps were more ice then all of Alaska. He knew I was coming, I could see him moving about in the kitchen off to the single story house’s right window. The yellow ceiling light bled onto the smooth blues of the drifts of his front lawn, his shadow cut a huge swatch as he moved from the kitchen to, I would later learn, to the small coffee table he used to serve dinner.
Lasagna. I knew he was going to make lasagna.
I stepped down the three steps again and looked at the rental. I could turn back now. My friends were having a shindig not too far away at their house. I knew everyone there. I knew I would have a guaranteed good time.
But I made a promise to this stranger. I would meet them, at least once, this New Year’s. One date at his house.
The shadow darted faster then before when I rang the doorbell, after going back up those three steps.
The light from inside flooded the doorway and framed his huge torso before me. I did not have to look up very far. He was my height. He had perfectly round glasses, a contradiction to rectangle face. His hair gene was not borne yet, for his coif was equal on all sides, proof that he had no cares about the quality of his ‘do. The ears framed his hair, but they were smooth and to his head. His nose was also nothing to brag about, a mere place for his glasses.
But the smile was perpetual.
His bottom lip seemed to underline that smile, like some kind of emphasis. It was larger then the top lip. The teeth were slightly crooked, but not minded due to their shine and sheen. The eyes also figured their way out from behind the glasses’ lenses, a sharp blue-gray that I would later find had the ability to make you confess.
The smile reflected more light. It was too cute to be annoying.
I recognized this face. It was the face of someone who would be my best friend ever.

The Epiphany

The Epiphany

*) Write about the unwritten epiphany in a person’s life.

300 words…that might make this difficult

The date had long been arranged before he even met Eric. He had know Teresa, or Tea as she liked to be called, for some time—her boyish cut of hair was unique at the college, her sports abilities meant that they kept bumping into each other at the school’s gym, either coming or going out of the weight room or locker rooms. So there they sat on the couch in his tiny little basement apartment and they were catching up on the better segments of Leno.
“You want something to drink?”
“Nah, I’m still good with this water. Could use some popcorn, but don’t wanna move much.”
Tea had moved to leaning on his shoulder and Bob had thought she might begin to drool if given half a chance. He checked his crotch, to make sure that his jeans had not bugled when he slammed down—he had no urge to make it look like he was interested. He reached out and remembered doing the same thing with Eric merely a week ago. Eric was looking at the school as a transfer and Bob thought it would be great if he hung for a night or two. Eric was independent and older, so the dorms were not where he had hoped to end up. They not only watched Leno together, they went to two different clubs the night prior and, even though they drank, their collective hearts and brains were very, very clear.
Eric wanted more popcorn, and it was evident he did not want to make Bob feel uncomfortable by his reaching across him—so he asked. And Bob started to talk over the television too much.
He handed Tea the popcorn bowl. She took it and moved back up. Bob check to see if he needed to straighten his shirt. He pondered if Eric was back to his college yet. He looked to the clock.
“You gotta be some place?” Tea looked. His repeated glances were not intentional. But they had their effect.
“Yeah, can we call this a night?”
Tea furrowed and polished off a fistful of popcorn. Annoyed, she stood and Bob did not walk her up the stairs.
Bob realized something he had known for a bit of time now.
And Eric was the first time his heart throbbed.

The Wilderness

The Wilderness.

*) Put two characters in the wilderness and let one find traces of the other along the way.

Bert swilled the last bit of beer in his mouth like a bitter mouthwash. The act provided little use for Robert but to just make the alcohol last a smidgen longer. He even looked to the bottom of the bottle in the hopes that some drink had escaped him.
The bottle was empty.
Bert released the brake but did not but the engine back on. He listened to the strum of the sand and dirt on the duster’s underside as she slid into a parking space at the bottom of the small slope. There was little else to look at but the black truck of Ronnie’s, positioned parallel. The parking area was empty, a surprise for a Friday night.
As Bert pulled the parking brake, several bottles rolled forward clanking in the foot-well on the passenger side. Robert swore and looked up towards the truck.
No movement.
Bert was surprised by this. He had rehearsed the entire drunken drive to the lover’s lane on what he was going to say. He knew that Ronnie had seen him talk to Melanie several occasions at the school. Ronnie even questioned once if they had some kind of relationship, or were planning to, but walked away before Bertie could answer. Melanie, this chilly evening, was going to be his respite. He figured it was best to just say she had jilted him and walked away from the date. But then, as he exited, he would be the victim. Maybe he should say that he decided to cancel the date because she was so mean. That did not work for him either. So he elected to see Ronnie, play up the drunk part, and see how Ronnie responded.
And how Ronnie’s date responded as well.
He knew Margie from his one first period. I thought about asking her about homework or why she was always running into class late but chose, again, just to see how Ronnie was doing.
He saw the moisture in the inside of the glass and was relieved. He would not have to spend this Friday night alone again.
“Hey RONNIE!” He yelled, “Surprising to see you here!” He feigned a belch that was audible to several deer a few yards away.
No answer.
Bert rapped on the glass several times and squinted. Some humor might be derived from seeing one or both of them in a state of undress, but he noticed the steam was only on one side. Books from school were thrown on the passenger side.
Bert realized the wet earth below him was contaminated by his only playacting of drunkenness. He stood upright and looked down.
Ronnie’s tennis soles were as huge as his feet and led away from the immediate area and into the woods. Bert reached into the Duster and pulled out a flashlight, his laser pointer and a Colt from the back seat. He placed the gun in the small of his back, turned on the light and was about to yell when the situation took the better of him. He started to trek into woods.
The cold nights and the uncut trail left many branches sticking out into path and easy to break. Most were just muddy, stepped on by someone without a flashlight but not completely a bother.
He found his track easily. It was the sound of tears that he was not ready for.
Bert smiled at the opportunity.

Chaos Follows

Create a small story where chaos follows your protagonist:

Tyler was impressed as he rounded out the moping on the floor of the shop. He had opened the front door and propped it with a cleaning bin to let the evening's air flow a bit more freely. The clouds were rolling in and he had hoped to finish his chores a bit prior to the storm's impending arrival. Besides, the open door dried the floor a bit faster then he could with the heat from the just finished kitchen.

What impressed Tyler were the three drops of water that had landed on his forearm. The parking lot was beginning to fill with the black dots of first rainfall. Three had some how found their way into his workplace and flew all the way to his blond fur on right arm. He smirked.

His smile grew as he noticed a majority of the floor was truly dry.

He wheeled the bucket to teh back of the back of kitchen and thought about what he could do with the rest of the evening.

"Ayeeeeeeeflabuuushamasssssshhhh!"

The smile did not leave his face. That scream was too fake. He rounded the doorway.

There was an arm on the counter. The rest of the arm's keeper was somewhere lower, out of view.

"Oh-my-Jesus, I'm sorry!"

The floor must not have been dry.

He curbed the edge of the counter like a pro. He had loved this job at the store, luckly to find it on such hard times and short notice. There was a young gentlemen, of similar age, tshirt horked up to a nail jutting out of the wood paneling and his shoes sideways.

"Nah, it's cool. Most people see wet floors and decide not to cross them."

"I am so, so sor..." Tyler's left leg did not clear the counter's edge and twirled him downwards, towards the first victim. He landed on top of the young man, pulling him away from the old nail and tearing his shirt into two. Tyler did not have time to stop the collison.

Tyler looked down and shook his head. The vistor did not open his eyes.

"Is it over?"

"I hope so, sir. I guess it's too late to tell you we're closed?"

The falling man popped his eyes open at Tyler. They were in kissing range and Tyler found it comfortable.

And it scared him. He stood abruptly and held out a hand.

The young man on the floor took stock with his right hand to the back of his head.

"Ah, good, no blood. This," he tried to piece his shirt back together over his torso, "however, is a goner."

"Oh no, my boss is going to kill me for not putting a sign out! Oh, no, no, no..."

"Relax, Tyler, it's Tyler right? We go to the same school, you're alright, it's alright. I have a sweatshirt out in my gym back in the car."

"OH! Okay, yeah, yeah, I've seen you! Lemme get, some, ice? Maybe? Oh! I have a shirt that might fit..." Tyler feld to the back of the store.

"Just wait..there's..."the falling victim stepped forward and put both arms on the counter to balance himself. He looked back at the floor. Not a single skidmark was there. He was impressed with his bad luck.

"Here!" Tyler jutted the tshirt into his face.

"I'm Mike. I work next door. I just wanted to say your front door," he gestured in the general direction," was open and a storm was coming in."

"Hey, hi, yeah, Mike, and I'm really sorry." Mike had removed the remanants of the shirt and begun to replace it with the new black duds the youth had handed him. It fit perfectly, if slightly tight.

"No worries. I know your boss, he's a friend of mine," Mike stated as he pulled down.

"Oh crap."

"And he's not going to find out, unless," Mike started to scratch his chest, "unless you tell him your...um, is it warm in here?"

"No, not with the door open!"

"True, but I have, oh no, you use Tide, don't you!"

"Yeah, why?"

"I'm allergic!" Mike tore off the shirt.

Writing activity "goodness"

Write about a Good person.

I had known Kent since fall. How could I have missed something who I would later recall as one of my first crushes? He did please the eye, as young gay men are fond of noticing in their first crushes. He didn't do much. I knew he played football, only because he had to wear the required jerseys for game days and pep rallies. But I never saw him play. And I would watch too. Queer guys get a bad rap. Everyone thinks we hate sports. It is not that. It is that we hate to have to play sports that might ruin our hair or further scar us by showing together.

So I would sneak out to the football games that I could. There was Kent, on the sidelines. He was obvious even under all of his armor, a piece of meat with a thick neck. I would watch him and not the gruntmakers on the field.

And I would make a note of saying "good job" to him come Monday. My theatre friends were never the wiser.

I always felt bad for him. I noticed that spring semester that his neck had been badly burned one Monday. I calculated that he probably had been doing yard work with some recently, severely shaved hair.

He even looked more like a marine.

Now my time at high school was short. I hated the place, as most gay guys do. We're not ourselves and no one will allow us to express. Mine was complicated by the fact that I was too smart. I kept scoring too high in the advanced courses. This was not met with more applause outside of my family. Instead, I had various aide positions that senior year.

And I remember once, grading papers, seeing that Kent was not doing what the other kids were. Math, that year, was more then work for him. After the third homework that fall, I decided it was time to, at least, find a reason to sit close to Kent. I was so self-serviant.

"Dude, hey, I'm Bri. I work for Mrs. Kendall, your math teacher. I know I'm kinda overstepping my boundaries here, but I noticed, well, let's just say she's a hard teacher."

"I know you, you're the guy in all the plays. Brian Steves. We had a few classes together last year. You also do choir. I thought about trying out for that."

I was impressed. Apparently, he had his eyes open too.

"Yeah, that's me! You should, you should try out," I was probably more emotional then I needed to be, but the thought of seeing Kent was a bit more was giving me an eternal energy I'd not ever felt before," but I was wondering, do you need help with math? I am offering tutoring to several people who might need help with her class and I thought I'd ask."

Kent looked down at the ground, his hulking frame slightly dejected. I assure you, insult was not my goal. Maybe someone to go see a movie was. I realized at this point his pants had a slap of duct tape on the back side and his tshirt was slightly ripped on the back portion, arcing to the front. I realized that he had it on last year and it had fit.

"It's no problem, I can work around your schedule. I didn't mean to insult--"

"No, dude, dude, you didn't insult. I kinda already have tutoring. I didn't realize I was doing so poorly in Mrs. Kendall's. Crap. I gotta talk to someone."

I immediately wanted to take back everything I had said and just continue to admire this athlete from afar. I was hit with guilt and fell back on what I knew.

Food.

"Well, okay, um, Kent, do you want to go get some food? I have my car just back from the shop and, well, there's Mickey D's across the way."

"I am not supposed to leave campus."

He had turned and was talking to me sideways.

"You're not supposed to leave campus?"

He shrugged his shoulders. My first thought was paranoia. He was a felon. I didn't see any lock on his leg. But he used his chin as a pointer at a nearby classroom.

Room #225.

Special education resources.

For all my glances at Kent, he had kept his true identity secret. He had a learning disability, but only after some time, did I know it.

But I glued my heels to the ground. My family was a crazy sort of wackos, weirdos and annoyances. They never, ever, however, would put a person down for being different. I remembered this for my brother once was suspended for beating up his friend--after the friend had teased some students coming out of that classroom. It was overkill, grant you, but the point was made.

"Cool. Do you need to ask your teacher if you can come with for lunch? You need me to go with you?"

He swivelled around full bore and stood standing at me like a gunslinger at high noon.

He never had to deal with this kind of situation. I suddenly was angry with the entire football team for never calling him to games or activites or playing the friend bit.

"Would you go in there with me?"

The more severe cases of students were in there--and though Kent did not seem to fit in with them on a physical level, he knew them all by name and smiled and nodded to each one.

....that's all I had to write for tonight. More on Kent's story later.

Writing activity

Dear all,

I seem to have killed the Writers' Block I've been suffering from. I've decided to continue Bertie's tale here in part, but if I feel the need to write about it elsewhere...if it has legs, in other words, might write about it in my journals. In the meanwhile, I'll be posting some more segments from my 3AM Epiphany text. Today just happens to be about Bert, but more often, I doubt it will.

Keep reading....

Friends?

Ronnie hated having a mobile phone. For with it, he knew that, even if he did not answer it, the pains of knowing that someone was trying to contact him would grow and grow until it would obscure all other thoughts.

When the phone rang, he saw it was Bert, again, wondering where he was. Their childhood was unimpressive. They met in daycare, their parents kept mentioning. Ronnie always wondered how this would equal friendship. Their parents just put them together. No infant has the concept of friends. It just has the concept of companiship, a complicated way of saying there is another person is sitting nearby and he or she is not bothering you.

Ronnie was sure that if he cried because Bertie had bit him or hit him, the parents would quibble for a few moments, make hush-hush sounds and set them back on the floor or in the playpen. In fact, since they did not talk any more, Ronnie decided that, in fact, his mother detested Bertie’s mother. Ronnie’s mom never invited her over for coffee, even if the java was being served on a special occasion. Bertie’s mom did little towards Ronnie or his mother either.

Ronnie pondered this in a matter of moments, seeking a reason to not answer the phone.

But something inside his chest pounded a bit harder. When he was a freshman in college, he denounced dating all together and could not understand why all concepts of love focused on his chest. His sociology major illustrated for him that love was a feeling, but it happened through various reactions of chemicals in the brain. He would later realize that his was borne from leaving his longest girlfriend yet right after high school graduation. His newer college buddies would emphasize this and point out that he was just telling himself stories to keep from being upset.

His chest hurt, however, when the young lady he met in his junior year finally rebuffed him after a bad day of finals.

Then he knew why the chest was the reference and Hallmark made so many pink and red hearts every February. For all of his education, something in his chest moved when he loved or wanted, it also burned when emotions ran high.

His chest had a similar ache now.

The fact was, he knew Bertie probably better then Bert knew himself. He knew that when he fell and skinned his knee in grammar school—he not accident prone, but avoiding taking quarters from his mother; Ronnie knew that the invite to have coffee this evening was not out of curiousity for Ronnie’s recent past events and college. It was so Bert can see if he was truly alone.

Ronnie did not recognize his friend at the supermarket earlier this very day. The weeks of basic training had slimmed down an already frail physique to a pencil thick frame. But his arms and legs had meat that was honed. But the cheeks were more sullen then ever before.

And Ronnie’s chest hurt.

He picked up the phone and confirmed that he was on his way to the coffeehouse.

Continued...

Bertie came to his mother, his shoulder high in fear.

He paused and took a deep breath.

"Mother, what are you talking about?"

"That!" She pointed with her trowel. As he waited for his response, she used the metal tool to scratch her left knee behind the pad. Bertie knelt to get a closer look, knodding deeply and dramatically. His mother stepped back and took a quick mental inventory of her new flowers. All were healthy, bright and ready to be planted. She reviewed her plan of attack. She had new soil; she had the new duds. But the sun was ratching high up into the sky and she knew her time outside was limited to begin with at her age.

A huge cheer echoed from the nearby living room. She moved her view back to Bertie. The back of his neck also had joined in the chorus of the temperature-beads of sweat had started to form and drag down the sides of his throat.

"Pulled me away from my game for..."

"What?"

"Nothing, I'm not sure what it is."

"Did we have an animal die here? Did we bury it here? I can't remember. Maybe your father killed something like a ground hog with you boys?"

"No, that's not it, that's not it at all. Looks like that 'coon we found a few years back."

"Raccoon? I don't remember any raccoon."

"No, you didn't. It was a secret. Me and Ronnie found it. Limbing back up in the woods behind...."

"Ronnie and I," she demanded, pointing again with the trowel."

"Behind Pete's house. Took it to Ronnie's shed and put it out of it's misery."

Bert declined to elaborate.

"Ah, okay. Now get yourself back in to that house. And get me something to drink," Bert nodded without looking at his mother. He held out a hand and she placed the trowel in it. He quickly dig up several other sets of bones. Mrs. Castle looked on.

"That was just one 'coon?"

Bertie kept digging, looking at a bone here and there, as it they were magical or weighted.

"I said, was that just one??"

"No, well, no, looks like there might be some other bones. They are small. Probably just died here trying to dig up the racoon," he looked to the street and could only see a small piece--the shade of the nearby oak held off a full view.

"Let me get you that water," he stood.

"Can I still finish my work?" his mother inquired.

"I think so. But you might want to separate out some of those bones. Can't help thinking that it won't help anything grow much. There might be some fur in there too."

Bert went into the house and forgot about the water. He positioned himself on the end of the divan so he could see his mother finish her work.

More stuff from Bert's life

Mrs. Castle had time to garden. The rains had subsided two days prior and the ground had held onto the moisture well. She had treated herself many years ago to a pair of knee supports, but time was never available for her to dig them out of the garage.

Work had finally died down and time opened for her to find those pads, her trowel and some old soil in a green bag in the back, near her recycling bin. She felt slightly giddy, like discovering a five dollar bill in her winter jacket a year later. she threw everything intot her son's old, old, red wagon and headed out to the front yard.

Bert was responsible enough to keep the lawn mowed. She had aske dhim to week as well, but noticed he mere edged the weedaacker a bit closer to dandelions in response. He liked the outdoors, or so it appeared, for he took off his shirt during the time finishing his duties and seemed to like the schedule she proffered.

He had finished early this Saturday. He had fallen into baseball season and was treating himself to the time in front of the television.

She figured she'd work along the front of the house. A quick trip to the store had yielded simple, bright colored flowers to dot the black soil with purple, yellow and pink-red. They still were in their cheap plastic housing, waiting to enjoy a new home with their cousins, planted two years ago.

Mrs. Castle felt content with the memory of planting the flowers those days ago. Same feeling, but her knees bothered her. They continued to survive. She had not planted more, but instead fed them the right amount of fertizlier and water, all by hand, when the days became weary.

Still one patch, a place she knew things would find purchase, was empty. It was to the side of the house, behind a hedge, but in perfect sunlight. No one could see it from the street, but it was obvious from the dining room and the television room, so its enjoyment would not go unnoticed. That patch was today's goal.

She slipped on her kneepads and knelt exhaling further contentment.

She ceremonisiously put her trowel in for the firt scoop of the day. She had lain out her newspaper, so as not to mix up the different kinds of soil and replaced aleadhy the dry earth with the moist, white flecked style.

She surveyed and figured the yellow, a cautionary color, would go best in this corner.

The trowel tinked when it sank into the soil.

She grumbled, thinking she had dug to far down in her first scoop. She lifted and the earth moved before her in a larger heap.

The stone was the size of a small baseball and completely out of character for this area. She used the trowel as a lever and move it farther out.

It was a small skull. The shape was round, not oblong. This gave her small comfort, for her cat was buried much farther back behind the house, not beside it. This skull was not a cat skull or a human skull.

She could not place it. The flesh had warn away by many moons and was a dirty tan.

"Bert! Bert! Can you come here for a second?"

She felt her heart sink. She was trying to remember which pet had found it's final resting place in this side garden. She could not remember for the life of herself.

A window above her gaped open.

"WHAT!?!!" The anger was obvious. The cheers from the nearby tv chimed in accord. She could tell by the sound of his voice, Bert was looking forward at the game and not out to her.

"I found something here in the garden!" She responded, "Did we bury, ah, I'm not sure it is a cat or not, out here?"

"Bury? Bury? What are you talk..." Bert turned his head to this new ponderance and saw his mother's wide brim at and short overalls kneeling beside a black patch of earth.

"Hold on..."

He exited out the back of the house.

Ronnie's Flashback continued

Ronnie began to twirl his keys. They were attached to small bizarre picture some ex-girlfriend had given him. It was ment as a good luck charm, a standard cross embelished with knots and details from a trip she had made on a mission to Eastern Europe. He felt that, with all that went on his life, this was a simple piece of constancy he could hold onto. He switched hands but kept the momentum going, something positive in this awkward dialogue.

He leaned forward on the barren wood of the picnic table. Not the seat. Who knows what haed happened there. Instead they opted to the stereotypical drinking stance of young men, elbows on knees rearends hoisted to, but not fully on, the top part of the table. The creak from his movement could have easily been made from a bad back.

Bertie lay back on the flecked green table, carefully placing his hand behind his head so as to not gain splinters in his scalp. The easement stopped his head from spinning and he squinted at the stars just peering out from the light of town. Lying back had eased the pressure on the front of his jeans and a new pack of smokes slid towards the table. He fumbled to get the hard covering open.

"Since when did you take up smoking?" Ronnie asked, fliping his keys back to his other hand.

"I've smoked forever," and to prove a point, the red tip glowed and he did not vomit. "See?"

"Well, keep it down. My dad smells smoke on me, my ass is toast," he swigged a bit of beer. He guessed he would never understand which tasted worse, the beer, the smoke or saying good bye to his old friend. As he sat there and stared at his friend, he realized how far they had come and how, despite everything, nothing had changed for Bertie. Here they were, the night a bit chill from the edge of spring, and he had no jacket on. He saw two holes on his friend's clothes. One, oddly placed near his left armpit and another between the seam and brim of his underwear. He only knew that because his pants were too big and he did not have a belt on.

He looked at this own slacks, leftover from the day's brunch.

Bertie was always like this.

Always had been.

"I've joined the army."

"What?"

"I said, I've joined the army."

"No," Ronnie pointed out, "I heard you, I mean, I know, but that was an interjection because, I, oh wow, dude." He looked to the grove of trees nearby. It made sense, really. In a world that Bert could never seem to cope with, he might do well where the structure was so profound.

"Don't jump up and congratulate me at once, Mr. College-Bound."

Ronnie did not realize he had paused. And that it had been noted. Bertie sat up and flicked the unfinished smoke to the dark grass.

"Well, then congratulations. You don't seem to excited, I must admit."

"I'm not, really, but what other choice to I have. I can't do anything like you. Never could," the last two words spoken away from Ronnie. Bertie swigged a large chuck of alcohol. "But this might make for something better. Get some money. Get in shape."

"Get some clothes."

"Yeah, that too, asshole."

"Sorry, just noticing."

"Bertie, I don't know what to say. You should have come to my party. We could have said something to everyone. Something big! Mom would have loved it."

"My mom wouldn't have. She's been bitching at me since I told her last week."

"Is that why you've been drinking?"

"Something like that."

"I'm sorry, ah, I really am," he put his arm around his friend land used his elbow bend to bring him closer. He could not remember a time when they both had sat so close together. Perhaps some Saturday night at the local theatre, but nothing beyond that. Bert was not just warm, he radiated heat in waves from between his shoulder blades. The temperature, however, dropped when he patted Bertie's back and he felt his friend's neck relax.

"The fact is, joining the military is a great thing, and, no matter what your mom says, I think it is way cool. It'll give us something to chat about on emails for the next few months. When do you ship out?"

"Two weeks," Bert did not look at Ronnie. He did not believe his sincerity at all. But he did appreciate the attempt.

"I'll drive ya over. You gotta tell me when."

"No, that's okay."

"Seriously, I'll drive," Bertie shrugged hard, using his left arm to push Ronnie's touch away.

"You don't have to. Got it?" He turned to face his friends.

In the dark, Ronnie detected tears with the sudden tension. He stood up. He did not come here for this.

"Okay, well, you let me know."

"No, it's just that..."

"...I didn't realize it was so late," Ronnie mocked looking for his car.

"...I, wait, Ron, Ronnie," he stood up so quickly, his pants almost fell down.

Ronnie walked out to his car, "you want a ride back, at least, to your house?"

"Yeah, Ronnie, wait, I, I..."

The ride was quiet back to Bertie's house. All the tension of the past few years piled high dissolved on that ride back to his friend's home. After uneventful good-byes, he realized he did not want to play this game anymore, the one where he had to guess his friend's reaction prior to every comment and word. So he watched him go back into his house, without saying a word, only smiling. A wave seemed to be adding too much.

He drove away.

And now he had to see him again. It was not so much that he had to, but Bertie had become a symbol for Ronnie's past, a kept secret that was never fully resolved and that only the maturity of time could help it come to pass.

They met at the coffeehouse.

Stating the Obvious

Monroe looked hard to his right, as if the hockey game on the slim television had sudden gained interest. But there was merely a commercial, and his rapid head turn seemed out of place. He had hoped no one would noticed.

"It helps if you actually have your computer on, dude," he heard from behind himself. His heart felt like it had gone over the first ledge of a rollercoaster. He smiled without thinking.

"Excuse me, huh?" He mentioend as his head turned back, "and thanks for getting that for me." He moved his chin towards the half eaten scone and the cold mocha. He did not have to lock eyes with the barista working solo this lone Monday afternoon. He knew exactly what the young man was wearing. A wool cap, even in summer, kept back a blond and red mohawk, that just made him look thinner. He knew that the barista, named Nick, was also wearing an extra small beater underneath his blue work polo and apron. It pulled the edges of his shape aside and made his chest and neck more defined because of it. The beard was meant to look shapeless, but Nick's manicuring of his personal fur was evident.

He saw him after the shower once at the Y and knew the man took care of himself. He even knew the tattoos on the young man's back.

The plates clacked and sighed as they were removed from Monroe's booth.

"Is that one of those new micro laptops?" The young man asked.

"Oh this?" Monroe rested the palm of his hand next to the rainbow sticker and tried to be as cool as possible. "Yeah, Ma gave it to me for graduation."

"College bound?"

"I am, I am," Monroe stated, again looking to the floor. "You?" He already knew the answer. The proximity to teh college and the barrage of hockey tshirts gave away the coffeemaker's secrets.

"Yeah, second year. Working here to make ends meet," Nick pointed out, greeting Monroe with another nod. The nod moved his lieft arm a bit and shifted the weight forward. After a brief swear, Monroe was out of his seat and holding the other side.

"That was close, here," Monroe removed the plate so that the others underneath could shift back into Nick's palm, "lemme help you."

They both saunterd over to the counter and clacked the plates down. "And, for the college fund," Monroe pulled out a dollar. He had wanted to finish his work and enjoy the view of the young man at work--but also call it early. This side track was not in the plans. He placed the money into the tip jar with a bit of flair, so Nick, now behind the counter, would know he put it there.

"Hey, hold up," Nick stated and walked into the back room. Monroe surveyed the room. It was clearing out for the evening. He doubted there was any free coffee left.

Nick held out his hand and a small piece of paper--just as his mobile vibrated audibly.

He answered, "WHAT?"

Monroe unfolded the paper.

In it was the phone's number.

"It's my cell," Nick stage whispered.

Monroe was a very, very bad liar.

Bert's Best Friend

"A bone fide coffeehouse," Bert looked around and upwards, as if the place was bigger then he expected.

Ronald did not take his eyes off his friend. Friend? He had no better word for their relationship. They had been apart for a few years, and bumming into each other was more chance then force. A moment in the dairy aisle, Bert buying more milk because his mother was too sick to do so, and Ronald getting a quick snack. He had, at first wanted to walk away. His last time with Bert did not go well.

They were in their senior year at Dornie High School and Bert had insisted on the two of them spending the night alone and getting drunk. Ronald really did not mind. But he had his family together; his sister was in town; his grandparents had just arrived. The late hour helped, but the feeling that he needed to be elsewhere was pervasive. Ronnie figured if he drank enough, the stresses of having of having so many family members together in honor of him might be reduced. Alas, since Bert still did not have a car, and they were both underage, he knew he'd have to drive and, therefore, stay sober.

But Bertie insisted. He couldn't resist. So that was their last night together.

It was a disaster. The only place they could find to drink was Memorial Park. It being Friday, the police would be located downtown, and this was the only place that Ronnie figured might work. He picked a darker picnic table, tagged from similar meetings from many teens. Apparently, this Friday, they must also be downtown.

The wind was dead. They could hear people coming from a mile away.

And the drinking began. For Bert.

Ronnie stayed on one beer, placing it behind him to keep it from Bert's notice.

"So? Shit, man, oh man...graduation on Monday. Who ever heard of that?"

"I don't know, Bertie, does seem kinda stupid."

"Stupid? Stupid?!" Bertie forced a laugh for some reason and slapped Ronnie's back hard enough to make him slide forward. He then moved the hand to Ronnie's shoulder, as if to apologize for.

"Dude, you got drunk before, didn't you?" Ronnie smiled.

"Yeah, yeah, my room's in the basement. Wasn't sure you'd show."

"Not sure, I'd show?"

"Yeah, you're the star, here, man, you're the one everyone's looking to. I mean, you don't think your principal is smiling you got a full ride?"

"I doubt he knows."

"He knows, he knows...."

"Yeah, maybe," Ronnie tried to relax.

to be continued.

Bert had a love for meatloaf, especially his mother's This night was no different. He could practically smell the wafting BBQ as he pulled up into the alleyway behind the house. His mother had told him that it was for dinner. Like himself, she was a glutton for schedules and menus did not escape her. She knew what she wanted to make before the days of the week began.

Bert's job at the factory also granted him straight lines in his schedule. His mother could always predict when he would arrive. This was a comfort for both of them.

Bert had a bad day, but that cleared out quickly when he got into the house. Mother had cleaned and readied everything, a visitor would half expect to see birthday baloons and brightly wrapped gifts heaved onto the counter when they entered.

Bert also paused. A clean house was to be expected. Since her retirement, his mother had kept herself busy by entering sweepstakes, cooking and, most of all cleaning. But this work was exceptional. Recent spots from tooth brushing in his basement apartment's bathroom mirror were even wiped.

He smiled larger and put on a decent shirt--the one he had lain out was subjected to cat fur. The little beast had pressed the door open and entered. He would have to remember that the next time around.

His mother was cutting the meat upon arrival into the kitchen. She wore an apron, but he remembered it was at the top of the laundry pile, when he had left for work.

Dinner was silent. Bert smiled through a large part of it, having two helpings of the fresh meal.

"Thank you, mother, it was delicious."

"Now you head out to the gym. It closes in two hours," she said, looking down at the plate.

"Mom, you know I am not going to the gym."

"You're not?" She was terrible at lying. Bert recalled once, in his childhood, how she tried to hide a surprise visit to a local mini-golf. An addiction, something kept at a distance with his inabilty to drive, that she would occasionally pacify.

"You know where I'm going, Mother."

"Sweety, it is just that, well, do you really know this girl?"

"Mom, we have been talking for several days, you'll be fine. Why don't you call one of your friends?"

She frowned. He knew she would, but would act like she would not.

"You are ungrateful. All this work I made for dinner. You should stay here and keep me company."

"Mother, I am not staying, okay?" He picked up his plate and made for the kitchen to avoid her expression. "I am going out on a date."

"But it is a school night," she pleaded.

"Mother, she teaches school, she doesn't go to one."

She pushed her plate away from herself and made a face. She misjudged her own strength and the plate toppled onto the floorboards. The clang was loud; but it did not break.

"MOTHER," he emphasized, "stop it."

She turned to face him.

"I didn't mean to do that, ya know."

"Well you did, and you almost break a plate."

"But I didn't."

He moved with striking distance to his mother. He bent over and picked up the food pieces with an old napkin. He walked out of the room careful to make no noise.

"You'll be fine, mother," he said to her, " you are starting to sound like Norman Bates own mother."

"Who's Norman Bates?"

He went back down to the basement to brush his teeth one last time.

Another visit

Bert realized that the act that he had envisioned in his head was nothing when played out in reality.

He stared at the corpse in broad daylight. He could not see it breathe. Instead of stepping around it, large swatches of green grass at the boy's head and feet, he stepped over the body--lifting his feet high so they did not distrub the tableau.

Now standing in the gutter, he squatted and placed the handgun over his rump. The weapon was a burning hot now, much warmer than the original firing. It pressed harder as he leaned in over the youth's mouth. He held a palm over the young boy's lips, as if saying a healing prayer.

He felt no air.

And Bert knew he should have shuddered. But he felt no cold for his actions. He only felt the warmth of the gun just under his belt.

The chest wound was well placed into the boy's heart. It must have kept working, for he heard the gurgle. In fact, he reasoned, his hearing had increased tenfold. The birds did not herald his moment of conquest. No sirens filled the air.

The thought of the sirens caused him to stand and rest his hand on the gun. North and south no one approached. Bert realized that beyond this moment school was in session and even though the occasion toy housed itself on the sidewalk, not a child in sight.

Only the young man. Bert always wondered how he got away with his annoyances. He skateboarded so frequently, one would begin to hope for rain to make the boy slip and stop his incessant noise. And even though he never smoked in public, many parents in the neighborhood had to explain to their elementary students that the pungent odor was merely dog excrement.

Bert had removed the area nuicince.

And he loooked again to thenorth and south. No applause occured either. He had made this small corner of earth a better place and not one person hooted or hollered.

He squated back down.

The young man was wearing three tshirts, all too small. The knockback and caused them to gather and expose the youth's lower abdomen. The blood had seeped towards the line of his belt and was pooling in the youth's belly button. The small trickle looked as if painted on.

He released the gun. His face had no expression, at least for anyone watching. Inside Bert's head, a group of his own voices were singing his praises. A sorry attempt to validate his behavior that he knew was incorrect, but somehow, necessary. He briefly enjoyed a thought, like someone who cheats on a diet with a small cookie, but caught himself.

He looked to the body again. He looked north and south. And saw not a single person. His house was only a brief trip back around the corner. In it? More guns, more comfort and more purpose.

He walked slowly, just in case someone wanted to question him.

Random story idea

After she broke up with him, he headed to his room. His mother was good about cleaning up for him, the quilt from Grandmother was pulled so neatly across the mattress, it caused a grid of X's and O's that one could read from the door way. It was always amazing to him that the cut up magazine posters and images he chose for decor never bothered her.

Even the gun cabinet, which he just liked to leave unlocked in case of emergency was well dusted and the glass was clear as spring water. He counted his guns and took metal notes to their placements. Not nary one was moved. His mother could dust with shifting their weight. He knew this. He stared more at the gun rack then the small tube television two feet away. Besides, the televison was in black and white. The guns were a series of browns and blacks, shades that gave as much comfort as a decent sized pillow.

He closed the door softly. He felt the need to weep, he knew his eyes had filled up with tears but here, in the realm he called his own at his mother's home, he knew he was in control. The lines drawn, emphasized by mother's cleanliness, gave him the structure he needed.

He made himself happy with remembering that moment he saw Jasmine. He hated the mall, but his mother had insisted he get new shoes. His anger was born by his fear that she would force him to wear something modern, like sandals and socks that he saw on some men on sidewalk. But the shoe store's music was mostly quiet so that did not bother him. Her name tag blared her name, with the J slightly off center. She encouraged him to wiggle his toes to see if the tall workboot did actually fit and she even commented on the color being more his style. He bristled.

She did not make fun of him. She even thanked both him and his mother for coming into the place, though his mother had paid for the boots.

He opened his Jasmine drawer and found the images of her that he'll recall should time afford him a chcane to remember her. There was his first picture he took of her, with a camera phone and printed. It was an expensive photo, he would also put aside, since he had to buy the phone, the call program to use it, the computer and printer to get the picture into his own hands. He kept it in his back pocket long enough that it had to fade, causing him to make several copies and retire this-the first one-back to the drawer. He had other odds and ends, including a sales copy for the shoe store she worked at and the reciept.

The tears flowed easier now.

He hated to say, "I love you" to her, it carried with it a weight his emotional level could not handle. In his 25 years, he knew he was not ready for anything beyond his link to her at this current level. He believed that this was the reason she left. After five years, nothing had changed. He loved that about her. She got tired of waiting.

He slammed the drawer back. The small items rattled and came to a rest.

He looked back to the gun rack. So many to choose from. He looked back to the computer, loosely linked to the internet by way of his neighbor's wifi--and decided that locking the door was not what he was in the mood for. He pulled forth a gun.

And put it back.

Not what he needed yet. Instead, he went and got a small rag and placed it across the corner of the bed, lining it up with quilt. He pulled out the cleaner and then returned to the carbine.

He started to clean the gun.