I Claim My Darkness

I can't explain it in words exactly. Just days ago, I was enveloped in a crisis of titanic proportions and much like Whitman's says, it didn't go out with a bang, rather only a whisper. Now that's where the fatalism ends though. My last three days have been possibly the most exciting of my academic career so far. Not because of the material I was learning, but rather the people, the way of thinking about history, and well, then I'm at a loss for words.

Epiphany- ah ha! That's it. Where before the cold dark fog was suffocating me, now I feel like it is only right. I feel like I can't see into my own future. Just like driving home, the dark fog that weighed on me kept me sane, excited, and constant. I saw the lines. I have a good pair of head lights. I think I'll be ok. More than ok.

When I play a Tracy Chapman cd and lines from every song inspire me and tell the very feelings that I feel at that moment, I have to be under some kind of spell. The fog and the enchanting music? All the face swirled and all the names forgotten, but still I felt like these people were my family. How ridiculous- I know. But they made me feel welcome, smart, valued, and well like a long lost friend. So many things happened in 2008. My god I should write a book about it, because it has been like a roller coaster but by far the best year of my life- ever. More on what the hell i'm talking about later. For now, musings and trappings. Conundrums are always numerous and I just don't see them as a challenge, yet.

Funny video

Now, it wasn't my idea to send the video in. In fact, I'm morally and ethically against it. It was taken out of context. Can't anything be taken out of context really? I once had a professor who gave use fortune cookies at the end of the term. She was wonderful and colorful professor, an old lady with a great smile, curly short hair, and great fashion sense. She is a lesbian, and I found this out and liked her even more. Is that wrong? Eh, well she was and is a fantastic person. She was funny and articulate and scholarly. I want to be just like her. Well, she gives out fortune cookies for a reason. It is a college class, so this isn't an obvious common practice.

You need to realize that the fortune is a text, a recorded thought or piece of culture. To truly enjoy that piece of culture, it is only complete with the shell, the surrounding context. The influences, histories, and background makes the text truly juicy and truly tasty. But without the text, the context is meaningless and flat. They support each other. They don't support the truth. There are many ways around that and that silly truth is so flimsy anyways, who will really notice.

I look at this man and think wow, I have a face for a name. I read his book for a class. He is a professor of history and an eminent scholar, and all I can think about is a Neil Gaiman story of an Anthropology conference full of clandestine sexual encounters, drinking, and not a lot of Anthropology really. Would this man, who I see is married because he wears a ring, participate in such scandalous and tawdry affairs? He is clean, young, maybe in his early 40's. He is fit, a nice dress, but not too nice as in he would be gay. I once heard that gay men don't keep things in their pockets because they want to look good in their jeans. They don't want there to be any bulges to take away from the most important bulge of them all. I don't know what this may mean, but my husband has more in his pockets than I do in my purse. I wish I were joking, but I couldn't make this up. A leatherman, a mini flash light, a multi-tool, pens, pencils, key chains, USB thumb drive, wallet, inhaler, phone, and well, maybe an allan wrench set. No, I'm not joking. He looks like "Awnold" and like he pumped iron, literally into his thighs. On the surface this may seem super non-gay, but he doesn't keep things in he back pockets, so his nice hiney is unadulterated.

Again, what is this man like. I may idolize him a little because of my own dreams of prestige in the scholarly world. I realize this. Maybe this man is just, well a man. He fights with his kids about dirty dishes, he has bad morning breathe, he vacuums and folds laundry, he fucks his wife when they get the time. Normal. But is he really normal like I think. What if his normal is traveling for his work, sleeping in hotel beds, traveling around the world to research for books, meeting young women, and ambitious students who may be attracted by his power or prestige. Maybe he meets a young blonde or red head or coppery dark skinned girl with a nice smile, a mind of her own, and no scruples or qualms about casual sex. She's not getting a grade, so it makes you wonder. He is attractive. He has a nice smile and great smell, but maybe he is a nice guy. A guy who worships his wife, honors his marriage, and acts as a sage both to his children and students. His students trust him and like him and think him very entertaining. Maybe he doesn't have time to get bored of the tedium or sad with the loneliness of books and committees and conferences.

The movie they let leak was funny, but I know what happened before and after, and I'm not laughing. Maybe I hated that he could be pure and clean and such a good man. I wanted to bring him down just a little, but not publicly. It was never meant to be public. Our encounter was brief and totally by chance. My age never a deterrent, because I carry myself with an ageless maturity and an unmistakable sense that I will make the work give me everything I want and need. I wasn't staying in the hotel. He was. I had met him and hadn't thought of him in any particular way or pine to know about him. Again, it was chance set of situations which occurred to set up my clandestine meeting with this young and brilliant man. He paused awkwardly. I stepped in at an uncomfortable distance. This kind of space which is warm and crackling with tension, the promise of rejection almost as certain as Schrodinger's cat. Of course he knew, and I could smell stale mint on his breathe and I wondered if he lotioned his baby smooth face. I imagined where that face could be and I blushed and looked away.

Could it be that I want to be a scholar or a scholar that sleeps around with other scholars. I couldn't tell after he left, or after he called, or after I met him yet again. It was meaningless sex. It wasn't even the best I'd every had. I have that feeling that I do for television characters I have crushes on, but he is real and I slept with him. It is never like the movies and it is always much more messy, grueling, and prefectible that television would have you believe. Sex with a character, not a start. It's so impossible. Maybe I like the theory and not the practice, but my conundrum is: you don't know if you don't like to practice if you don't practice.

I thought girls sleeping with professors was just in the movies, but it is never like the movies when I'm not a movie star by any means.

Wet cold darkness

When I set out in the morning in the winter, it is wet and cold and dark. There are days were it is much wetter. Some days the darkness is from storm clouds, and it feels entirely different if the darkness is because of a dense fog. The wetter days seem to be, well wetter, but in a way that you feel wet and muggy all over. I personally think a truly "wet" day is when even with layers and all the appropriate winter attire, a small insignificant drop of rain or water finds the only exposed skin (usually around the neck or head). Why is this "wet"? Sure it seems arbitrary or insignificant, but there are days full of rain where I could walk from here to there and feel free and less constricted by he turgid humid air and can escape those torpedo like dew drops that can chill you to the bone. They are frustratingly wet really, and it is when the rain encroaches on my world that I notice, "Wow, it's wet today."
The coldness one experience's in Oregon, according to my Midwestern family, is the worst. I fear the hellish winters and snow storms of Montana and South Dakota, but when my family came in March for my wedding, the rain chilled them to the bone as if they were stranded in an arctic dessert. "I can never get warm, the coldness go straight to my bones and I just can't get warm again." I'm used to this of course, and it never really gets below freezing where I'm at. It makes me wonder. Maybe the foreigner is gripped with the ailment: feeling the cold. Maybe I'm immune to it like a disease and can no longer contract it. Maybe I'm immune to Oregon cold alone, and when I visit somewhere else the cold will be like a disease. It affects the body, so then why not? It grips the body, makes it hard to sleep, makes one lose their appetite, and has the nasty habit of making you very very grubby. It's like the "wet" rain. It is the kind that wakes you up and says, "Hey! I'm rain and you better darn well listen to me. I've been around, but I haven't been paid enough attention." The cold may do the same thing, but I don't know. Maybe it isn't as sloppy as rain. Maybe it is more persistent, the cold, a wearing down without movement. Like pressure, you can't see it, but you can feel it consistently all over your body equally. If you increased the pressure carefully and ever so slowly, it could happen without you really knowing it.
I stood under cover at a bus depot waiting for my bus. It was much later than I usually head home, and everyone else similarly sought out shelter. I had an undershirt, a knit sweater, a wool jacket, jeans, boots, and a scarf, and a little drip drop crept down my chest. The knit cap I wore was little protection and it served to just keep my head warm. I was both burning up warm and freezing, and the muggy air just made me want to strip down into my underwear and let the cool breeze chill my skin and wick away the muggy sweat. It is only 5:30 pm but it is easily darker than any night of the summer, and it is much darker than the dark I left home in that very morning. My mood had gone south for a period possibly because of this weird brand of winter, but something changed today. Even in the depression wet and dark cramped depot, I could not stop smiling.

Obama's Strength

It is of course inspiring to see the turn out of support. To hear of people dancing in the street all around the world in celebration of your victory.

Then to imagine the chores you CHOSE to handle. They are deep and ugly holes and it is so hard to fix them and escape unscathed. Be it the economy (which like Bush correctly said (for once) this can't be fixed with a magic wand, otherwise he would do it), or the war, or jobs, or health insurance. These are like whole corporations. He is planning to revamp who corporations and make them more efficient while maintaining his morals and the inforcement of good virtues in the process.

It took a horrible president like Bush to divide this nation enough for it to willingly and fervently be united under a remarkable young black man. Thank you Bush, and you will pay for your mistakes in the ill will of the general interest. But for the best, you created an opportunity for optimism (not to be mistaken for creating the optimism itself, lets be frank). There was a vaccuum where pride and hope live, Obama fills it with humility and accountability, not promises but commands of service and sacrifice. To give and to serve. To be for the collective. Individualism is always protected by our system, and in fact, free thinking has been under the Bush administrative scrutiny. The free thinking of a country is most important for the growth and progress. Oppression gets you nowhere fast.

Good luck. I hired you, Barack, because I think you can mount the tasks ahead. I promise to be understanding and to do my part when you call on me. I will not hope for your fall. I'm too hopeful for this opportunity for change to sabatoge our survival and success as a nation. I won't let others sabatoge our hope either. You just do what you can, which is above what most are asked to do, and I'll be there when it doesn't work out perfect. The laws of the universe will bring you fortune if you feel fortunate. And I do.

Sophie

The Will to Change and the Spirit of Service

The Will of Change is Wakening in You and I
I hope from today on we can stay optimistic- and keep saying yes we can
I hope our new president inspires everyone to serve, to give, and to care
Never have I wanted to give more than I do now
Never have I wanted to serve my country more proudly than I do now
When race and gender are stripped away, we are all people
All on the ever shrinking planet earth
And having someone who listens when we are at the most odds is what we need
Having someone who represents not one view but many
Having a leader who can argue both sides of a debate
Having a leader who sets an example for accountability at every level of our lives
Being proud of my country had never been a goal
Now it is a part of my identity and a part of my dream
Change for the better that happens between you and me
We are powerful as the many
We have proven the connection between you or me or Obama is not broken
It is thin and needs strengthening but it is perserved every time we say
Yes we can
Because yes we can is a command that holds power
A command that enables every person with just their one vote to change
The power to change is not just in our new president
The power to change is in our everyday lives
The will to change is what is awakening
The direction is new
The leadership strong and promising, though imperfect and human as you or I
And we can exceed our greatest dreams
Because we are no longer our own worst enemy
We are no longer holding ourselves back
There are those who don't feel like I doI hope someday soon they choose to
This isn't a party politics ploy or an Obama rally
This is real lifeAnd the change that happens is much bigger than our 44th president
He knows that
Do you?
People can realize their own potential for changing
By changing their mind to care

The will to change awakens in each of us as we see opportunities open to us
Opportunities made by us and for us
Goosebumps and tears aside, screaming and crying done
Restless nights of sleep will pass too
When we get down to itIt is time for work
Roll up your sleeves
The will to change is opening her eyes because we can and because we have
-Sophie

To Care or Not to Care

The question of this election has been that of movie magnitude. That cathartic and moving feeling of pain and anguish in expectation is something I've only every seen in the theaters. How sad but also how exciting. We pay money to feel that excitement. What is it about that feeling?

I think it awakens a part of people that cares. A part of people that can lay dormant and unconnected from a greater feeling of togetherness. To care. To care but also to take action. As an American I am taught that the American Identity is one of pride, freedom, patriotism, and individuality, but it is evermore clear that people, Americans are all about conforming, not standing out, not standing up, and never caring like we think we do.

Caring about more than myself. Caring about more than my children and their children. To care about other races, to care about the effect of a new president on other countries, and to care about more than my stupid student loans, coffee budgets, and my career future. Not everyone has the privileged and blessed opportunities I have been given. I won't take it for granted. I want others to have more. I want others to be treated the same. I realize the difference and gap in opportunities given. I realize the message sent to all those kids out there: although it would be great to go to college and get a career, the status quo is just not attainable for that tax bracket. Those kids are taught by inferior teachers who lack passion, then they are told the expectations that they need to go to a university to succeed, but they are given little to no help.

How will it look if a president walks onto the stage saying not only does he expect better of everyone, including teachers and students. And then, after he raises expectations, he makes a deal. He makes a deal that he will be there fighting for more opportunities if people just show up. To just show up and care.

I can genuinely say I care more about giving to my country under an Obama presidency. He race and his religion are mute points. His generous character, his ability to listen and debate, and his ability to treat every person with the same care and attention makes him a true leader, not just a president. I would love to follow his example. What a perfectly imperfect man. A man. He is not a god or a prophet. He is a man with dreams and doubts. He is a human who aspired beyond what he was told he could achieve. That isn't the American dream to me, that is a man's dream in world which promotes the American Dream cliche but offers this dream at a price and with preconditions.


Socialism as a threat does not make me shake in my boots. The consideration of others isn't scary. We all need to give to get. Could we make it an American ideal to taking care of others, to serve our country, and to be inspired by a presidential leader who represents the epitome of passion and love for the other man.

To care about how the world sees us, to care about how we are perceived, and to uphold an honorable image is achievable.

This election is about America. Not the "real America" but the idea of America. This idea is moving and morphing. This idea has taken a hard hit, but we can save it. The identity is beyond the president, because it exists in the minds and lives of living people. People are waking up to realize their American Identity has be horns waggled, vandalized, and abused to the fullest extent of the government's power. But instead of relying on McCain to change it all for them, they are giving their trust to a president who gives each person agency in their future. As it should be... but will it be?

I am struck by feeling of complete paralysis, followed by doubt and apocalyptic fears. I save up on chicken broth and saltines for when they will be all we can trade for batteries or other essentials. I feel a tightening in my chest and tears behind my eyes. I can't accept the chance that we have that "maverick" as our dead beat president with his power hungry gold digging girlfriend. They don't represent me, or Americans. I want Obama as my president. I want to care. I don't want these feelings of empathy for others to leave, to be cauterized by searing pain of the injustice of a McCain-Palin presidency. I want to care, but if November 4th comes and goes without my greatest wish coming true, my life's course will change. To recover would seem impossible and to see our country fall further is what I would have to look forward to.

Please, for my night time prayer tonight. Please Obama become the president so I can keep on caring. I want to stay human and feel proud. I don't want to fear and cower. Oh for sure it feels apocalyptic. But more than anything I know it only hurts and it is only scary because I care. To be or not to be, well I hope I still want to be after Nov. 4th, as well as to care.

Halloween

The rain woke me. Then I noticed Kris wasn't next to me. He had pulled an all nighter for school again.

It was so dark when I woke up. The rain clouds blocked all light and I felt drowsy. I hopped into my pants, put on my halloween socks and shirt my mom got me. I checked the mirror, fluffed my unmanagable hair, and ran out the door with my bags and sweater in tote.

The water splashed and I could feel the rain through the socks I was wearing with my sandals. It's always during crazy holidays that the same dress rules just don't apply, so I took full advantage to show off my orange and black striped socks with cats not only in print, but also as bobbles that hung from the backs of my ankles.

The wind was blustering on the freeway. Rain slammed into my windshield with force. I drove cautiously around the semi's with their billowing trails of disorienting clouds of moisture and dead fall leaves. I kept my eyes ahead on the tail lights in front of me, and enjoyed the warm car seat, the warm air blowing on my feet, and the warm coffee in my stomach

Why did I feel so cozy and charmed by this otherwise dangerous and dark morning? Because. It is Halloween. It is fall. The autumn rain has come and the wonderful smells have spread through the air, though to the detriment of my allergies. I suffer through it anyway.

The sky was like the darkest night of the year, though I did have one frightening flash of lightning piqcue my spirits and the grays started to glow along the horizon of the stormy morning.

I dress up for her. My mom. I wouldn't care about an otherwise useless holiday, if it weren't her favorite. I have decorations and they are still in the box. As a student, I don't have time to decorate. She does though and she goes all out.

My orange shirt says "Too cute to spook" with a very Bewitched style black kitty riding a broom stick. Today, hopefully, will be all fun and games. A cozy blustering raining day to warm to heart of every genuine Oregonian. Perhaps the most frightening part of this Halloween- the election. More on that later.

When the Summer Light Dies

It was as if Nature was bored this Fall, because she jumped on the first opportunity to say goodbye to summer and send in gails of rain and wind. The Sun clocked out. The Gray clocked in. The night shift officially started.

What could possibly help the onslaught of depression and UVB ray sensitive migraines? No normal cupboard meds are for Fall. They don't say on the label: take in case of the blahs. Why does gray bring that nagging feeling of doubt and dazing drowsiness? I like the color gray. It is beautiful and dangerous, but it has a mesmerizing characteristic that seems to remind me of a date rape spiked drink. Will I even remember what happened when I wake up in the Spring?

Reading with mugs of warm drinks? Spiked warm drinks. See what I mean about the drugged feeling of winter? We load up on sugar, fat, booze, and sleep. How could we not feel like a bunch of zombies? Not to mention, no sun. Does that make us vampires? Nah.

When the Summer Light Dies

It was as if Nature was bored this Fall, because she jumped on the first opportunity to say goodbye to summer and send in gails of rain and wind. The Sun clocked out. The Gray clocked in. The night shift officially started.

Surprises

I have been alone for a month now. My husband left for the police academy and since then, I have been going through the motions of daily life very comfortably. I like being alone. He's gone and I feel free. I'm so miserable when he is around. Nothing is good enough for him. I clean, I cook, and I shower him with gifts, but misery loves company so that it can beat the life out of it's companion. I'm working up the courage to file for a divorce. I'm not sure why I stay.

It was a Tuesday when I took a day off from work to stay at home and write. I had been working on sitting down and writing last week at Bianca's when I had a very bizarre experience. This experience could have really happened, and I'm inclined to think so, but nothing has happened since to suggest that I actually met her. Her name was Lacy and she was gorgeous. I smoked some nasty concoction of herbs and salts, which wasn't like me at all. After a few seconds, I was introduced to my muse. She looked more like a model who walked straight out of a magazine. She was blonde and looked very comfortable in her long sweater. Her cowgirl boots still stick out in my mind.

Today, I am hoping to find out more. I have the smoke leather pouch that I found in Bianca's father's office and I am going to give it a shot.

***

"Grant, darling?" Lacy drug out the arling to be cute and Grant tried to resist her.
"What?" He tried to stay as straight faced and stoic as possible, but the smile the spread across her face suggested he had failed.
" I need your help again. And I know, I know, last time it went a little wrong, but this time will be different. I want you to go as a human, with me. And no, you don't need to waste any of your power on her. I just need proof for her."
"Proof?"
"She's not convinced. I know the look on her face. It is a natural defense mechanism to just assume all strange activity in reality are actually manifestations of the imagination. Believe me, when she sees what you can do and we just sit down and talk with her it will work." Lacy looked a pure model of confidence as she slipped her boots back on and slip out from the booth. Grant had been working on something, which he promptly hid when she had invited herself to his table. Grant raised his eyebrows expecting her to spill more, and her impatience to get out of the restaurant suggested he was right to expect more.

Lacy straightened her clothes and avoided eye contact. She couldn't do it for long however, so she looked up and dumbly pretended she didn't have more to ask of him.

"I know there is more, but let me do you a favor and guess." Lacy pretended to be offended but let him speak anyway. "You want me to come along so that this time you can stay solid so she can see you. Last time might have been a fluke, but I know that when a god runs into a human like I have, they are supposed to run and never look back. I'm not even sure she see us. I never used my powers to appear to humans."

"And I don't have those powers so I need to borrow yours, please." Lacy knew she could order him to do it. She was his guild master. But she also knew with a little pleading he would do it for her willingly. She batted her eyes and made pouty lips. Grant wasn't easily persuaded by the show, but he did have time in his day. To be honest, he knew his powers were going to be called on more than once and his goals were to fit in, not get kicked out. He wanted to help Lacy, but it seemed that Lacy had been in too deep with this one. She was always getting into trouble with this charge and he could see the dark circles started under Lacy's eyes, which were proof she was being drained of her powers trying to fix the situation, leaving less power to set up the glamour of her outside appearance.

"Ok," he sighed loudly, pretending to be put out. "Let's go. I don't have all day."

She jumped and squealed and hugged him tight. "You are such a great friend." She grabbed her oversized purse, he grabbed his brief case and papers, and they vanished into thin air.

***

Ryla sat at her dining room table. She had picked up the mail and a newspaper. The newspaper had nothing of extreme importance on the front page, but she thumbed through the pages just to do something while she drank her hot coffee and ate her toast. Sometimes just picking up a paper gave her silly ideas or little mini plots for writing. If you want to be a good writer, be an excellent reader.

Young Love and Old Demons

Sophie is standing on the top of a bridge looking down into the white water below her. She’s already dropped one high-heeled shoe into the water and is now starting to climb up onto the rail. What next?

She had been at a school dance less than an hour before and didn't know why it had to change. She had been happy and dancing with Roman, an upper classmen . She was so lucky to have been asked by a guy who was gorgeous, quiet, and sweet. The whole night was gone.

She gripped the rail with her hands and hoisted herself up to the top of the rail, kicking off the last high heel, and held on to a pole to her right the was supposed to light the bridge. The light had blown up with a loud crackle and psst sound. The five other street lights had followed suit, and she had no clue how or why.

Where was Roman, she thought? She was standing on that rail, close to freedom, and still she wondered about Roman and where he was. The cold night air slapped her dress about her in a haze of purple and lavender sparkling here and there as it whipped the backs of her thighs. It was just below knee length and she wasn't wearing stockings. It didn't matter though that the railing froze her feet and the wind chilled her. She had run at least a mile to get to this spot and she was already numbed to the pain and chill.

Roman was driving her home an hour before, and soon after they left the rural school it had all gone wrong. It had been a fantastic night. Her feet were sore and she was a little worse for the wear having thoroughly enjoyed every minute on the dance floor. A few stray hairs peeked out and fell about her pinked face and she blew them out of the way and reapplied a glossy coat of a very sultry mauve that sparkled and shined. Roman had his jacket off and slung over his right arm and he pulled her arm into his left one. They laughed and giggled their way to the car. They left a little earlier than the crowd to supposedly beat the traffic, but Sophie knew Roman had other plans and she was just fine with that.

She was a tall guy, but Sophie was tall too. She played basketball and was pushing six feet, which was very tall for a 16 year old, but not unheard of. Roman topped six feet and his frame was the build of a swimmer's. He didn't like competitive sports like football, even though he would have been a fantastic addition to the team. He almost felt he was above the so-called camaraderie that leads to the mistreatment of other students for sake of looking cool. So he swam independently with no one telling him what to do. He was in charge in his lane and he was quietly always in charge of himself.

He was Senior while Sophie was a sophomore. They had been introduced in lab class and had worked as partners. He was quiet and good looking while Sophie had been boisterous and the class clown. She made everyone laugh, sometimes even at the expense of the teacher. This had turned Roman off at first, but when they were one on one she matched his every quip with a come back but never got upset or offended. She played his little repartee as much as he did. He would say a clever jabbing note and she would be there with a stinging retort. The insults made him like her more. She of course didn't pay as much attention because she often was in her own world, but he liked that about her. She too didn't care about what other people thought, except, he was hoping, maybe him.

They walked together out the long hallway that reverberated the bumping music of the gym they had just left. Her arm in his and him with his head buzzing with anticipation, it was like the perfect night would end perfectly like both of them had wanted. Sophie stopped at the door to slip on her shoes she had long ago abandoned so she could dance more freely. Most girls would drop a lot of money on a pair of shoes they take off within the first half hour of a dance just to be thrown into a pile of fancy purses, coats, and ownerless shoes.

Once they were out the door, they walked to his pick-up. It was red and small. It was just big enough for the two of them. When he had picked her up he had apologized for the plywood on the floor. The floor beneath was rotted through and a fatal step would send you below peddling like a Flinestone. She hadn't payed it any attention and his embarrassment soon wore off. Now she hopped in and buckled up, her palms sweating in anticipation of where the night might lead her.

The night had been cold and the winter was wet and blustering as they traveled down the curves of the winding road. They had the heat cranked up and the music on. Sophie's teeth were chattering, but like any girl in a dress, she was oblivious to the danger of gangreen and hypothermia. All she cared about was looking nice, as well as feeling pretty. Of course, any other night she would have worn a sweat pants suit and gone outside at home on her porch with trepidation and real resistance. Tonight she braved the swells of wet wind that spiked the the goose bumps on her legs and sent her dress dancing about her. Inside the truck, it was warm and musty. The windows fogged from their breathe and Roman drove slowly. He wasn't a hot shot. He'd rather get somewhere safe than never get there.

They had gotten a few miles from the school gym, they were off campus, and the lighting was fading. Since there weren't many people on these back roads at night the street lights were sparse. Sophie was wrapped in one of his flannels and buckled in the passenger seat. It was warming up in the car and it wasn't completely due to the heater blasting a blistering heat. She wanted to put her hands up his shirt and soak up the warmth of him. Touch his skin. She could just imagine the warmth from him radiating out with the smell of his scent. Sophie reacted to scent rather than taste, but in the car right now it smell musty and dank with a mix of dirt in there. The smell didn't bug her. She would register this smell with Roman from now on and she rather liked that.

He took a slow left turn, talking over the music to tell her about a funny moment back at the dance. He wasn't completely sure where he was going but he didn't have time to think about it.

"What was that?" he said as he squinted out the fogged windshield. Sophie had seen something too. Just as they were driving past an open field immediately after the left turn, something had danced across the field. It wasn't a skittering or a running. It was a floating, but what was floating they could no longer see. They looked out Sophie's window at an empty field that was mostly mud and dead grass and there was a large blackberry bush consuming what looked like an old car. Roman inched the truck along and leaned over his steering wheel to see and Sophie leaned back wrapping herself tighter with the flannel. She felt like there were eyes out there, someone knew they were watching.

"Ok, I think we can go now." she said with a nervous lit to her voice. As she looked away though, something moved in the corner of her eye. She didn't dare move to look, but saw Roman's expression. He wasn't scared, rather he was curious and a little concerned according the knit between his brow and the stare of eyes.

"Wait here. I think I saw a girl in a dress." He got out and as he shut the door, Sophie saw what he saw. A fluttering of an off white fabric that could only be explained as a dress. No one would leave sheets out on a line at this time of year. The movement had vanished behind the blackberry brambles, but she could still see movement as Roman walked around the front of the truck. It wasn't clear what the cause of the movement was but-- Sophie's heart stopped, her throat seized, and her eyes were locked in a stare with a pair of eyes that mysteriously reached her gaze, even though she was more than a hundred feet away. It was impossible not to lock eyes with that gaze. The eyes were glowing red.

Sophie jumped. She realized that the movement that broke her vision was Roman who was still venturing out under the impression that the mysterious movement was innocent. How could it be with eyes like that? Had she imagined what she saw? Her breath rattled as she tried to yell, tried to wake herself up from the trance of those dangerous eyes.

Roman couldn't hear her over the sound of the pick-up running. The keys, thought Sophie, he left the car running. She started to roll down her window, cranking on the handle as fast and hard as she could. Roman had made it over the field's fence and was creeping towards the bush, but in a manner that suggested that he didn't want to scare whatever was behind there.

The handle was stuck tight in it's position and only three inches of window had lowered. All this achieved was a sudden blast of cold air that seized Sophie's thoughts and lungs and jarred her from her course of warning him. After the surge of adrenaline had slammed into her, she found it hard to think, but a thought struck her, the horn. The steering wheel had a horn and she could warn him loudly, but as she struggled with her seat belt, time seemed to slow. She couldn't reach the horn and make it work from this angle She fumbled with the button with her still cold fingers and once free reached over and slammed as hard as she could.

She turned back and saw Roman. She pointed and yelled, "Don't! Come back!!! NO!"

He had heard the horn. She breathed easier even as his face went dark with worry. He gave up his seaching and started for the car with a rather hurried pace to see what could have upset Sophie. He'd never seen her like this. Just as he was mounting over the fence when Sophie saw those eyes flash again, but they didn't belong to anything in a dress. This was not human. She screamed.

Roman was startled but kept climbing carefully over the barbed wire. But those eyes were closer than Sophie had remembered first seeing them. Closer to Roman. She realized that she had only served in distracting Roman when she screamed and honked the horn. How could she be so stupid! Her heart was racing as she gripped the door, having already locked it just to feel safer. She watched the owner of those eyes came closer to Roman. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't watch and wait for him to drive off, so she slid into the driver's seat and tried to get comfortable driving with heels. She leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. She put the car in drive, pulled forward closer to Roman and waited. The lights of the pick-up swirled in the chilly night fog, but she hadn't time to notice. The fence Roman had to climb over was at the bottom of a ditch and was much lower than the eye level out of the window. He would have to clammer up the wet ditch wall on the other side to get in the pick-up. Sophie tried to think ahead. She opened the passenger door and stared down at where Roman was less than thirty seconds before. He was gone.

Sophie's head was full to the brim with thoughts screaming. It was like a pop song pounding in her blood. The screeching singing edging her nerves to the last feet before the drop of a cliff. The pulsing bass, the tempo menacing in tone and the back up vocals all too much together to separate and identify. It was overwhelming and she was the fuck out of there. With the passenger door open, she let the pick-up fish tail as she speed off. The speed was her only control and she had no idea where she could go. The passenger door was still open and the fog prevented her from seeing anything. After about two hundred yards, she slammed on the breaks. She had an outlet to her left and she turned the truck around, whipping around so fast the door shut. She sat with the idling engine and looked into the glowing fog. No sign of Roman or the thing. What had it been?

One street light glowed in the fog, and Sophie inched the car forward. She could see nothing but felt like something or someone saw her. The dark night surrounded her shoulders and back making her itch between her shoulder blades. With a sharp intake of air, Sophie spotted Roman. He sat on the side of the road facing the field. He was tending to his leg, and she rolled down the window.

"Roman get in. Now." She tried her best to put on a semblance of calm. Something stirred beyond Roman. She hadn't realized the car lights might be blinding Roman and turned them down, only to reveal an outline in the fog. Roman was between her and the thing. She choked on her words. Her mind was begging Roman to hurry. Had he heard her? The thing in front of her about fifty feet away stood in the middle of her lane. Roman was off on on the side of the road.

"ROMAN!" she yelled. She got his attention, he turned and smiled.

"Sorry babe, I slipped ripped my pants. I have a nasty gash. Why did you speed off? You playing with me?" He was ok. He was joking. He thought all of this was a joke. Why hadn't he heard the pleading in her voice when she tried to warn him. She was scared to death and here he was laughing. Something was wrong.

"Roman..." Sophie pleading in a cautious and desperate voice. He looked back again from his gash. "Didn't you hear me Roman? I was yelling. There is something, something bad out there and you need to hurry up and get in the pick-up."

"Hear you? I heard you honk and saw you whip off in my truck." He chuckled. He wasn't taking her seriously. Had he not heard her about the thing that she knew was mere yards away.

"Roman. Can you just get in the pick-up?" she exhaled a breath she didn't know she had been holding when he got up and limped toward the passenger side. She knew she didn't have a lot of time to wait for Roman. She was pretty sure the creature was still off in the distance ahead waiting for them. What if it came at Roman as he went around the car? She checked the dash and saw she was still in drive. Her feet were frozen with nerves and stiff in her heels. Roman was edging around the front of the car as her heart sped up, but nothing happened. She waited for him to get in the door and didn't even wait for his seat belt to click before tires squealed and she headed at whatever was waiting for her.

Nothing hit the front of the pick-up, and she was relieved as much as afraid of what might be out there. Roman was quiet and distant.

"How's the leg? What happened?" Sophie asked as she glanced at his leg. She took a double take. His leg looked fine. Not a rip or a tear where he had been nursing it before. He didn't look at her or say a word. She looked up knowing something was wrong, and she almost hit something out in the road. She thought they were in the clear, but the thing that hit the car front startled her and for more reasons than just surprise and concern or even fear. It was Roman. Roman out on the road gripping the front of the truck swimming in the black night and swirling fog lit by the head lights.

"Get out Sophie!" he bellowed but he was obviously hurt or out of breath. She didn't hesitate. The Roman next to her smiled at her and said "Stay here," in a calm and distant voice that did not lack force. Thankfully her door had been unlocked and her seat belt wasn't on. She flipped the truck into park and bolted out the door. When she reached Roman, the real Roman she hoped, they looked back into the truck. Nothing was there. Roman grabbed her and she nearly killed him with a blow to the head but he ducked.

"Don't grab me like that when I'm scared like that! For God's sake what the fuck was that?"

"Me..." Roman whispered. It didn't hold menace or a smile, it was fear and unexplainable doubt that they were not yet safe.

Get in, Sophie thought. She walked around to the pick-up to the passenger side, the door was locked and she pulled and pulled on the handle without realizing her mistake. How could it be locked? The thing had locked it? If it was locked from the inside... Roman got in on his side and was startled to find the thing had merely been playing an illusion on them, hiding somehow from their view. She screamed and pounded on the window. Roman's reaction to her that he didn't see what she saw. She saw a gross giant replica of a bat or a moth. She wasn't sure what it looked like. It had short coarse hair, red beady eyes, and a smile that snarled and curled underneath a bat-like nose. It was winged and -- Roman was talking to it...

"Sophie? Sophie? Ok I'll get you home." He thought it was her. She shifted to the side, to look at Roman, getting brave because she had the locked door and faulty window between her and the thing. As she shifted it changed, changed into her. A perfect reflection of her motions and demeanor. Yet it wasn't her. It was an illusion. Like a hologram. Roman saw the Sophie in the seat and saw the Sophie out the passenger rear view mirror, realizing his mistake. He played it cool though, trying not to set off whatever this thing was. It had hit him over the head.

He could bearly steer as the adrenaline bounced about his veins, yet again tricked by this thing. He'd seen the movies and he'd always thought he'd have more time to think. Time to clear his mind and think of the next action. He knew. The turn he made earlier was a few feet away. As he had come from the right, he knew he could go left and somehow detain this thing. He sent out a silent apology to Sophie. He didn't dare glance in the mirror to see her, but nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the thing, or no, Sophie put a hand on his thigh. It hadn't said a word. He had heard it speak to Sophie when he was knocked out in the ditch. He was pretty sure if he hadn't surprised it, it would have killed her. It hadn't hurt him badly, just a blow hard enough to slow him down. It wanted him. And based on the hand the was inching up his thigh it wanted something specific.

What in the hell was this thing playing at? It felt like the last ten minutes was a jumble of memories. If he hadn't seen Sophie on the road, stunned that he was driving off, he would have assumed this Sophie was the real Sophie. Something obviously was going on. Not just the weird thing in the field. Then he realized what it was. It- this thing wasn't the only one. The blow to his head left him a good 20 feet from where he'd originally been climbing over the fence. The blow didn't send him there or at least he didn't remember that it did. Something had dragged him there and his clothes showed that that was most likely the truth. He was covered in mud.

Ok, Sophie is ok for now, but another thing may be out there, Roman thought to himself, if I could just get... His thoughts were cut short by the hand that cupped him between his legs. It had already be hard to concentrate with all the chaos and pounding blood in his veins. How could he look at this Sophie and not want what she or it was doing. His mind couldn't wrap around how much he liked her touch and how much he knew it was the wrong touch. It was an educated touch. One of an older woman or an experienced lover. Sophie would be his first and her his.

A flash of light behind the pick-up caught his eyes. He casually glanced out the rear view mirror. Sophie, his Sophie was running. Her heels were in her hands, her hair falling about her, and her flannel whipping back as she ran full out down the road behind him. He hadn't been driving fast. Sophie knew she could catch up with him when she start walking, but it was when she heard the whisper from the shadows that she ran full out. "Mine, you will be mine Sophie." It sure as hell wasn't Roman, and she wasn't going to let this thing get her- now she realized, there was one with her too, not just with Roman. She ran full out. It was only a half mile ahead and Roman swirved a little. She didn't know if he knew she was behind him but she could let herself be seperated.

The bridge, thought Roman. Sophie was catching up. He couldn't let her. Two of them against the two of them was in their favor, and Roman knew it. The bridge. If he could only get to the bridge. He could create a distraction, maybe even get rid of this thing that was now unzipping his pants. The smile on this Sophie's face was nothing like what he thought it would be like.

"Let's wait until I park. The wait will just make it all the more exciting ok Sophia?" He added the last bit because he knew she hated to be called Sophia and always scolded him for it. This Sophie just nodded.

There was a shoulder before the bridge that could easily park a few cars, and it also over looked a very deep river. The water was high and it was his only chance. He was a swimmer of course. He even had been polar bear swimming up this exact river in a more safe public swimming part with a group that do long distance swimming. His window was down. The door unlocked. The other window wouldn't budge.

Sophie was feeling the cold curl around her lungs like cold fingers. The fear that was driving her wasn't helping. Her breath was getting short and her energy nearly gone. She had run full out for almost a mile now. The power of her feet slapping the pavement wet and cold surged through her bones and chilled her to her core, but she still ran. Something was stirring behind her and she knew it could easily get her. Why hadn't it? It was waiting. Or was it hunting? The lights from the bridge ahead gave her a goal and she started to cry. The lights still leading her as she could see the light through the blurring tears. The cold burned her nose and face, her nose was running and she was wheezing. She was in shape enough to run, but that was in a warm basketball court. You have to, thought Sophie, for Roman you have to get to him.

Her tears had almost prevented her from seeing what came next. The pick-up was pulling into the shoulder and she felt a blimp of hope spring from her heart. Maybe Roman found a way to save her. But the truck didn't stop. It wasn't going fast. But it went straight over the edge, down the embankment and she heard the splash. She screamed, "NO! No no no no! Roman Roman, Help!" She looked around at the wooded acres that surrounded her, but held hope that her scream would carry in the fog. Someone can hear the train whistle ten miles away if it was a foggy night. The crash into the water made even less noise.

She was still running, trying to find help in the shadows in the woods on either side, while knowing she was being following. She ran to the bridge and as she set her first foot on the road over the water, the first two lights fizzled out sending sparks down on her. The bridge was just as cold and her heels never hit the ground as she sprinted from whatever was chasing her and to whatever had Roman. The second set of street lights on either side of her fizzled as well, and only two lights remained. She ran against the wind and hit the last light with thanks that it too didn't burn out, but the one behind her sounded like someone hit it with a bat and she flinched too afraid to look.

She climbed the wet and freezing metal railing, the light post holding her steady to her left and her shoes still in her right hand. She didn't know why she held onto the shoes now that they were worthless. Her breath was held as she listened and strained to pick up any noise below. The truck was already gone, but she dropped her shoe to make a splash. If she knew what that would sound like maybe she'd know if someone or something was down there. She heard a loud splosh as her shoe was swallowed by the black water. It was a distinct sound and no other noises followed. The pick-up had gone under on her right, but bubbles continued to rise. What looked like a dark blanket or shape rose and floated back up to the surface.

A ear piercing screech was let out above her and a shadow dropped to the floating figure which had by now floated under the bridge to the other side. She could no longer see what had come up, but she was certain it was Roman. The embankment to her left was steep but had trees to help her down if she went to the Riverside to get a better look. It was when she surveyed the embankment to her left that she saw movement. "Roman, " she whispered.

He was upstream and must have swam there against the current. He sat with his back against a tree. He hadn't see her. She dropped her other shoe. He turned his head and prayed the girl up on the rail was his Sophie. She was bare foot. Shaking and cold, she held a hand out to him and still in her flannel and dance dress that whipped about her, she jumped.

Roman jumped into action. She had found the more shallow part of the river by pure accident, but Roman new it was a fortunate mistake. He had let the current carry him to her though and she was still out of the current's pull when he found her. She was trying to not make noise, but that's hard when water slaps the air out of you, the nerves crippled and reactions slow and lazy as the blood freezes. How can this water be so cold and not be frozen solid, she thought as she bobbed up clawing for air.

He had her, but not before he saw what had just been with him in his truck. It was on the opposite embankment, and a figure hovered over it. Was it alive? Had he done all this, risked his life, lost his truck to just get the freaking thing wet? It was far down on the opposite side of the bridge and on the other side of the river, but he knew they had very little time.

A car was approaching overhead and as Roman drug Sophie up to the river edge, he saw two pairs of red eyes swivel to meet his and the car above him. What had a first looked like two huge winged creatures with blank fur and beady eyes became a mere reflection of him crouching over Sophie. Were those things meant to be together like he was meant to be with Sophie? The thing that had followed Sophie had been flying above her as she ran and it was the last image he had seen before his pick-up dipped down the embankment. It was then that he made a small prayer for Sophie. Now those things feigned love like he had for Sophie and he knew both of them needed him and needed Sophie.

A succubus is female demon that needs the seed of a male human and once a succubus brings it to her male demon, her incubus, he can take that seed and use it to impregnate a female human with a devil spawn. A flash of thought had crossed Roman's mind. It want him, his seed. Had these things known this night was going to be his and Sophie's first together, or ever. It wouldn't be unreasonable to think a girl would get pregnant the first time. And they took the form of the the lovers of the human easily, as he had already seen. He and Sophie matched their stare with fire in their eyes.

Even as he knew they had been in danger, he felt a pang of sympathy for those things. They needed him and Sophie. They couldn't create a life by themselves, and their movements and gestures with each other had shown Roman they were desperate to have a legacy.

"They needed us. You. Sophie. You would have gotten pregnant." He was still breathing ragged and soaking wet. His mind was a millions miles away from physical discomfort of the cold or wet though. Sophie looked up at him.

"Why us?"
"Because I love you." He whispered this as he looked in her eyes and knew they were be safe soon. "Because I'm leaving at the end of the year and I desperately wanted tonight to be special. I wanted you."

This was no time for an intimate conversation but Sophie was struck by his naked feeling showing on his face.

She tried to say, "I wanted you too," but the cold was soaking her through. Instead she breathed, "bridge." They climbed the embankment and were still aware of the things of in the distance. When all was said and done, they were picked up by some friends who were leaving the dance. The police pulled Roman's truck out of the water and was soon up and running again.

***
It was the end of May and Roman and Sophie were in his truck back on that bridge. They went there and talked sometimes. Ever since Winter Ball they had felt a strange impulse to return to the bridge despite their better judgment. They didn't feel unsafe anymore. They did feel watched. He would graduate in a week and then they would leave this small town. Sophie thought she would miss her family but the thought of leaving Roman hurt more. Sophie was due in August and only her and Roman knew. They wanted to keep it that way.



by Sophie Grow

Bright Green Margaritas

Lacy and Grant at a bar talking over Lacy's problems with Ryla.

"I wish it were so much easier than this. This is such a monumental set back. I wish I could just call her up and say, 'Ryla you are going thick headed, wake up!'" Lacy was saturating her body with the alcoholic juices of her fourth bright green margarita since noon. She sat at the bar on a tall squishy stool that faced the wall of ornamental bottles of vintage whiskey's and cheap mix-ins. There was a mirror place in the perfect position for Lacy to intensely glare at her own reflection with self inflicted pity and disdain. Failure was never an option, and it wasn't as if she had failed yet. The fight was far from over, but she had stakes set on this charge and she was devoted to seeing it come to fruition and soon.
"Shouldn't you be out working on it, Lace?" questioned her companion. He too looked into the mirror, but at her reflection. He was tall and black. He head was shaved and his smile impeccable. Although his appearance would suggest an intimidating personality, Grant didn't affect it in the least.
"We've all had set backs. Where's the infinite patience, the compassion, the all-knowing faith in the true and right outcome here?"
"Hmph. Whatever that is, I don't have it. Not today. No way that patience and compassion could live in her toxic environment. All things good go to die and shrivel in her wake." Lacy set her forhead in a frown but she was half joking in her tone. "Let me be clear that she has herself believing she is happy and that is the worst scenario. Lying to herself means it is worse than I thought."
"Maybe she really is happy."
Lacy's barstool kept listing slightly to the right and wouldn't stop. She slide her drink over to the empty stool on her right. Grant slid into her listing stool. He doesn't have to worry about the room spinning like I do.
"Lacy it will all work out. Always has. What has got you so shaken? This isn't like you. Where's the powerhouse Lacy I know?" Grant was very young and very attractive. Lacy had noticed as her mind wandered in the alcoholic haze.
"What is wrong with me?" she asked herself out loud. She never thought of Grant that way.
"Exactly." Grant smiled and rubbed his hand between her shoulder blades to comfort her as she waved off his response.
Grant is... electric, both in personality and profession. His career started with a man and his kite. Of course Dan had been an earth spirit long before then. Before, he was lightning. Crackling and sparking, the danger of his personality hadn't left, but the tender side was a new and very human attribute he was getting used to. Being ruthless and random was exciting, but in the end, he loved his new gig better. Only taking human form on a rare occasion when he was lightning or the Night's Light, Grant was now used to his body and grateful for it. It grounded him in more ways than one. For one thing, he could hold a thought in his head for longer than a second. His power now was the type that was beneath the surface and only came out in necessary situations, which he'd never met. He is the epitome really of a "noob" or a newbie, but different in one important sense. He was an old earth spirit while other new muses were created from scratch as new profession or crafts emerged demanding a new muse. They were created from already existing energies in the world and harnessed to take form in useful muse forms. He was roped into and he was transfered to this gig of no choice of his own.

Grant was different also because he could execute actions before, an experience no muse felt. Essentially as a god, which some did worship him, he made choices and actions with consequences. A muse has only ever be the adverb or adjective to a human accomplishment or action. Never creating or doing. In fact, any muses who tried to get out on their own and create had ill fates. Grant had humans worshiping and fearing him for millenia, but he never had an ego about it. Lacy loved that about him. Instead, he never lacked in confidence. As a god, he has so much more in terms of choice and power, but as a muse, he was able to feel and be a more human like creature that was freed from responsibility of the world and the ego of the godhead. Dark as night, his smile flashes against his black feature with a brilliant shine.

"I know. But considering her potential to be a prodigy, which failed, it makes me feel like I failed. She's wasting away at a safe desk job. She is alone. The fact that she can write as well as work has never entered her mind. If only she just picked up a pen again." Her drawn and pensive face never showed a wrinkle, but belied a history of experience conflicting with a young mind.

Her age could easily seem to be 19 to 30 to a passerby. But every muse in every guild knew Lacy. She's from the original nine, nine sisters that is. Of course when Classical Rome presented the nine sister muses, there were actually thousands in the world. The muses were divine inspiration in female form and fit perfectly into the Roman pantheon and atop Mount Olympus. Artists painted them, sculpted them, and sung about them. The world of the Mediterranean accepted them lovingly. In fact before being known to the world, muses hadn't taken a human form. But the nine had powers unseen in sacred literature, lyrical literature, song, drama, comedy, tragedy, etc. that their debut was in flawless mimicry of humans. It caught on quickly. Before they were ethereal earth spirits which acted as guides. They had no order or guilds, they worked independently. It was dark times before the nine. Muses fought for charges, people they filled with divine inspiration. They betrayed, they hurt, and they sabatoged each other for the furthering of their own reputations among muses. It was much like a prison. When the nine came along, muses had someone to give allegiance to. They had someone to call them bitch. It resulted in the nine guilds. Eight of the original nine sisters still headed those guilds and took on special projects with special charges. The ninth sister had left to make her career in interior design. No one had heard from her after she went rogue with a whole lot of power.

The stories of Classical Rome gave the nine personalities and features. The songs and dramas had given them voices. The sculptures had inspired their forms. They were born. Shades and shadows before, the muse lived as clouds of inspiration from a larger divine source. For the price of a little power they had bodies and could be more human. This resulted in the increase of empathy and the decrease in efficiency now that they couldn't float or zip off somewhere. The kept the body and it's draw backs.

"I gotta pee..." Lacy blurted out, surprising Grant. She slide off her stool and glided to the ladie's room. She hadn't said anything for a while, just nursing her drink into oblivion. Grant sat patiently and listened. He was a good guy. It was never awkward when it got quiet and Lacy liked that. The bar they were in was her guild's official pub. It had the crest of her guild and everyone in it was from her guild.

Mari stared at the new announcement in horror. How could it be possible that...

To think about writing is much different than doing

The summer provided the safest haven for me. I was cuddled and swaddled in the quiet and peaceful sense of loneliness, which sounds weird. Who wants to be lonely? Quite honestly, I would have thought it was too scary to be alone as much as I am if someone had proposed the idea a year ago. I would have in fact panicked. But I have learned something special. The experience of my last year in living has taught me several things, but to the point, I simply had too much. The things could have taught me several lessons, but the fact that they were all there crowding me with menacing accusations and evil thoughts that only swirled about me made me see clearer.

Just because I can- does not mean I should.

I have tested my limits. I have go much much farther than many and farther than what I even thought I was capable of. But should I gluttonously pursue every aim or every while to say that I have? No. I have the control now. I am in control of time and space. I have very little discipline in other areas- but I know what I want. And most people who know me admire and equally fear my determination; it is unstoppable. My determination is a true juggernaut. But the beauty of a juggernaut it the control. The patience. The two forms. The deception of a calm person that is truly underneath an unstoppable force is a frightful prospect.

I know that about myself. I have set my challenges higher. I have been met with no ill fate and no menacing faces from disbelievers. The more I believe in myself, the more I attract people who believe in me. Yet, I know I am what I am without their praise.

To know that without a direction, I can still be a good person with great skills and personal power. It becomes a new kind of zen. I know me. I do not know the furture. I know I like certain things but my outlook has become flexible.

A good pen. A sheet of blank paper. That's how all great stories start. How they progress. And how the end. There is never knowing. There is knowing. And there is faith.

I Don't Live Alone

I don't live alone. It just looks like that. I have an apartment. There are two bedrooms and one of them acts as my office. I try to sit at my desk in there and write, but it is as if the magnets of writing ideas pull me away from there. I have a nice set up. A large living room with two couches and a nice TV which I watch more often than I'd like to admit. I should be writing, exercising, cleaning, running errands, calling family, leaving the house for once, or maybe just relaxing with a book. But no. The Today Show runs my early to late morning and then it is TBS from then out. I have creativity and I can write. It's just that I can find a whole lot of other things to do. It is as if not only does my writing desk reject me, or I guess I subconsciously reject it since I'm the living being, but it is as if I have these creative juices flowing and pulsing through me that I could explode. They should be used to write master pieces. My energies should spill out onto paper like a fine powder coating the sheets of paper like a dusting snow, and when the wind blows words are left behind. They should come so naturally, but they freaking do not. Instead, I paint or draw. I quilt and knit. I cook and bake. All of which keep my fat and happy, but never seal the deal with the writing situation. I rely on my writing to keep a roof over my head and little mini roofs (rooves?) over my fat and happy kitties' heads.

I wake alone. I write alone. I sing in the shower alone. I eat alone. Yet there is another. A man in my life. The man actually. Not "the man" as in the government. But the one and only, always forever. Well, actually. The only every other weekend and sometimes just special occasions and holidays "one." I ok with it, I think. He's off chasing his dream. And of course, I allowed such a thing so he could be who he was meant to be and whatnot. For the here and now, it is a lousy situation and I don't know what I had been smoking when I agreed to such circumstances. Some befuddled love principle of sort lead me to to think being apart wouldn't hurt or would only be good for us. And I once heard, "It is a sure way to lead myself into disaster if it is under the illusion it will be good for me." Or something like that.

The literal house I live in is being supported and paid for by Darrel. He's my husband of four years. We have been students for half of that time. I was a student the first half and him the second. It is a really weird situation to feel like you went from being a hopeless mope relying on someone elses money writing papers all day to a hopeless mope relying on someone else's money writing books all day. It is true though, and oh so sad.

The Notes of Ryla Mason

This is an excerpt from the writing I am doing. I have a character and I feel like these blogs she'll write. If I give her the reins I may just find out who she is. These are her notes about her book about the end of the world.

July 9th 2008
Around 2:10 pm today I thought I heard the coming of the end of the world. This happens on occasion. A punk in his low riding tricked out car follows the 25 mph speed limit on the road past my house and as it approaches with its loud muffler and booming bass music, I imagine the end of the world. I guess a tricked out Honda Civic sounds like the roar of the world's demise. A world killing tsunami wave or the mushroom cloud of a nuclear attack. As the rumbling of a the deep tones of the expensive stereo setup, I hear the inevitable and unpreventable approach of disaster. I imagine seeing a wall of debri or water or smoke, which is incidentally traveling 25 mph in this fantasy. I can do nothing. Say nothing. Feel nothing. There is no time. I die in my meaningless but rather nice spacious two bedroom home, alone. Sometimes in these fantasies, I burn alive, or rather in case of a nuclear apocalypse, I am incinerated with my two cats before I can blink. The end.
Or sometimes I drown in my belongings. The water wells and gushes up the the second floor windows of my house. The water forces its way into every crevice and every crack. There is nothing to be done. It happens slower than the burning scenario. But the death by water is very appealing. It's more peaceful. That is only if the water is clear and clean. If I were drowning in the mud and muck of those already killed and all the matter this storm collected, it sounds much less appealing. I drown among the comfort of my belongings. The water of the oceans is far away from its proper home there in my living room. Books and photos and pillows swirl around me in the churning water and swallow me up.
Or sometimes I imagine a blast of immense power and energy that sends the glass of my windows inward. I huddle against the wall between the windows of my dining room and living room as they explode in a spray of glass. I huddle with my two cats as the big impact hits. I cough and choke on the dust and floating debri. It steals the oxygen from the air, it soaks up the saliva in my mouth and throat, and clogs my nose. My eyes water and I cover them. My ears ring with the roaring of the explosion. I guess I don't die in this scenario right away. I might die from radiation later. Or the lack of water. The power is out. I have no heat. My only shelter is the decrepit apartment which is windowless, wrecked, and at the mercy of further explosions.
I imagine and concoct all of these scenarios in less than 10 seconds, and then I realize the roaring rumble of the end of the world was just a Honda Civic that has a stereo system that is worth far more than the car itself for sure. I go back to the mundane and routine of my normal life until the world end again as a plane passes over or the ground shakes. It's these times that I imagine the end as inevitable, hopeless, quick, and lethal. But there are other ways for the world to end. In fact, I am sure of it. I imagine those as well.

Until another end- Ryla

Dreams

I have dreams every morning. As the sun rises and the birds wake, I lay in bed asleep. Though not completely asleep. My mind wakes bit by bit and wanders. I have dreams that are beyond scary. I have dreams that feel a whole lot scarier than they are. I have dreams of mundane and silly things. My emotions get tied to my dreams and I awake still anger, upset, or happy. Haven't had too many happy dreams though. Why is that? Who has happy dreams? I wonder if there is a requirement for what one needs in order to have a good dream.

My Day Off

Last summer, I stayed home on July 30^th. I was very tired. I just called in sick. I hadn’t known why I felt the way I did, that is until around one that the afternoon when I got the call. My friends Genna and Anna had gone to the zoo in Portland that day. I could have gone if I hadn’t been scheduled at the place all three of us worked. And when I called in sick, I couldn’t very well go out to the zoo with them. Someone would tell. Plus, I really didn’t feel good. I called my sister-in-law Beth who came over to my house, instead.

As we talked in my living room, facing each other on opposite ends of my couch as the air conditioner blew cool air quietly into the space, we talked about anything and everything that came to mind. The lights were out and the blinds open to let the summer light in. I had been scheduled for a short shift that day, so my boss let me off the hook, which didn’t happen often or easily. I took advantage of the time, and planned to go get Chinese food at my favorite restaurant with Beth for lunch.

But as we sat there on the couch, I got a call from my dad at 1:00 pm. He was choked up and could barely get the words out. I knew what had happened before he said it. My grandfather had died. In fact, he had died in his home in Billings Montana with his wife and daughters less the two hours before I had gotten the call. I cried as I heard my dad explain that his dad had died, and he was headed home to pack. He was leaving for Montana that night. And so was I.

Beth watched and listened with the sympathy of a sister. She hugged me and gave her condolences. We had Chinese food as I talked over my cell phone in short conversations with my husband, my mother, my sister, and my dad. I told my husband Kris what had happened. He doesn’t do well in situations like this. I do well. He doesn’t. I asked him to come home at the usual time. At first, I gave him the option to stay home. It was a Friday and Grandpa was going to be cremated Saturday. We were in a hurry. After all the planning and thinking and packing, I decided I needed my husband to be with me. Beth patiently listened and talked to me in between phone calls. Emily, my sister, was sun bathing beside a lake with her friend a good two hours away from home. I had to wrangle up my sisters, my parents, and get the show on the road, and I wasn’t about to leave him at home just because he was afraid of missing work. I didn’t give him a chance this time, as I usually did. He was going and he could just deal with it on his own. I was in no mood to cater to his insecurities about traveling to unknown places, meeting unknown people, and mainly, leaving his safe hovel of a familiar home.

I packed the dress Kris had gotten me for my birthday in June. It was expensive, and I was going to wear it for the first time to my grandfather’s funeral. It was a beautiful dress with the top part from my waist up consisting of a sexy black material in a v-necked sleeveless piece which connected to the flowing and silky material of the patterned swirls and shapes of dark purple, red, green, blue, and brown. The dress went to my knees. It was beautiful and sad, and I admired it as I packed it with my clothes and my husband’s clothes.

Beth watched and talked to me as I made plans and acted generally like I had lost it. She offered to take care of our two cats and the mail while we were gone. I didn’t know when we would leave or get home. Kris was pissed at me for not allowing him to fail me and taking way his security of the everyday routine. He still wasn’t home yet. My dad had called at 1:00 pm. I called Kris right away. Beth and I had lunch until 2:00 pm. Kris would be home at 3:30 pm.

Our bags were packed for a week long trip just in case, the cats were taken care of, and Beth and I went into my workplace and notified them of the tragedy. It was store policy to give bereavement time without set dates. The store manager was a bear of a man, a bit of an idiot, and intimidating as hell, but I wasn’t scared. His second in command was there. They both said to take as much time as needed and to call when things would return back to normal and I was ready to come back to work. I hated my job, my bosses, and the whole store, but I needed the money then. I would return unfortunately, but I’d milk my vacation, my sick days, and my personal days to pay for my trip to Montana to be a long one. I didn’t want to hurry home. My family needed me. I needed my husband. My day off had turned into a trip to Montana.

When Kris got home, we did the normal routine for when we leave for the weekends. We took the garbage out, set the AC to energy save so it would keep the house cool for the cats but not cost us an arm and a leg, and we cleaned all the dishes. There is nothing like coming home after an exhausting weekend and finding dirty, stinky sinks, a rotten garbage can, and a house in disarray. You want to just sit back and relax for an hour or two before you crash in bed after your family has drained the energy of your weekend and left you in a daze. We were going to be doubly as tired. Not only were we going to be with my family, but we would be traveling and staying with extended family.

Kris didn’t like the idea of driving all the way from Corvallis, Oregon to Billings, Montana He didn’t like that he wouldn’t know where he was staying. He didn’t like that he didn’t know how to get there. He hated that we were all as unsure as he was. And he hated that he hadn’t had a good week or two to mentally prepare for a trip. But this wasn’t a vacation, and he and I both knew that. It was not a trip to go site see or go relax. He can’t really relax around people, especially people he doesn’t know well. He is an introvert, as my mother would say. “He doesn’t get his energy from people. He’s like me. You do though Sophie, you are just like your father,” she would say. I always felt like she hated dad and I for being extraverts. Right then, I hated her and Kris for being introverts because they couldn’t deal. without stopping.

We drove the two and a half hour drive home to my parent’s house to meet up with them before heading out to Montana. I had no idea what to expect when we got there. I had told Kris during the ride there that all I needed him to do was to trust me, trust that we’ll be taken care of, and to shut up. I couldn’t deal with him and with my family. He could help it. They couldn’t.

It was getting dark out around 10 pm when my parents finally had their bags piling up in the living room. Emily had gotten home. Her friend was not happy to truncate their summer trip to the lake, but Emily told her off. Her grandpa had died. Our grandpa had died. Jesse, our youngest sister, found out much later than all of us. Dad had called Emily and me on our cell phones. Mom and Dad waited until they both were home to tell her. She is not a melodramatic kid. In fact, she was distinctly not sad. She was excited she’d get to see all our relatives, even though it was under sad circumstances. She bounced around as a thirteen year old does, and packed her enormous bags full of unnecessary objects. I didn’t comment, which was hard. I am a master packer, and a master controller. Her packing all her CDs, her whole wardrobe, and several bathing suits was not important. Kris stood in the background and waited for instructions.

My mother was on her computer when I came into the living room. It was her normal position. She had become very techno savvy and she relied heavily on her computer. My father was the opposite. He couldn’t sit still indoors. He had to be building something or tearing something down outside on the fifty-something acre farm. He barked at mom for being on the computer while she should be packing. I broke that fight up quickly by asking, “Dad, where’s your bags?” He hadn’t even gotten his suitcase out. He insisted on the hard shelled, teal mid-sized suit case his father had given him, which was inconveniently packed up in the loft in the shop. I sent him to get it, yelled at Emily to help pack, Kris to take out the garbage, and Jesse to go through the fridge to throw out food that would spoil while we were gone. Dad did go to the barn, but came back with poles to fix his closet with instead. Emily yelled at me and said, “Sophie, you are not the fucking boss, we are getting ready!” Kris took out the garbage and cleaned the fridge. Jesse watched TV on the couch in the middle of the piled luggage. Mom was still on her computer. I went over to her, rubbed her shoulders, and I realized something. I was right. They had needed me. My father couldn’t pack, my mother couldn’t leave her chair, and Kris did everything I asked because I needed him. Jesse was too young to see what I could. Emily was too bitchy to see what I could. Kris was too scared.

I helped dad set up the pole in his closet. My mother’s overflowing clothes had finally set the closet into disrepair and he propped up the shelf, holding the weight of thirty years of clothes I have barely seen my mother wear up with his shoulder. I shoved the pole under, bickering with my father about how to extend the pole. I twisted the top end of the pole to extend it, and he returned with his suitcase. He had held up the shelf, straining under the weight a minute before, but it was carrying his suitcase that made him look weak, tired, and old. I realized I would have to pack for him. I talked to him as he sat on the edge of his King size bed. I picked out shorts, t-shirts, a few pairs of pants, a belt, socks, and a nice shirt for the funeral. He hadn’t wanted to pick out the outfit for the funeral, I had realized. It had made it too real. He couldn’t sit still, like a child. He jumped up to get his toiletries, or his underwear, or his dress shoes, or unnecessary clothes, which I pulled out of the suitcase when he wasn’t looking. He wouldn’t need a fleece in July in Montana, but that is my father, “Always be prepared. If I taught you anything, it is to wear layers so you don’t freeze.”

He pulled out a metal trinket that looked like a toy pogo stick. He put it in one hand, pulled back the side parts like a trigger, and it snapped forward with a pop. It was a chiropractic tool his father had used way back when. My dad stood there and told me to use this archaic tool on his back, which felt like a gun when the spring released and sent a jolt into the muscles of his shoulder. He explained the use of the tool, but I wasn’t listening. Neither was he. He was speaking gibberish. It was like being with a child. I treated him like he was four just to get him packed and out of the house, because he was fragile and sad. He needed comforting, and I was there for him. I packed his pillow and took his suitcase out to the building pile in the living room.

I had brought my car, and Jesse packed her stuff into the trunk joyfully. Kris quietly sat on the couch awaiting further instructions. He was paralyzed by the idea of bad things happening. He never thought he would know what to do; therefore, he couldn’t do anything. I knew I could do what was needed, and hence I did it easily. We are very different.

Mom still sat at the computer. I stood behind her again and tried to coax her into the bedroom. She needed to pack. She would take longer and pack more than anyone. I wouldn’t be able to control that, but to get her started would get us on the road. Dad’s sister Karolyn had called and briefly told my father that their deceased parent would be cremated Saturday evening and he could view him before then. We had about twenty hours before then, and it would take twenty-four hours to get there. My father wasn’t talking to my mother. He resented her for not moving fast enough. She had lost a parent too. A father of twenty-four years, as long as she was married to my father. She handled situations less gracefully than Kris, because she doesn’t take orders. And she is less effective than dad who is balls to the wall, day light is burning kind of planner. She packed as if nothing was replaceable. I watched her scan travel and hotel websites for rooms. She thought and rethought about booking rooms. She had been told by dad that Karolyn had everything worked out. She didn’t trust that things would be ok. I had to get her off the computer, in a car, and on the road. She was just as fragile as my father and needed me.

I pulled her away and ensured her that if she called Karolyn, I’m sure she would reserve rooms for us if there wasn’t any space at any of their houses. She argued with me and said that Bob, my dad’s older brother, and his family were coming. All of the kids and cousins from every family would be there. I just told her to listen to dad, get packed, and bring a cell phone charger so we could have a back up option. She wasn’t completely there. Usually she was in charge. Though she was always last out the door, with dad running the car and honking about burning daylight, she still had things under control. She didn’t tonight. I did.

Emily was invisible, as she stayed in her room packing, talking on the phone to her boyfriend in Iraq, and avoiding the chaos that I was knee deep in. It was dark out, Jesse was packed and back in front of the TV. Dad would walk past her to the door, yell at her to get up and help, and leave out the front door with a bag. She didn’t budge. Mom would do the same, but with a more pleading tone. And Jesse would sit there glued. Emily would yell through the wall of her bedroom, which were paper thin and adjoined to the living room, to Jesse to get off her ass and help for Christ’s sake. Kris would sit and watch TV as well, but was ready to lend a hand. He finally talked Jesse into going out to the barn to feed the horses with him. They had been whinnying for hours, forgotten in the pandemonium. My mother had left her packing for some reason to come out and call people. It was getting close to 11:30 pm, and Dad was anxious and more cantankerous than ever to get the show on the road. In the back of his mind, he imagined he’d never get to see his father again before he was stuffed in some jar. I knew what he was thinking, that my mother wasn’t thinking about that, and I wouldn’t let it happen.

Mom was freaking out about what car to take, who was going to take care of the animals, and how she was going to leave work at such a tumultuous time. I chose the pick-up because dad’s boss paid for the gas in the truck and he offered to pay for the trip there for mom and dad. I told her dad had already called their friends Larry and Heidi to take care of the animals. Then, I asked, “When is work not crazy?” She went back to her room and finished packing, finally. My dad and Kris packed luggage into the truck. Emily rode with them. We had everything packed up. I had brought a bag of trail mix, stowed water bottles, and packed their left over fruit that needed to be eaten. We had the Corolla following the F-150 on the road and three miles from the house, when my parents turned around and went home. I didn’t know what they were doing, we were out of cell phone range, but Jesse and Kris kept me preoccupied until the truck showed up alongside us where we had stopped and been waiting.

Dad yelled curtly out the window, “Decided not to leave the puppy after last summer.” They had a puppy disappear last summer while on vacation, so they took the new puppy Buster with them. He drove off with a six month old puppy in the back seat with Emily, Mom fretting in the front seat about being uncomfortable or something like that, and the dingy dog kennel strapped in the back of the truck. Kris pulled the car out behind them. We had the air conditioner blasting in the humid night, I wore my sweatshirt, and we drove the whole night through.

I slept with the hood of my sweatshirt pulled forward to cover my eyes as Kris drove the night shift. He was comfortable on the road with no one around. I would pick up my shift when the sun rose. Jesse slept curled up in the back seat. The road passed a few feet under my body and the body of the car at speeds of 75 to 90 miles per hour as we raced across the states in the summer night. And my day off ended with lights passing above my head trying to keep me awake as we drove on down freeways and highways following my father’s well-honed navigations to his home, to Montana. He saw his father for the last time the next day. I made sure he would during my day off.

Berry Picking

Isobel put the strawberry on top of the pile of small sweet and red dusty berries in her yellow bucket. She uses her bucket at the beach most of the time, but mom had given it to her that morning and it was warm and wet from being washed. "You'll be able to have a bucket with handles and you always loved the one with the flower on the front, see Izzy?" mom said in a sugar sweet tone as she handed it to Isobel.
Isobel squatted down to look into the bucket that she set on the ground. She wore a pink tank top that billowed with ruffles as the bottom. Her diaper crunched and rustled under her shorts as she squatted to peak inside her bucket as if for the first time. Each move was both clumsy and curious as she pointed in the bucket and said, "Mommy, there is no berries in here. There is no berries in heres! Mommy, what berries are where, 'cause they aren't in here mommy."
Mommy was busy getting her bowls ready for the berries she'd pick for batches of jam.
They rode out on a dusty road with daddy in the driver's seat, mommy in the passenger seat, and Isobel in the back. The car was hot, humid, and windy as the AC blasted to cool off the overwhelming selter of mid-June weather. One day it could be overcast and 65 degrees out. Not a rustle of a leaf or the whisper of a breeze. But there were days like today were the fog that lasted until mid morning dispersed and the sun beat down on the ground, warming it to send out smells of grass and dirt that would have been left dormant on an overcast day. The heat hit Isobels tinted window and warmed the air around her. As the turned the car around corners of fields and down new dirt lanes to get to the berry patches, the sun chased her and nipped at her limbs. It sneaked in through the windows on either side of the van and left warm impressions on her arms, hands and legs.
When daddy found a spot to park, there were noises coming from the fields as families picked, talked, and chased naughty kids who had been pelting berries at one another. The plants were low and easy to pick from. Isobel's dry diaper again rustled as she squatted, as she so frequently did, to poke at the plants, pick at green unripened berries, and pluck the leaves that acted as shelter for the fruits lying in the dirt below. Mommy came over to Isobel's spot, which was on the edge of the field because she hadn't made it very far before finding curious sights in the gleaned and empty plants of the first rows. Daddy closed the van door with a thud, and as he walked over, his steps sent up dust that made Isobel's eyes water. She blinked, stood up, and cried for her daddy to pick her up. Her bucket sat empty on the ground, as mom and daddy argued about which rows the lady at the tent told them they could pick at. There were miles away from the hot tent and it scales and cash register. Daddy was sure it was further back, while mommy was sure they said not to go to the back very far. They decided on a patch of land that was a ways away from the van, the edge of the field, and away from other families that had older children running up and down the pathes screaming. They ripped around and tore over the bushes, leaping from path to path as their mothers', who seemed to be friends, beckoned the kids to sit on the opening of their own van.
Mommy wore shorts and a tank top. Her tan was starting to show on the edges of her shirt sleeves. She smelled like a shampoo, and she was moist with sweat. She picked for two hours, only stopping to stand and stretch out her lower back and cup her hand over her eyes to look for me and daddy. Isobel was near daddy. She looked up at mommy and ate a green berry, as she laughed and said, "Izzy those are sour, you want the red ones baby." She sucked on the sour berry, made a face and picked it out of her mouth. She dropped it in the dirt. It covered with dust and rolled down the berry patch a few inches away. Isobel picked a red berry. Instead of eating it she put in on top of the pile of red berries daddy had picked and placed in her bucket. Her faces was covered with red strawberry juice and as she squatted, the wind picked up and her hair moved out of her face. She drank from the water bottle daddy brought. He looked down as Isobel, whose red juicy cheeks and hands had collected dust from the breeze to line her juicy stains with brown crusty dirt. She smiled, he smiled, and they picked up their bottle, buckets and headed back for the AC of the van. Mommy and daddy kissed as Isobel watched them close the van door after they had cleaned her hands and face up and strapped her into her car seat. The car was blisteringly hot, but it was running and the breeze blew on her. Her sweaty curls were up in a pony tail now. And as the heat and cool air mingled to create a warm encapsulating environment, Isobel was lulled to sleep. After a hot day, a long day, and a fun day, she fell asleep listening to the deep tones of her parents voices talking, the air blowing, and her tummy full of red and green strawberries, dust, and maybe a spider or two.