Week 15: The Big Project

 For Our Fathers:

 Social revolution is never easy.  Most times change is printed in the blood of the revolutionary as it is in blue or black ink and as we well know, history is written by the victor in both mediums.

  When the wars had first started I had been but a child barely past my third birthday.  Too young to comprehend why the world had gone mad but old enough to remember the three men who had taken my father away:  Two hard eyed young men in the muted greens and grays of the guard, the third in a mud stained great coat and peeked officer's cap of a commissar.  Now that I think back on it I think it was the look on the Commissar’s face, the expression I can only describe as cold, inhuman, determination that frightened me most.  Frightened me more than the impossibly large hellguns that his companions carried.

  My father had turned to us then, my older brother Darwin and I, knelt then gathered us up in his arms.  I can still hear his voice, gruff with emotion, as he whispered words of comfort I can't quite remember.  My mother joined us in the embrace, I can still remember the sensation of warm tears dampening my hair and the back of my neck; and then with a bark from the man of stone, the Commissar, my father was gone, disappeared into the glow of the outside world through the hab door.

*******

This is a short story I've been working on for a while, obviously science fiction and admittedly (unrepentantly I might add) a fan fiction.  It's actually something I started writing for a creative writing class here at school through a random prompt given by the teacher and it just took off and I grew really, really fond of the idea and the concept.  Thus I decided once I was done with the class I'd just keep writing, just keep going and see where the character's story would lead her.  However on the last portion of the short story tragedy struck: My pen drive became corrupted and I had to scrap everything I was doing and start again, this time around with a heavy time constraint.

I finished the assignment and made it to the jumping off point for the rest of the story but it wasn't nearly as flushed out or in depth as it's previous incarnation.  I had vowed that I would start again, revamp that last section and grant it the detailed look it deserved but that was almost a year ago now.

I'm not entirely sure I can pick the story up again, not because I want too, but because I fear I really don't have time or can't give the piece the depth I want to give it.  When I write, I'm my own worst critic when I reread something I've completed.  Maybe it's a flaw?  I'm not sure, but every now and then I look at this little bit of work and think "maybe in a few days...I'll be able to hammer out the kinks."

Ultimately I hope that I'll be able to finish it to a point where I'm satisfied with how things turned out.

Week 14: Painted

Pieces on the game table move six to twelve inches at a time and dice clatter across the green felted surface, determining which of the painstakingly crafted soldiers lives or dies.  It's a futuristic setting; armies clash in an imagined fire storm of lasers, plasma and solid shot that rips away at each players army, leaving the ruined crater of a make believe landscape in its wake.  Marines hold the line against legions of traitors and on a two or better on a six sided die, victory can be measured in how many ones fate decides to throw at you. 

Just as in life, this pretend war has it's champions.  Each figure meticulously chosen, sculpted, and painted to fit the players image of greatness.  They weather the storm of incoming fire as they take the field, the (un)fortunate members of the squad they are attached too soaking up incoming fire and dropping away like flies as each side's champion draws nearer to the other.  It's a contest of chance as much as skill as a fist full of six siders tumbles across the table again, each bounce of the die holds the fate of a model, the game itself, within its outcome.

The final moment arrives and the chosen figure's finally meet.  Their honor guard depleted yet their own painted finish remains unscathed.  Close quarter weapons of enormous power flash in the minds eye as each player rolls the dice around in the palm of their hands. 

The dice strike the table and spin as each player eagerly awaits the outcome.

Week 14: Worn to Imperfection..

There's a desk at the end of the hall in a room that's been left open, but rarely has anyone ever entered for very long.  The blue paint that covers the floor paneling is chipped, covered with the dirt of passing feet and the window that sits in the center of the largest wall is clouded with the dietaries of passing seasons.  But it isn't the window, or the floors, or even the book shelf lined with novels and photo albums that catches the eye in this little room.  It is the desk pressed against the far wall in this room at the end of the hall.

The wood is certainly aged, though at first glance its hard to tell just how much.  Sun from the weather beaten window has cast a yellow luster to the varnish that has made a valiant attempt to keep it's armored sheen in tact and thus leave the wood beneath unharmed.  And yet there are nicks, scraps, and chips in the wood work.  The once smooth surface is marred by the wear of age, lines crisscross the desk top and there is more than one water mark from a glass or a beverage can that has left a ring to mark its passing.  There is some regularity to the damage in parts, perhaps a name or two have been etched into the surface?  A memento of those that have come and gone; and here!  Drops of green and orange paint smeared across the trim as idle fingers brushed away the offending pigments.  One might try to check the drawers, for certainly when an attempt is made to open them something rattles inside, but they are stuck.  The rollers having long fallen off the track and jammed. eliminating any hope of opening them short of the destruction of the desk itself.

Though despite these flaws, or perhaps because of them, the desk holds a certain charm.  Its solid, whole, and fairly level. The lined grains of the wood show brilliantly through the faded finish and speaks of a time where it was once a respectable, functional piece if not a beautiful one.

Week 13: Everything Can Be Condensed...

The stadium's massive size is only contested by the wall of sound the emanates from the crowd bellow. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people raise their hands as one as the band steps onto the stage. Bodies surge forward in a irresistibly press that compacts the once spacious floor to the first two hundred feet noise made manifest just before the scaffolding of the stage. It's a primal sound, one of excitement and anticipation that only rises to new heights as the lead singer takes up the mic. A partial hush falls over the crowd as he speaks, expressing thanks to those who have come and asks for a moment of silence for those who could not join in this moment. The crowd obliges and for a moment, just a moment, the silence is so complete it downs out the echos of the last words uttered before the request.

Then, with a chest thundering base, the music begins.

When you're in a crowd like that it's like you're part of a collective, every one's moving in their own way but it's all to the same beat. Everyone knows the words to the song and everyone, or at least most of the fans, sing along. You'd be hard pressed to find another group that shares the same mind in a single moment as those that are watching their favorite band live.

As I belt out the last lines of one of my favorite songs in the relative safety of my car I can't help but smile a little. I may not be right there, in that moment, but at least I have the CD to keep reminding me what it was like.

Week 13: IN a Drawr, In a Box

As I'm sifting through my things after the move I find, tucked away amidst the odds and ends of my life thus far, a small oak box stained dark and etched with Celtic knot work on the lid. I pause for a moment and settle down on my new bed and simply hold it, my thumbs trace every nick and imperfection on the otherwise smooth surface. After a moment I open the box and study the contents within. Afternoon light catches the dull edge of a collection of sea glass. The various scuffed colors of blue, green, and the occasional reds have been scuffed to an odd smoothness by years of being tossed about amidst the sands and ties of the ocean. I pick one up and think back on where we found them, walking along the beach in Bar Harbor, how excited she was when she'd turned over a few rocks and found this catch of gem-like glass. I smile and sift my fingers through the small catch. I have to wonder if the men and women at sea had even thought how popular their cast offs would become? Or was it simply a ocean going party that had dropped a few bottles of brew and swept them over the side without a thought? I'm pretty sure the company that had produced theis bits of glass I now hold in my hand hadn't given it much thought.

Week 13: For Want of A Nail

The sun's rays were beating down on my back through the quickly diminishing layer of sun screen like a consistent stream of hammer blows. I winced as I bent down to pick up the last piece of wood for the scaffolding and hauled it into place. We've been working on this little shack for hours and, finally, the end was just with our reach. With a grunt I turned and braced the frame against my shoulder and cast about for the last name I'd need to get this sucker in place. I fished through the pockets of my jeans and produced a whole assortment of odds and ends: Screws, receipts, a laser pointer and some lint...but no nail. My eyes scan the ground quickly from left to right. There's an gaggle of things strewn about the green grass,much like the contents of my pockets there screws, bits of wood and saw dust as well as other odds and ends litter the area about my feet but no nails....but wait! Amidst the jumble of stuff a small box catches my eye and, with a groan, I lean down and pluck. They aren't the length I'd like to use but they'll reach through the wood, if just barely. I consider the box as I turn it over in my hands then shrug. It should be alright if I pound enough of the little suckers in there.... Later that week we're putting the siding up on the shed, the weather is thankfully overcast yet warm enough not to be uncomfortable. We're working over time to get this thing done before the rain that's predicted to hit later this week comes. The sound of our hammers echoes through the woods and I pause to look over the work as Stephan walks over to me. His glance first at me then at the shed is through squinted eyes and he's looking at the section of wall I'd put up the other day. "That looks a bit off, you get everything together alright?" I nod as I squint at the section in turn. I can't find what he's looking for but if he says it's off... "It was secure when I put it up." He nods and heads back over to finish on his section of the siding. Two weeks later as I'm loading a small bucket of mulch into the shed I hear a large crack from the back corner of the shed and the entire section of the structure starts to lean dangerously to one side. With a cry of alarm I rush over to brace the section with my shoulders and keep it upright. As I do so I catch a glimpse of five or six short nails sticking out of the wood work right where the section had let go. They weren't long enough to hold the thing together after all.

Week 12: I am an English Teacher. All English Teachers like, but I'm telling you the truth.

It's the usual sort of day in my morning English class: The student collective is sluggish, hunched over their books or nursing half warm cups of coffee in an attempt to maintain a state of wakefulness. In contrast our proff is her usual self, bright eyed and energetic, she's trying to get us to engage in a conversation. Usually we're pretty reluctant, or just not awake enough, to really be up to the task but today we're on the subject of Young Goodman Brown; a story that seems to have energised our usually dreary minds. The question that has been posed is thus: What do you think happened in the woods? Is it real or imagined? The conversation moves about the room and is actually starting to pick up as more of my classmates warm to the subjects: Good vs Evil, Reality vs Perception. Was it a dream? Some of them think so, others don't. I have something of a different opinion which I eagerly voice as I'm called on. "Well..I really don't see how it matters if it was real or a dream." there's a moment of silence and I feel the sudden surprising weight of eyes on me as I take a quick glance about the room. I thought it somewhat obvious...in a philosophical sort of way at least. If what Goodman Brown had seen, real or imagined had impacted his life in such an extreme way it matters very little of the demonic visions he saw in the woods were imaginary; they were real to him. The Prof seems almost to be in shock, but finds her voice. "Of course it matters! If it wasn't real then why did he distance himself from his wife and the members of his community?" I'm not sure if she's upset over my opinion or not so I simply smile and nod. I thought it was a pretty keen observation anyways.

Week 12: My Summer Vacation..

It's the last day of school, everyone is full of grins and anticipation of that sound, that final tole, that voice over the com that tells us to have a good summer. We will, of course, once we tear out of this place like a pack of crazed animals set loose from their cages. I'm so anxious I can almost taste it, smell it, the scent of fresh cut grass and my mother's barbecue are waiting for me a scant seven miles away...but when I'm in these walls they may as well be on the other side of the country. I'm watching the clock, counting down the seconds...then that sweet, sweet sound of that last bell echoes through the school... ***** "Seriously, you gonna do it or what?" I'm standing on the edge of a wooden and concrete slab, looking down into the maybe three feet of water rushing through the channel of the dam in Orrington. It's an insane idea, I know it is, but I've been bragging about it all the way here. I can feel Dan and Justin behind me, grinning more from anticipation than anything else, of the stunt I'm about to pull: a somersault plunge into the rushing, if rather shallow, waters bellow. I swing my arms scissor lick in front of my chest, stretching out my back and arms as I mentally prepair myself. "Yeah just gimme a sec, I gotta do this right..." And I knew that was the truth, for certain. I wasn't really afraid, getting hurt was an abstract notion in my mind at that point. What really mattered was executing the flip and landing in such a way that the surface area of my body will slow my descent thus avoiding some seriously nasty bumps, bruises, scraps or even breaks. "Uh huh..." I can hear the mirth and Dan's voice and something clicks inside me. The familiar rush hits my veins and I can smell the stink of adrenalin rises in my nostrils. I clench my teeth in a half crazed smile and glance over my shoulder at my two friends. "You only live once right?" And with a grunt of effort, I jumped into a somersault over the edge. ***** Over the picnic table my mom looks across her plate at me and arches an eye brow at me. I'm grinning like a cat that's caught the canary as I'm eating my potato salad. My hair's wet and I'm still in my swim trunks; Justin and Dan had stopped in for a quick bite then retreated just as quickly, sniggering all the while. "And what've you been up to today?" her tone is half sarcastic, half serious and I perk up and grin all the wider. "You seem pretty pleased with yourself." "Oh...nothing. We just went swimming at the dam." I know I'm pretty transparent at this point but I'd rather not tell my mother the nurse I flawlessly front flipped into three feet of water from twelve feet up in the air. If that stunt didn't kill my mom certainly would.

Week 12: A Risk At Writing

Dust was kicked up then slowly began to settle as the car came to a grinding stop. The middle of the woods, on a dirt road, secluded in the waning hours of the day seemed like a romantic place to stop. Or was it? A casual passer by, if there were such a thing this far into the woods, would hear the sound of raised voices coming from the car. An argument for certain but over what? The man's deep baritone would drone from the confines of the metal box on wheels then raise to a roar that proverbially shook the windows and was joined by another, more feminine voice. Soothing, placating, the argument dies for a few moments then the door to the car slams open, the metal creaks loudly in protest. "You don't get it." his voice is a growl of frustration and rage that bleeds into the surrounding stillness. With an angry jerk he steps out of the car, the touch of his boots to the ground brought a puff of dist and scrape of gravel. On the other side of the car the passenger side opens and she steps out and turns to look over the car. "You're right I don't. I don't know why you'd want to go out west for two weeks." Her voice is restrained with emotion. She watches as he walks to the edge of the dirt road and stares off into the woods. "I haven't seen my friends in two years." The growl has faded from his voice, replaced with a defeated, almost tired, tone. With shoulders slumped he turns to face her and leans against the car door. "Can't it wait?" her voice is pleading, a call for calm and reason. But somehow, she knows it won't be quite enough. He shakes his head and falls back into the driver's seat with a heavy sigh. "Fine. I won't go."

Week 12: Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll

The beer in my hand is only half full but it feels just a tad bit heavier than it should. The party's been going for a few hours now and I've got that warm, slightly sluggish and more than a little diluted feeling pumping through my veins. It's a relaxed state if you know how to maintain it but most just opt for the 'chug and go' approach to their drinking that often leaves one praying to the proverbial porcelain throne....but I digress. We're in full swing here and I'm doing pretty well by most standards. Kwi Ce grins at me and offers me another beer, which I refuse. "Nah I'm good...I'd actually like to walk back to my room tonight." Kwi Ce's grin widens and he settles back into his seat on the couch. "Your loss man." I had to agree on some level. The brand, which name escapes me now, was a rich IPA that was full of flavor, but I'd been to enough convention parties to know it's better to walk out on your feet than to have someone carry you. I sit up and scrub a hand across my slightly numbed features, when I open my eyes that's when I saw her and I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped a little. Long, wavy black hair that spilled over her shoulders to just above her lower back that gave a complimenting contrast to her pale skin. Brown eyes so dark they were nearly black and curves that couldn't possibly be hidden beneath the modest T shirt and jeans she worn. From the corner of my eye I saw Kwi Cee give me an amused look and he offered me the bottle again. "You're more drunk than I thought. Here, why not cushion the blow before you go and get yourself shot down?" I wave him off and flash him my best, lop sided smile. "Ease up KC, let me show you how it's done." with that I haul myself to my feet.

Week 11: Simple Words

"I did it...I made it!"

I spout the words as I step off the stage of my high school graduation, diploma in hand and a big grin plastered across my face. My mom smiled one of the biggest smiles I think I've seen in a long time and wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug.

"Yes, you did." there was a hint of bottled up emotion in her voice which only made me tear up with her and we simply held one another for a short second. I almost didn't, make it that is. Now here I was hugging my mom on perhaps one of the biggest achievements in my life so far.

And we were simply happy to be standing here.

Week 11: Tools

My dad's always been the craftsman type. One of my earliest memories of my father is of him climbing up a ladder to the roof of our old trailer, tool belt slung low accost his hips, and screws jingling down the aluminum structure with each step. I can also remember him yelling at me to get back, afraid I'd lose an eye or hurt myself in some other indirect way of his actions, but that was his way: gruff and masculine in a way only a Maine carpenter could be.

I also remember going through his tools as a kid, more out of curiosity than anything else. Each had it's place in either his tool belt or box they were all battered and well used, a sign of the trade, but they all had their places. I actually got in trouble a few times for putting things where they didn't belong, especially that three eighths wrench.

This was, of course, before my folks split up.

Now that we're older we've done several projects together, the tools still have the same worn and battered look they've always had and he's acquired more than a few since my early years. Though as we move through the basement of his house to work on a cover to an aquarium I've noticed there's less order, fewer tool boxes. The shelves are lined with haphazardly placed instruments of construction and their various accoutrements. Some of them aren't even in the house he's told me, but scattered about several work sites he's currently attending.

I just shake my head in wonder and feel lucky that we've found a suitable chop saw for the job.

Week 11: The me and the not-me are the same person, he said to one of himself

The first thing that got my attention was the low growl eminating from Maggie's throat. The fact that she was growling wasn't particularlly new, she's always tried her best to 'protect' the rest of us from the danger of passing cars and exceedingly suspicious people out on bicicles, it was the pitch that caught my ear. Low, throaty, the deep base of the sound made the hairs on the back of my neck match the short, copper, colored fur that spiked up between her shoulder blades. Pushing away from my computer desk I went to the window and drew back the curtain to look outside.

A man was out in the half circle drive, nondescript, in a black T and jeans. He'd be just your every day Joe with the cig half hanging from his lip as he peered into the window of my car. Beside me I Maggie's lips draw back wetly to show a hint of canine as I slide from the window to open the door. There's a heat in my chest as I step out onto the weather bleached porch and I can feel it building. Maggie's right by my side, the muscles in her powerful shoulders rippling with a contained hint of iminant action.

"Can I help you friend?" I stress the last word and eye the tresspasser from my elivated vantage. Again the dog at my side rumbles a threatening growl and the man looks up from the inspection of my car. He offers a friendly smile but I'm not convinced.

"Nah, just passing through. You got a phone I could use? I could actually use one to call a friend to have them pick me up." I shake my head and Maggie takes a first step down the stairs, her back looks like it's been set into a mohawk at this point.

"Sorry, we use cells here and I don't think I want to let you use mine." the tresspasser glances down at the bristling dog then back to me with a small shrug.

"Fair enough." and with a shrug he walked away from the house.

Week 11: Ol' Uncle Henry's...

Antique large round top chest. Excellent condition for it's age. Some damage. Solid peice...makes excellent storage for quilts, gear, xmas items.... Questions, call Pam.

And it is a solid piece, it's true, though the colored panels bear the nicks and scratches of, perhaps, over a hundred years of use. How many generations of family has it served? Quietly keeping it's silent vigil over the items stored away within its depths and bearing the brunt of an casually uncaring world's battery. Each ding, scrape and scuff marks the passage of another year loyally guarding it's appointed charges from said abuse.

And yet it hasn't found its proper home, having been passed from one home to the next; perhaps even being inherited by one family or another. Still, it sits quietly waiting for the next person to come with their special items and to keep them safe.

Week 10: Tug of War

I've come to a disturbing realization: I truly dislike people.

Now don't get me wrong, I have my friends and my family that I hold dear but people in general? From what I've seen in the tabloids and TV....it makes me sick on some philosophical level. From Snooky to the Jerry Springer show our race seems so captivated by a carnival of outragiousness and depravity that sometimes I wonder if we really, truly, are worth the effort.

But then I encounter people of genuine integrity. The sort of person that would sell the shirt off their back to help a stranger get fare for a cab ride home or a hot meal to eat. These people are few and far between but maybe, just maybe, could be a source of our collective redemption.

I hesitate to use the word 'redemption' due to its religious inferences, which is in and of itself another whole can of worms. I chuckle about it now but my friends and I would have long winded debates that would last long into the night about the perceived worth of religion. They would point out all the good deeds, the money and work contributed by people of faith. I would then counter that more blood has been spilled to 'God wills it!' than anything else in human history.

Not that I don't have any religious inclinations myself, I just believe everything should be placed into perspective.

Week 10:None of the People Fallen on that Field of Battle Were as Real as I am.

It's Christmas eve and we're working over time to get the store ready.

It's also the time for our seasonal cuts to happen, right about the time when you'll need that minimum wage job to get through the holidays.

There's a nervousness in the air, all the employees know it. I'm not overly worried though...I've worked hard and been on time, hell I've even done the Wal Mart cheer in the morning with my cup of coffee in hand, trying to be a team player.

Besides, it's Christmas eve and we're trying to get the store ready.

As I'm stacking up boxes for display names are being called and, one by one, people are going out back to receive their pink slip. But I'm not worried, I've been a good worker and I've always done the heavy lifting that most of the people here can't or wont do.

Besides...it's Christmas eve you'd think they wouldn't want to put too many of us out on the proverbial street.

The last box set and straightened I lean back and try to rub a knot out of my shoulder, it's been hard work these past few days. Then my name is called over the intercom and I look over at Charity, who seems to be just as shocked as I. So I make the long walk back to the crew area, and the over night manager walks by me, his head down and eyes averted. I know he doesn't agree with what's about to happen.

But it's Christmas eve and they have to make their profits.

Week 10: Nature red in tooth and claw. The Law of the Jungle. Survival of the Fittest.

I'm running. I've been running for what seems hours, though I'm pretty sure it's only been about five minutes. The sound of children playing is drowned out by the high pitched screaming of the mob that's been chasing after me, its grade school but you'd think this had come out of something from Battle Royal.

I knew they were planning to pick on me again today, I could see it in the leer on their grubby little faces and the whispers they passed along behind their up raised hands. It wasn't a new thing really, I've been picked on before, but this time seemed different...it was like the entire boys section of the class was in on it this time. Turns out I was pretty much right.

So I kept running, my snow pants and rubber boots squeaking and rustle with each continually labored step. They were gaining on me fast and I had just hit the open stretch of playground...flat land that went on forever to my intended destination, the monkey bars. At least there I could climb up and kick at them till a teacher came over to pull my bacon out of the fire.

Not this time though. They caught me. They grabbed me. They surrounded me with leering faces and raised fists, propped for the inevitable playground trouncing I was about to get. But I have something they didn't expect, I saw their faces and did a bit of planning of my own. Just as the first punch was set to fly I swung my gloved hand up, the sunlight glinting off the points of four tacks I'd embedded in the knuckles of my glove. There was a pregnant pause before the leader of the group cried out and they all scattered like leaves in a strong breeze.

Arms race of the play ground I guess. Not that I'd intended to use the impromptu spiked gauntlet...the tape that held the push tacks in place wouldn't have held very long but they didn't know that.

Week 10: The Pin Pricks Your Skin. You Feel Nothing.

I'm a hard man to get to know, that's what a lot of the people I've been acquainted with or called friends have said to me at least one time or another. Mostly its because I'm a fiercely private person. I guard my personal life, my secrets, with a sort of iron fisted determination it borders on an obsession. I could blame it on my mother's side of the family, they are the greatest secret keepers I know of, but really...how much can you play the nature vs nurture debate in who and what you are? I'm the quiet sort, I'd rather listen than talk, and generally keep to myself. I think a girl in high school once called me "Dark and dreary Dray" which is kind of fitting. Not that I don't have my reasons to be this way, I've been burned before in the past by people using my history against me, so I simply don't talk about it. Don't let anyone know about it that I don't deem 'safe' or 'trustworthy'. But this practice in and of itself has it's draw backs.

For instance this obsession with keeping myself safe by keeping everyone at arms length has been the down fall in more than a few of my relationships, romantic or otherwise. I think people have an innate need to know about things they don't have knowledge of and I strive ever so hard to be a mystery to the world around me. I think a friend of mine once said I was crazy for doing that, that I'd push my current girl friend away due to not sharing enough of myself with her. I just shrugged it off and kept going about my business as I normally would but, in the end, it turned out he was right. It baffles me really, if someone doesn't offer information up I don't press hard about it, why should they do the same with me? But I know people don't, can't, work that way; at least on an intellectual level. But here I am, still hording my 'secrets' and keeping everyone at arms length.

It wasn't until my last relationship ended, with my meager belongings packed neatly and carefully in a box next to the bed I'd slept in for three years and a tear streaked face telling me I had to go, that I gave serious reconsideration to coming out of hiding. I had to show my real face to the world and try to understand that even if I do get hurt again not everyone is going to try to burn me like that single event that triggered this self imposed exile from humanity.

It's just a shame I couldn't have realized it sooner.

Week 9: The best part of this story is the part I can't tell....

I'm seated in a blue arm chair at the Union, the warmth of a new cup of hot chocolate blazing away between my hands. Idly I blow on the contents as my friend Rick squints at me from across the small coffee table. He's a stocky kind of fellow with short cropped hair forming a prominent 'V' in the center of his forehead. I smile at him as I spin the cup slowly in my hands.

"So, how did you manage to do that? Seriously that was something else."

"It's simple really...but if I told you I'd ruin the secret."

Rick glowers at me good naturedly but holds his questions as I take another sip of my drink.

************

"Word through the grape vine says you got away with murder the other night." This is my friend Kevin, jabbing at me while we work. Hot fry grease vaporizes and rises slowly into the air as I drop another fry basket into the vat. I look up from my work and quirk a brow at him coyly.

"Maybe I did. What do you think?" my cryptic response gets me one of those goofy, shit-eating-grins Kevin is well known for when he thinks he's on to something. I can't help but smile a little myself in return.

"I dunno man...everyones been talking about it, I'm just trying to figure out if you actually did anything."

"Well I guess you're going to have to wait and see, eh?"

************

"No, seriously, how did you do it?" I look up from my book and glance of at John. I'm in the Union again, killing time before having to go to work. You'd think I'd spend less time in college if I actually was going. I simply smile up at John and set my book down in my lap.

"So you guys figured out it was me then?" John nods and flashes me one of those lop sided smiles of his.

"Yeah, we just can't figure out how."

"Well you know what? It's amazing what you can get done by simply asking the right questions." And of course this brought about the perplexed look on John's face I was looking for.

"What'd you ask him?"

"Ah...now if I told you that I'd be giving away trade secrets..."

Week 9: Linked Vignettes

I'm standing in in a fairly long line at the Phoenix Airport. It's hot and the noon day sun is slamming down on my shoulders like a hammer; my friend Julie had tried to warn me about the difference in temperature, to dress in lighter clothing but here I am roasting to death in my black Niki hat, t-shirt and jeans. Though I take some comfort in seeing some of my fellow travelers, other members of my charity organization I assumed. Glancing out into the flat expanse of the desert I began to zone out a little, caught up in my own thoughts when a voice from the front of the line.

"Hey! Hey you! You with the hat!" I of course look around with the others in line, myself being the only guy happening to wearing a hat. Finally the proverbial light bulb pops up over my head and I point to myself and look at the man calling from the front.

"Who, me?"

"Yeah you! That shirt your wearing...what does it say?"

I glance down at my shirt, the Areo Postal logo blazoned across my chest in a tan tribal style "It's Areo Postal...it's a clothing company."

"Oh.." was my only reply as the shuttle pulled up and we all began to board.

***********

Now I'm at the hotel, standing in line to be registered for the charity event. I've been on my feet for almost four hours now between the airport and waiting to get my room booked then waiting in line, but at least there is the blessed miracle of air conditioning. With a sigh I start to flip through my paper work one last time but am interrupted by a quick poke at my shoulder. With a grunt I turn around to see who it was and found myself looking at the man who called to me about my shirt at the airport.

Now that I have a better look at him he seems nervous, his slicked hair and fashionable glasses he was actually dressed for this weather in a dark blue polo and white cargo shorts. He grinned at me and offered his hand.

"Hi! I'm Scotty, I didn't mean to freak you out back there at the airport."

I took his hand and shook my head a little, I didn't want to have the poor guy feel embarrassed just because he liked my shirt.

"Nah, no worries man. I was just surprised is all."

"Oh! Well that's good.." the guy, Scotty fidgets a moment then continues in a rush "Well I thought you were kinda sexycuteandareyougay?"

I blink.

"Um...no. No, sorry dude.." I was a little taken aback, not that I mind being asked the question or anything, it was just the first time anyone had asked me in a serious sort of way.

"Not even a little?"

Again I blink and shake my head "Nope, totally straight." To which Scotty smiles and shook his head.

"Damn shame that." And off he wandered, leaving me a little perplexed.

*************

For the rest of the charity event Scotty and I ran into each other a few more times, it's kind of hard not too while staying at the same hotel. It wasn't horrible or anything, mostly we'd just laugh about it or wave to one another in that sort of mutely awkward event sort of way. Later on I was chatting with a group of friends near the pool area and Scotty trotted by with what had become his usual greeting:

"Still sexy!"

With a slightly embarrassed smile I gave him a faint wave then turned to regale my friends with the interesting, if slightly awkward tale, of Scotty.

Week 9: I Came, I Saw, I Conquered....

"You ready for this?"

Q's impish grin is etched deeply around his eyes as I fasten the last few straps on my chest armor. I'm nervous as hell but I give him my best grin.

"Sure am! Order of prestige right? That means..." I trail off and look over my shoulder at an imposing looking fighter who's busy fastening his vambraces. Q's grin widens and he bobs his shaved head, the metal of his roman style armor creaks with the motion.

"That's right kid! You get the King first."

"Oh. Great."

***********

"You've got some good defense, but you're not really throwing any shots."

Sun glints off Vey's helm as I climb back to my feet. I'm gulping mouth fulls of air in an attempt to catch my breath but he's barely broken a sweat. Guy's in his forties and putting me to shame...great.

"Yeah...I'm thinking too much." The back of my leg is burning like a mother; I gotta watch those leg shots. Vey nods a little and shoulders his weapon, a piece of ritan wrapped in tape and with an iron caged hand guard.

"Try to find a balance. I remember when you first started your aggression was your best asset. Now you just have to use that and keep in form."

"More aggression huh? Yeah, I can do that." I flash him a wide grin and settle down into a ready stance.

***********

"Yes!"

Cedric's roar of approval rang out from the side lines as I slipped a leg shot past Vey's guard then followed up with a kill shot, the solid ritan blade rang off his helm like the toll of a small church bell. Panting I stepped back and offered Vey a nod as he stood up with a grin.

"That was much better." the larger man rolled his shoulders then rested his shield against his hip. I nodded a little and blew a breath out between my lips. I was getting better, breathing had become easier and I was just stronger in general. I turn a little as Ced nudges my shoulder.

"That was a big improvement." he nods once then goes over to talk with Bill. I can't help but grin at his words, if both he and Vey say I'm doing better...that means I'm on the right track. I shoulder my own weapon and look back at Vey.

"Ready for another?"

Week 9: A Random List About Me

1. I'm an avid reader. Just check my book shelf!
2. Sometimes my memory isn't the great, not because I'm forgetful, but because I have so much going on in my head!
3. I don't really put special meaning behind holidays, it's more about family to me.
4. I love broccoli but hate Lima beans.
5. I know the difference between a wakizashi and a kitana.
6. One of my favorite books is The Giver. It's now on the contested book list.
7. I'm a middle child of three.
8. Math is certainly not my strong suit.
9. I like to run, I like to bike more.
10. I don't have much time for running and/or biking.
11. I like video games. I suppose that means I never really grew up :D
12. My favorite colors are earth tones.
13. When I get to a door another person is going through I try to open it for them.
14. I have friends all over the US and some over seas.
15. I like to travel.
16. I find thunder storms to be one of the most relaxing things on the planet.
17. I love sushi.
18. My dad's a carpenter and I wish I was half as handy with a hammer as he is.
19. I fancy myself a writer and some people would agree.
20. Nights spent by a fire side with friends are some of the best nights ever.
21. When I was 12 I owned a white and red bike called a 'fire star'. I road it around until the barrings in the peddles gave out.
22. Sometimes I wish I had super powers.
23. I'm a summer baby, thus I like to be warm and hate the cold.
24. My favorite place in the united states is Phoenix, Arizona.
25. I have a weird habit of eating faster when I'm with people I don't know.

Week 8: Oh Sh-- Son!

Know that sound of breaking glass? Know how everyone in the room/area freezes and goes silent when they hear it? Its like the human race as a whole has some sort of manufactured instinct instilled in them from childhood and seems to be pretty universal. Like now for instance, when I threw the snow ball intending to strike the side of my house but instead got the window.

There's that stillness, beyond the winter calm, that seems to permeate everything. I'm frozen in place watching the shards of glass slide from the frame in a sort of tortured slow motion. Even the cars on our normally busy road seemed to have stopped driving buy. For a moment I think to myself it's like one of those movies I've seen where the action sequence slows down to almost nothing and you hear someone yelling in the background in uber slow motion monotone 'Noooooo....!!!'

With a jolt reality seems to reassert itself and time resumes, I can hear the glass shattering against the window sill and my dog Maggie starting to bark. That's when the real panic sets in, my mom's going to kill me!

My ascertain is only confirmed when I hear my first, middle, and last name bellowed from behind the broken window.

Week 8: "We are gathered here today to remember....."

My grandmother was a very soft spoken women, the very a typical matriarch of the family. The kind of woman who could make iron freeze brittle with her disapproving stare and snap under the weight of it, yet she was always kind to my brother and I. She never raised a hand or her voice, she didn't really have too with that quiet air of authority she possessed. Though I do remember one time she did raise her voice quite clearly; it was one of the last foot ball games of my high school career against MDI. I'd gotten into slug fest with the linemen across the pitch from me and got sucker punch under the grill the result of which was a broken nose and my upper lip being torn from my skull. When I got back up looking all a bloody mess I heard her then, beating people with her purse and swearing like a sailor that just came to port. I don't think I'll ever forget that.

Now I'm seated on an oak pew stained almost black, the collar of this new shirt rubbing my neck raw as the priest standing at his pulpit delivering the eulogy. I know my eyes are red rimmed and swollen but I haven't cried, I don't want too. Not next to the stone visage of my mother as she gazes on at the closed casket draped in flowers. I'm straining something on the inside with the effort but I've managed, I'm 'the man of the house' and have to keep up that strong face. Around my mother, brother, and I our relatives are arranged; some stifling their grief into handkerchiefs or the shoulders of the people next to them, others simply listen, their faces carefully impassive as if afraid to let that Longely stoicism crack for even a moment,even under these circumstances.

It had been a heart attack. One so fast, so devastating that my grandfather Earl had left for the store and come back ten minutes later, she'd died in her sleep. Earl's seated up front, his old face so lined with suppressed emotion his flesh almost looks like it's made from sun beaten oak. I passed him in the bathroom at the wake, I've never seen him so...small before; like someone had come along and deflated his shoulders with one quick poke of a blade. I found my Aunt at one point behind the church staring off into the distant sky line of Bangor, near oblivious to anything else around her. It's like we were all falling apart in our own little ways.

As the sermon came to a close, as those gathered rose one last time to file by the casket, I steel myself, take a deep breath and follow suit; the line of mourners stretches back to touch the polished set of double doors near the end of the room. I couldn't help but catch the glint of colored light streaming through stained glass windows reflecting in tears. I remember in that moment as I slowly walked my way down the isle the most absurd thought struck me: Who will make my peanut butter and fluff sandwiches the way I like them now?

And that's when I began to cry.

Week 8: The Things I See While Walking Down the Street, That's Heaven to Me..

When someone says 'Down Town Bangor' the first few things that come to mind, at least my mind, is the Bangor Opera House, Bars, and the gone and sorely missed Grasshopper Shop. What I don't normally associate with the Down Town area is Christmas spirit or that holiday feeling you get while in the mall, right before the big shopping rush starts...but that's what I'm getting right now as I step out of the Opera House entry way onto the street.

I've been working on building a set for one of the shows here, the Christmas Carol oddly enough, and we'd just called break. Now I'm standing outside watching the first white flakes drift down from the dark gray skies in one of the years few, true snow storms. I admit, I'm not a weather man by no means but I'm pretty sure you can just tell by the sheer size of the precipitation in question if it's a big one or not and these flakes are huge! I can't help but smile as I hike up the collier of my jacket against the cold and start walking down the street towards the cafe.

It's hard to describe, at least I think so. It's that's slightly heavy, slightly charge feeling the air gets during this time of year. It's a combination of lights and sound that intermingle in a muted display of positive feeling. You see it in the each wreath that hangs precariously from it's integrated position on a lamp post and the small, slow wink of Christmas lights catch the falling snow and shift with your position on the street. I walk past a small department store, one of those that is full of odds and ends and knickknacks that can catch your eye and might even have some use to them. Inside the large display window it's full of silver tinsel and garland, white lights sparkle off a live tree fitted with gold ornaments. It's warm and inviting. I might even go so far as to say breath taking.

Its the little things like this, the snow, the light and decoration, the over all spirit of winter that really makes me smile. I'm a summer guy myself but sometimes, just sometimes before the craze of commercialism drives everyone mad, it's nights like this that are really a small piece of calm that I can associate with heaven.

Week 8: Down In the Boondocks....

The sound of softly crunching pine needles acompanies my foot steps as I make my way along the damp forest path. It's a small back woods trail; one that runs just beyound the treeline that gaurds our back lawn and the moss covered swamp that lays beyound. My jeans are already stained and my once light blue shirt had a dark ring around the mid section, a result of haveing scalled a tree or two in an attempt to see just how wide my objective is; that objective being the large body of standing water dead center of the swamp I'd entilted 'Tiger Lake.' It sat shrouded by a toumble of half rotted trees and encrouching moss that fought against the acidity of the pine bed left by the furs and pine that make up the majority of the wood in this area.

I duck around a withered tree and lay eyes on the black depths of Tiger Lake, it's surface only disturbed by the buzzing of impossibly numerous inscts, the segmented legs of water skimmers, mosquitoes, and other assorted larva hum on or just above the water. With slow, almost hesitant steps I aporache and begin what I like to call the 'psych up'. It's a little process where I intentionally try to get my adrenaline pounding, like playing a kick ass song in my head over and over or genearlly try to generate at 'fight' response to get my nerve up.

After all a bunch of people said there were a tong of leeches in that water.

None of my friends that had come out to visit this spot had dared to swim in the Lake, let along put their feet into the water. Now, I was about to show them that there was nothing to worry about, that the whole thing with leeches and other creepy crawlies wasn't a big deal. Still, I thought as I started to walk into the water with my shoes and sneakers still on, best to keep covered up just in case there are a few nasties in there that might bite....

Week 7: Poetic Shorts

Lynn
It's been such a long time since I last saw you, nearly eight years I think. But still you're doing amazing things around the country. Who knew you would follow your namesake? I hope you still find the time to enjoy a summers day.

Corey
Senior Ratta! How we miss that 'stach of yours these days! I remember when we spar at Kevin's apartment. You'd throw me up over a shoulder, I'd thunk you atop the head which only resulted in my own broken crown in the end. I hear the weather is nice in Texas but I'm sure you miss the winters here. Or you don't, I'm not sure I would after a while.

John
Ah, Mr.Moyer. How does the Govenator fair these days? Surely you are doing better than he though your impression of him is still spot on. In and out of the classroom you have a certain style, a look, that just screams an easy air of education. I'm sure you're students think you're one of the 'cool' teachers.

Crystal
Is your life sill like a musical? You could sing you way down a street in a crowded city without a care for the world! Or would the world start to notice? It's just around Easter time and the bunny is about to get loose! Have you kept track of all of your eggs...?

Week 7: Who's the First Person You Remember?

The first person I remember, like most people I think, is my mother. My first memory of her (My first memory in the truest sense actually) isn't exactly what one would call pleasant, though I don't really find fault with her for it. As the story goes, I had been put down for a nap and had been sleeping peacefully when my mom stepped out to get a jug of milk from the store that was, quite literally, down stairs.

Of course Murphy would have it that I woke up not soon after her leaving.

After what seemed like a life time of being alone and freaking out over not being able to find my mother, she came back and found me running about like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. I vaguely remember her setting something down, presumably the jug of milk, and rushing over to pick me up. This is what I remember most, on this and multiple occasions when I'd gone and hurt myself or managed to be upset; her picking me up and trying to help settle what ailed me. My mother was and is a hard woman, somewhat by necessity, but she has her moments when that exterior cracks. I think, though, that she was that way mostly for our protection as well as her own. Being a single mother, after all, is a difficult thing.

Week 7: Take A Look at Photo of a Person; What do you see?

The photograph itself is dark, almost a bit hazy, but the day of my high school graduation had been a scorcher. You can see it in the faces of the parents as they watch my friend Justin march down the isle to receive his diploma.

He always was an easygoing sort of kid, my friend Justin, and you can really get that feel for him in this picture. His head is turned just in time to catch the photographer, the tassel on his cap swaying with the motion, and his smile is the trade mark crooked grin he used to charm my classmates with. There's a happiness about him, in the tilt of his head and the quirk of his brow that would suggest, as one could readily guess, that he's proud to be there. That he's finally made it.

Week 7: Character Studies

So I'm out doing errands in a local department store and I find myself waiting for some assistance from one of the sales associates and I find my mind wandering a bit. Normally I'm pretty patient but today I'm a little edgy, too many things to do and not enough time to do it in I suppose. So to take my mind off things I take a look around my surroundings and indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: People watching.

Some people think I'm crazy, but it really can be pretty interesting. Let's take this guy walking by me for example: He's your a-typical twenty-something, the warm weather has prompted him to wear a blue T and an open button up with the sleeves rolled up. Short, spiked hair and aviators worn inside hint at someone who follows the trends (Though I'm a bit far behind to really be an expert) as well as a solid self confidence that is only accented by the length of his stride and the way he mows down on that dentyne ice. Most likely he's returning from a few weeks break from Orono or maybe just out and about after that next pair of designer jeans. Or I could be completely wrong and he's off to change and clock into work; at any rate my attention is drawn back around as the sales clerk finally makes her way around to me.

I can already tell it's been a crap day for the poor girl. Her shoulder length blond hair is slightly out of place, with a few strands falling from the confines of her ponytail and into her eyes. She bats at these rogue hairs as she greets me with a weary smile. 'Jenn' as her name tag reads is trying her level best to not let the rest of the day bleed through in our interactions which is certainly to her credit; having worked retail before I can empathise with how nasty people can be. Despite her contained fluster her uniform is still presentable, the red polo straight and her kakies unwrinkled which leads me to believe that she has a decent ability to handle stress despite the tired look in her eyes. I find out she's in her third year of college while we look for my desired items, which I nod and chalk the tired look up to that. After all I'm in the same sort of boat as her. It's a short exchange, nothing really substantial then I'm off once again to continue my way into retail land.

Week 6: The Safest Place in the World...

Maine is an huge, expansive state. On certain stretches of road one could drive hours and see nothing but trees, grassland, and coast; the view only broken on occassion my small hamlets of civilization huddled their own little clearings in the vast wilderness. In one such clearing, a small stretch of land bridge occupied by a town called Brooksville, is a small camp ground called Winniaugwamauk.

It's a remote place, as I have previously suggested, the road leading to the camp ground itself is tucked away from the main drag amongst a growth of ancient evergreens, you'd almost miss it driving along at a fast clip like most motorists unless you were actually looking keeping an eye on the roads for it. From the hidden turn the road is paved, if not well kept. Frost heaves and poorly patched potholes, a thin strip of dirt laced with weeds seperates the battered tar from the rusted pine needle blanket of the forest that closses in from both sides. Of course this only lasts for a few moments then the tree line breaks away, along with the paved portion of road, and opens up into a large field. Freshly cut grass, more green than anything I've seen back home, blankets the curve of a small hill that dips down towards the brown sand covered beach. Perched a top the small rise and over looking the mirror like surface of 'Lake Winni' is a solid, rectangular building. Called 'the tapernackle' it's a deceptively simple building; white washed siding and a black tiled roof conceal the simple beuty of the varnished wooden stage and panneling inside. I can remember numerous skits and shorts I and my cabin mates had performed there, both funny and serious, as well as the services done by my old pastor Mark. All of them, each one, is a memory I hold dear.

Farther down the dirt road is the dinning hall, it's sides covered in darkened cedar shakes and surounded by a deck painted in the same white wash as the tabernackle. Inside the walls are splashed light blue and heavy wooden tables are set in neat rows down the center of the room, eight to a side. Etched in each are names, phrases, the declaration of a teen age crush...all footprints of campers past and present. Once, during a particularly dull meal, I had started to drum on the table; a typical Seminol chant beat that spread throughout the hall. It was infectious and one of my most fond memories.

The dirt road bends around the perimiter of the dinning hall and always seems to have a perminant layer of dust hanging in the air from all the traffic back and forth. It mianders down a small slope that runs between two neat rows of small, brown sided buildings; each with a small plaque hanging from beside the white painted screen door and sporting a numeral 1 through 13. The interior of these little buildings are divided into two rooms and lined with bunk beds. The wooden walls are smooth, more from age and touch than application of sand paper, and sport a legion of names, dates, and phrases left here by generations of occupants. Many a night I remember looking at the many scetched or carved words, most of them names and dates going back to the late seventies.

My favorite place though is just left of the dirt road that runs between the buildings. An old pine resides there, twisting over so that it's branches provide shade to the battered old picknick table benieth. The old surface has been painted, stripped then repainted a rusty sort of red and is speckled with droplets of sap; and for many years has provided both a rest and meeting place for many of my fellow campers, including myself. It was here surrounded by friends and loved ones, our voices lifted in conversation or laughter, that I felt secure, unjudged.

Safe.

Week 6: A Picture Post Card...

I've lived in Orrington most of my life so, by extension, I've become pretty familiar with the surrounding towns: Bangor, Brewer, and Buscksport. But you know one of the more interesting myths they have about those collective towns is the legend of Colonel Buck's tomb. They've made something of an attraction out of it, legends, tours, and above all postcards; the later I think irritates me the most.

I'm not sure if they still make them or not, but when I was younger I came accost one while stopping in at the Mobil just down the road from Buck's tomb. The little cardboard rectangle depicted Buck's grave, a traditional tiered pillar, from a dramatic angle with the source of the local legend catching the light in such a manner as to make it pop right out at you. What is the source of the legend you ask? Well it is a rather remarkable black outline in the otherwise soft gray stone that resembles a foot or leg. To further make the image more impressive a contrast has been added to the trees and grass that permeates the background, casting the colors of said flora in a darker more sinister tone. With the small American flag planted at the right of the monument it makes for a fairly impressive image to behold. The truth, however, is something of a let down once you actually view the space without the occluded assistance of a photoshopped lens.

The actual site of Buck's grave is along US Highway 1, or Main street in Bucksport across from the Hanifords super market. Resting atop a small hill that has been moderately modified with cement bricking to secure the elevation the only real foreboding bit about the entire cemetery is perhaps the wrought iron fence that surrounds its perimeter. The hill itself is mostly barren dirt, at least along the approach; I couldn't tell you what the rest of the cemetery looks like beyond the few random heat stones and a smattering of struggling grass that fades back into what looks like an actual lawn. As for the dark tree and brush that are pictured in the post card; they're anything but the sinister renditions depicted. An old maple and oak flank the cemetery on opposite sides, sagged with age but the color of their leaves is still bright. And what of the tomb of Colonel Buck you ask? Well...it certainly is impressive for its time and location, but nothing you couldn't find anywhere else in the united states. The sun bleached marble sparkles with small deposits of quarts that tries to fight through a patch of dark weathering or two and a dark outline of what might be considered a foot or leg does certainly grace the front of the monument under the boldly engraved letters "BUCK" but in all honesty I would call this place anything but sinister. Haunting perhaps, but I suppose the mundanity of people passing through this little stretch of road has dispelled the tale a little.

But I suppose that's how we bring people to new places, with fancy tales and myths that are something new or unique. I would also hazard a guess that even an outline in a rock could be spun into the greatest of tales around the camp fire also.

Week 5 Revisited: The Last Nerative!

Living in Maine you'd think I'd be used to the snow, or at least other people would be used to the snow. But no, I don't think anyone really gets used to it; this year especially. I guess I can't really, honestly blame people for having a little difficulty. I mean with the warm breezy winter that seemed more like spring than the real season it's supposed to be then BAM! At least six inches of snow all in one night! I'm sure I joined the majority of the north east in muttering while I cleaned off my car after the first snow fall and a Sunfire isn't exactly the best car in the snow, look at it's name for heavens sake!

Still I don't think the first snow is an excuse to drive like the road is about to fall out from under you or like a mad man. Take this instance for example: I was driving in to work during one of the more active snow events and I was running late, the drive to my apartment complex having turned to a semi-solid sludge which nearly prevented me from gaining an exit. Now I find myself behind a giant, red Ford truck. You know the ones that are two ton and have four rear wheels right? Well this guy was creeping along at ten miles under the limit while I'm constantly muttering under my breath 'c'mon!' as I mentally try to urge the guy to go just a whee bit faster. Seriously, with a truck like that he (or she) should be plowing right along like this little white out was another spring morning; my fingers began to drum a rapid beat out along the edge of my steering wheel while I tried to focus more on the gloomy financial forecast on NPR other than the fact my boss was going to have me for proverbial lunch when I got in.

This of course eeked out for an agonizing ten minutes (I did get to finish he NPR show though, kind of a silver lining there) with my 'lead blocker' trucking along the now well salted and gravel laden roads but still at a fraction of the speed they could have been safely going. I actually think at one point there was a person jogging that was out pacing us....or that could have just been my own imagination making things worse than they really are. And then....the truck is gone! Turned left to head towards Orono or some other place away and out of my way. This at first brings a sense of relief or even, dare I say, jubilation! That is until I glance at the clock and my heart just sinks. Five minutes passed the hour already..my boss is going to kill me! Freed from my oppressive lead driver I sped away.

"You're late." is all my boss says as I walk through the door. All I can do is furrow my brown and mutter "I know."

Week 5 Revisited: We Name the Guilty Man!

If you've ever worked in the service industry you know that at some point that little touch of mischief starts to get at the people you work with. Burger King employees are not exempt from this of course and this little but seemed to bite really hard one late afternoon in the late spring of 1999. I'd been working for the company a good portion of my senior year, it was something of an attempt on my part to do the 'adult' thing and do the proverbial 'get a hair cut and a real job' sort of deal. My mom had fully endorsed this of course seeing it as a step in the right direction. What she, or I for that matter, hadn't endorsed is the store having me close on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; the resulting work load and getting out around one in the morning was taking an obvious and heavy toll on my school work. Thus it had come to pass that I had put in my two weeks notice to focus on trying to get my happy self graduated and now found myself on my last day of work, bored out of my gourd.

There were three of us on at the time, a guy named Tim was in the kitchen with my while my friend, then manager, Kevin was kicking around up front doing managerial type things while us crew member types tried to busy ourselves with cleaning, stocking product and just generally appearing to be working. This of course is a skill that has been mastered by many in the customer service field, if only to avoid confrontations with the higher ups or to just generally save one's sanity from the slow times that permeate short bursts of commercial madness. It was during one of these times that I glanced at Tim and grinned. To his credit, Tim didn't really know what I was planning so he just followed along behind me as I went over to the ice bin. You see, when you throw ice cubes into a fry vat it does some pretty cool things: The ice rapidly turns from solid, to liquid, to gas at an accelerated pace causing the oil in the vat to bubble as the vaporized H2O is released back into the air. Like everyone else I'd played around with throwing one or two in the vat...but not a whole hand full! As I fished out a generous helping of ice cubes Tim screwed up his tanned, hispanic features in confusion. It was kind of comical when you put the streak of ketchup that marred his side burns into the mix.

With quick steps I made my way over to the fryer, Tim close on my heels, and tossed my ill gotten hand full of ice into the fry vat. My now partner in crime made an obligatory exclemation of "oh shit!" while we stepped back and watched as the first bubbles began to roll at the surface of the vat. With object fascination we watched as the oil began to froth and boil, the evaporated water exiting each bursting bubble with a hot snap or crack. It looked like a bottle of Pepsi that had just been dropped and opened up, all carbonation and frothing bubbles, except that these bubbles were about three hundred and fifty degrees and nearly boiling out over the confines of the vat walls.

This, of course, brought about quite a bit of noise, as ten gallons of frothing liquid is want to do and Kevin came dashing around the corner, clip board in one hand, pencil raised in another, his pale sweating face twisted in a look of consternation "Who did this?!" his tone was sharp and his eyes wild. All the while Tim and I are sniggering in our corner of the kitchen, of course the mirth was not meant to last and my co culprit eventually pointed at me as an indication of guilt. With no where else to go I grinned again and raised my hand.

Kevin raised his pencil and bapped me on the nose with the eraser, then walked away shaking his head. It was my last day after all and I suppose there wasn't much else he could do.

Week 5 Revisited: You've Lost it! Where is it...?

You ever had one of those days where you just can't keep track of anything? I have, I think it's one of those things that have gotten worse as I've gotten older, ether that or it's simply a result of acumulating more things to lose stuff in. Like now for instance, I'm pawing through the bottom drawr of my desk looking for my keys. It's a perfectly logical place to look, who wouldn't lose their keys amidst the rough and final drafts of college papers and half written stories that have been left to collect dust? Actually it's more an exorsize in that old addage "Always look first in the last place you'd think they'd be." Rummaging around in those old files don't spot a glint of metal or the gingle of chain so....on to the next place, which would be the first I should've looked in the first place: My pants.

With this relisation of course comes the obligitory pat down of ones pockets which produces one cell phone, thirty seven cents in change and a pay stub but no key ring as of yet. One would think that one would keep a better eye on the single most important componant to the operation of a motor vehicle, but apparently not this guy. Further inspection of my work pants also fails to bear fruit thus I move to the next most plausable places: The kitchen table and under the couch cushions. This of course leads me out of my bedroom into the kitchen and with a quick inspection of the table I find the latest issue of GameInformer which I pause to peruse a few moments (Hey, I get easily distracted) but still no keys. Thus I continued to my final planned destination, the couch. It's a nice piece, soft brown leather with a aged look that speaks of several years of good wear. Still the cushions themselves are still fairly soft as I toss them aside and go riffling through the inner workings benieth. Still no keys.

Standing up I scratch my head and look about for some idea, any idea of where they had gone; then it hits me like a fuzzy ball of lightning. Ferrets.

Last night the ferrets had been out playing tag through the pant legs of my work pants. Going back into my room I turn over my right work shoe, nothing there. I pick up the left and hear the tell tale jingle of metal against metal. With a tilt I spill my keys out into my waiting hand and pocket them swiftly. I knew those little theaving maggpies had to have had something to do with this!

Week 6: Yet Another Place...

“....Hell...where did they go?!?”

You'd think that holding onto ones keys, especially the night before the big interview, would be a simple task. Yet here I am, frantically tossing about my room with that impending feeling of 'you're going to be late!' hanging over my head. I mean, how hard could it be to find them? The room isn't all that big! This thought and many more 'colorful' ones are running through my head as I rummage about in the cloths basket beside my bed. Jeans, socks, t shirts, they all go flying out of the hamper in a vain hope to hear that quiet clank or soft jingle, a tell tale sign
that my keys are somewhere inside. My efforts proving fruitless I stand up with a loud, frustrated sigh and cast my eyes about for an idea, any idea, of where I might have misplaced them.

It's a small room my bedroom; six by ten, the walls painted the blue of a late summer sky and the floors the mass produced varnished wood you find in Home Depot or Wal Mart. Jammed up against the corner is my dresser, a battered brown that contains the majority of my wardrobe. I go there next and open each scared and scratched drawer and rifle through them. As I reach the
last one and meet with no success I idly think that maybe I should do laundry then snap my attention to the contents on to of the dresser. I set aside two tan and black marble candle sticks, a purchase I made years back at the world famous Perry's Nut House, to start pawing through the random letters, half written stories, and other assorted odds and ends that tend to clutter one of the few flat surfaces in my room.

Nothing. Sometimes I wonder if my ancestors were sailors in the ancient world, if not I can only guess where this litany of creative profanity originated. I suppose I could blame MTV or pup culture.

With the proverbial clock ticking away in my mind I move to the window, its bent metal frame painted black and chipped from nearly ten years of abuse by myself and my brother. The glass pane itself is cracked half open to allow the fresh spring air to slip in and stir the threadbare curtains that only did a lip service job at blocking the light from pouring into the room.

“Ha!” I spot the glint of metal on the pressed wood of the sill and my hand shoots

Week 6: Places

It wasn't the phone call out of the blue and filled with awkward pauses that wracked my nerves, or the two hour car ride via route 1A, past forests full of green summer leaves and tourist towns bustling with the influx of commerce from out of state. No, it wasn't either of these that really got those fluttering feelings in the pit of my stomach going; it was going passed Duck Puddle Pond, my Sunfire rocking crazily as it went down the a dirt road that had way too many potholes.


I almost felt bad, the rumble of my muffler along this quiet (some might say quaint) country road seemed really out of place with the road being surrounded by maples in full bloom competing with the ever present pine trees Maine is known for. At one point I laughingly thought the ducks that occupied the smooth waters of the local boat landing gave me a scathing look as I drove by, more than likely I was trying to focus on something else to keep my nervousness down; which the brilliant summer day and cool breeze didn't really make much of a dent in.


My dad and I hadn't parted on good terms, granted it really wasn't a good situation to begin with seeing as he was in the beginning stages of a messy divorce, but our last conversation besides our good byes had been him mostly yelling and me trying not to yell back. It was that last conversation I tried to keep from dwelling on as I turned onto the last stretch of unpaved road before the driveway. It really was a miserable stretch driving wise: the gravel had been plowed away years ago and left behind the hard packed dirt beneath which had accumulated nearly hellish dips and ruts from over taxed vehicles trying to make their way through during mud season. Now I just creeped along this stretch in an attempt to save what's left of my exhaust.


To my left I pass a row of old mail boxes fixed to a singular 2 x 4 and attached to a rather solid looking stump, six boxes all together make up a line of standard, rust pitted white, gray, and black. All save the third box from the left which is painted with what once must have been an almost gaudy splash of greens, yellows, purples, and reds designed to look like flowers and grass. The sun bleached blue that ran over the top of the small, aluminum box must surely have been modeled after the sky as the faded and stained interspersed whites would be clouds. This box, this painting, is one of the last remnants of my father's first wife, Robin. A brilliant woman who enjoyed life as much as any person I have ever met and probably the first adult that sat me down and talked with me like an equal over a cup of hot tea. I think we were talking about the universe and its infinite possibilities...pretty hefty stuff for a thirteen year old. She died almost seven years ago now of an aggressive brain tumor and companies still send her mail. I'm not sure if my father has the heart to tell them she's passed. I tilt the wheel to avoid another portal to the underworld and continue on along this grass lined road


Finally I reach the driveway but the going isn't much easier. The way is narrow, just large enough to fit a single car, and the center of the drive has risen with years or traffic. Trees hang lazily over the drive and cast odd shadows in the afternoon sun. Through the cracked window I can smell the scent of damp earth, grass, and pine; it's almost as if the forest itself has settled in to reclaim the property. The road twists and bends further and the ride remains rough, but somehow it becomes more comfortable, almost like settling into an old armchair. I edge my car around the final bend and crest the final rise, that's when the house proper comes into view.


Like the final bastion of some wilderness outpost my father's house looks out over the lake in a weathered, majestic manor, an above ground basement and two stories built in the cathedral style along with a large deck encircling the perimeter makes this a monster of a building. But for all it's majesty there is a sort of..faded quality too it. The cedar shingles are stained and faded, mildewed in places. The deck is dry and the color of ash with moss having nearly reclaimed a good portion of the southern side, only the front door retains a measure of its original beauty. I suppose this is what happens when you don't live in a home for five years.


As I pull in and throw the car into park the front door creeks open and my father steps out. He's dressed pretty much as I always remembered: Carpenters jeans, dark blue T shirt, and work boots, all of it covered in saw dust and other products of his work in the wood shop. There's a little more gray in his black hair but his face is creased in a smile. I get out of my car and can't help but grin when I see him.


"Hey!" he says "Long time no see....you hungry?"

Week 5:The Big Oops

Most autumns in Maine are cold. The sort of cold that gets into your bones and sits there, or makes every little bruise and bump you get feel like you've just lit the offended area on fire with a mini blow torch. Thankfully that kind of day was yesterday and today was a little more merciful, if still cold.

"Hey Duh-Duh, you gonna put that helmet on?"

With a creak of leather and plastic I glance over my should pad to look at Justin's grinning face through the batter grill of his football helmet.

"don't get your panties in a knot 'Ustina." My good natured retort is accompanied by the steam of my breath a quick cuff upside of Justin's orange in cased cranium. 'Ustina' was a nickname given to my friend in Spanish class as a joke, not by me but by some of our team mates, and just seemed to have stuck. Not that it bothered Justin in the slightest, he kind of took it and wore the name as a prankster's badge. We'd grown up together in Orrington, actually when we were little we weren't very fond of each other but now were fairly inseparable. And, with a few notable exceptions, he was the only guy I really hung out with on the team.

With a shrug of my shoulders I plopped my own battered helmet on, the Brewer witches logo on the side was marred by streaks of blue, white, green, and red. A visible testament to just how many times I had literally bumped heads with the opposing team. With practiced ease I snapped the chinstrap in place and consigned myself to the protective smell of leather, sweat, and plastic.

"Better?"

"Nah I can still see your face-Ow!" Justin grinned again then spun back into line after I punched his shoulder pad. We were all pretty similar in appearance, at least to people who didn't know us. I suppose that's part of sports; uniformity, being part of a unit. All of us sported black uniforms bulked out with the traditional padding of the sport, orange helms and orange numbers on our jurzies; there were slight variations though. For instance the back of Justin's helmet sported several stickers: Two skulls and a football. Just ahead of him David Miaderk's was covered in examples of both, rewards for exceptional tackles or good work while carrying the ball. I hadn't gotten any yet but I tried not to let that bother me too much.

Ahead of the line I spotted coach Orteago slapping Mike Carnnas on the shoulder, his southern-swarthy features and Louisiana accent at odds with the black winter jacket and knitted hat he sported. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying but it must've been good, his features were locked in an intense expression and was chewing his gum like his life depended on it.

Beyond Oreteago and the quasi-straight line of orange and black were the bleachers of Doyle field. The deceptively thin aluminum framework was packed to capacity with classmates, friends, family, and other assorted spectators; many of which sported school colors while still remaining bundled against the cold. Most of them squinted down at us or the other team against the halogen glare of the stadium lights.

"Head in the game, Emerson." Todd's voice came from behind me over the rising murmur of the crowd and I nodded my agreement.

The game was about the start.

Week 5:You go on a Journy

For most people going to college is an (almost) smooth transition. You go through high school, take what classes you need, talk with your advisors, and go to your pick of colleges that accept your application. Again this is the story for most people but it wasn't exactly the case for me.

You see, when I was eighteen I had everything planned out: I'd work a year, maybe two, save some cash then head out to the great blue and white yonder that is the University of Maine. Of course this was against the recommendations of just about every adult I knew, but I was pretty dead set in my plans. Besides I had the perfect excuse to take some time off from school, at least in my mind' that being my senior year had been a crap shoot and I desperately needed some time off to recoup, to start out fresh. So with that all knowing mentality I entered the work force and into the glorious and glamorous world of fast food. That last bit I say with more than a little sarcasm, but you get the idea.

But life happens as it's want to do and waiting a year or two turned into three years, then five. During that time I took the opportunity to travel around the country, I believe my first real trip out of state beyond Massachusetts had been to Dallas, what I actually expected to be a hot, dry climate had turned out to be near hurricane conditions...imagine, my surprise! But Texas wasn't the only place I traveled too. Chicago, St. Louis....I even made it as far as Vegas where I was introduced to a old english micro brewery that is perhaps one of the most memorable places I have ever visited. The furnishings were all made of a dark cherry stained oak, cushioned in dark green. There was a sort of metro feel to the decorations, pictures of abstract geometric art dotted the walls and the micro brews themselves were piped in over head and directly to the bar via a pipe system that reminded me of a stretched out catalytic converter. But of all the places I've visited I will always have a special spot in my heart for Phoenix; I truly love that city. But despite the travel and all the interesting people I had met or befriended, I always felt a little bit was missing from it all. During my travels I had friends go through college, graduate, then go on to their careers, they all had these amazing tales to tell of their time there as well as their fair share of horror stories and as my ten year high school reunion started to creep ever closer I started to take a serious look at going back to school, a real serious look. Without a doubt my friends and family had been urging me to go for some time, but I'd always had an excuse: Too many bills, I'd been out of school too long, etcetera ad nauseum. But it wasn't until my father's divorce that I truly got the motivation to apply.

Some three years or so ago my father and I had gotten reacquainted after a long estrangement due to complicated family matters. The complication being that he was what could be defined as a 'dead beat dad', though not entirely by his own fault. Once again see complicated family matters. Anyway we'd gotten reacquainted and come to find out he had remarried to a woman who we'll refer to as Jill. Now Jill seemed like a good sort of person: small, blonde, with a sophisticated air and education that seemed really pleased that my father and I had gotten back into each other's lives. Of course I did mention a divorce just a short while ago so...queue the dramatic music! All light heartedness aside it was (and still is) a nasty mess and I being the concerned, overly eager to help, son got caught up in the middle of it. While trying to help my father gather some of his things from his old home in Massachusetts some key phrases were thrown in my direction that involved "loser" or "leach" or otherwise attacked my lack of education. As you can imagine I didn't take overly kindly to those monikers and after a while it really started to get under my skin.

A few months later I threw out two applications to college, one to UMO and the other to EMCC. In all honesty I didn't expect to get accepted at either and figured I'd get a letter back saying 'go take a few night courses at adult ed then come back to us', which just happens to be what the University said to me. However! My acceptance letter to EMCC came in the mail in short order and, well, I was shocked, elated, scared out of my gourd. I hadn't been to school in ten years! It was crazy! it was awesome. In a round about way I suppose I owe Jill a bit of thanks for getting under my skin In such a way that I felt compelled to do something about it, not that she'd be pleased in any sort of way. But I guess the main thing, the major thing, is that eventually I found my way there.

Week 5: We Name the Guilty Man!

Years ago, just after I had graduated high school if memory serves, I was hanging out at my friend Kevin's (whom from this point on be known as Kevin L.) apartment with a group of mutual friends. This motly crew considered of course myself, the rather tall and overly athleatic Kevin (whom from this point on shall be known as Kevin M.), also rather tall but not very athletic Corey, our ever strange and constantly dressed in black Gerrete, and of course our gracious if block like (in a solid sort of way) host Kevin L. and for this evenings night of mischife we had aquired the living room from Kevin L.'s room mate Jim. Mind you this is before I had actually gotten to know Jim so all I realy knew of him at the time was that he was ex military and favored a combat gripped shotgun he nicknamed 'Satan', so I was a bit releaved when he decided to opt out of our little indoor excersion.

But I digress.

The livingroom itself was fairly large and seemed to have a perminant haze hanging about it from cigirette smoke. The battered old hard wood floors that had seen better days since this place had become a bachelors pad, the matching smoke blue sofa and arm chair were well worn from constant use as well as sporting tufts of hair from Jim's Russian Blue, Baloo. The white trim that ran about the bottom of the room and along the window frames had chipped and faded, presumably by simple hard use and a lack of upkeep. It was a dark enough place, the over head lamps bulb having blown who knows how long ago and the only light coming from the kitchen the next room over along with the soft glow of the television. As for the occupants of the room...we of course were mostly dressed in dark colors with the obligitory metal band T shirt or trench coat, kind of an odd choice of attire for a get together to play card/boar/video games. Of course with such a gather one must have...snacks! Having pushed the two coffee tables to one side of the room they now served as a Domino's Pizza buffete.

I remember I was seated on the couch, munching on a slice of pizza and waiting my turn at the Playstation The current game of choice was a fighter that pitted two combattants that could shape shift into different animal forms, like a werewolf or weretiger. Pretty intense stuff for the time and like most guys our age during that time we would spend hours beating the virtual snot out of one another and laugh about it. It was at the conclusion of one such bout that Kevin L. glared at Corey and shook the controler at him, wide eyed in mock fury.

"Cheater! CHEATER! CHEEET-EERR!" Kevin L. raised his arms and shook them in protest at his latest loss, to which Corey simply wrinkled his nose and laughed.

"You just suck Kev."

"Bah!"

"Hey guys, you wanna take a smoke break?" Gerret's voice cuts through the budding argument as Kevin M. sits up from his place on the couch and cracks his knuckles.

"Sure, you guys smoke....then I take on winner. That means your 'Mexistach.'" Kevin M. fixed a level, if joking look at Corey who only smirked and rolled his eyes and stood up. "You comin' Dray?" I shook my head at Kevin's question and stood up.

"Nah I think I'm gonna treat myself to some more pizza. You guys go on." With that the majority of the group wandered off to the smoking area: The Kitchen. I knew that this would be quite a pause between games, smoking usually brought about chatting, joking, idle boasts and gossip from the group and normally I'd join in but....I was honestly near starving having not eaten at all the prvious day. So as the idle chatter and smoke started to filter into the room I picked up a slice of pie..then another...then another. I glanced out into the kitchen for a moment as I contemplated my fourth.

"Guys...you want any more of this?"

No response.

"Guys? You had enough pizza or what?"

Still no response. After a short moment of contemplation influanced mostly by my teen age ability to consume stupid amounts of food, I decided to finish off what was left of the pizzas (which was no small quantity) then retake my seat and wait for the rest of the gang to return from their smoking adventures. One by one they filed back in and settled back down into thier previous places and I sat quietly, for all intents the perfect picture of innocents.

"Hey! Where'd the pizza go?!? Dray!!"

Week 5: You've lost it! Where is it?

“....Hell...where did they go?!?”

You'd think that holding onto ones keys, especially the night before the big interview, would be a
simple task. Yet here I am, frantically tossing about my room with that impending feeling of 'you're going to be late!' hanging over my head. I mean, how hard could it be to find them? The room isn't all that big! This thought and many more 'colorful' ones are running through my head as I rummage about in the cloths basket beside my bed. Jeans, socks, t shirts, they all go flying out of the hamper in a vain hope to hear that quiet clank or soft jingle, a tell tale sign
that my keys are somewhere inside. My efforts proving fruitless I stand up with a loud, frustrated sigh and cast my eyes about for an idea, any idea, of where I might have misplaced them.

It's a small room my bedroom; six by ten, the walls painted the blue of a late summer sky and the floors the mass produced varnished wood you find in Home Depot or Wal Mart. Jammed up against the corner is my dresser, a battered brown that contains the majority of my wardrobe. I go there next and open each scared and scratched drawer and rifle through them. As I reach the
last one and meet with no success I idly think that maybe I should do laundry then snap my attention to the contents on to of the dresser. I set aside two tan and black marble candle sticks, a purchase I made years back at the world famous Perry's Nut House, to start pawing through the random letters, half written stories, and other assorted odds and ends that tend to clutter one of the few flat surfaces in my room.
Nothing. Sometimes I wonder if my ancestors were sailors in the ancient world, if not I can only guess where this litany of creative profanity originated. I suppose I could blame MTV or pup culture.
With the proverbial clock ticking away in my mind I move to the window, its bent metal frame painted black and chipped from nearly ten years of abuse by myself and my brother. The glass pane itself is cracked half open to allow the fresh spring air to slip in and stir the threadbare curtains that only did a lip service job at blocking the light from pouring into the room.

“Ha!” I spot the glint of metal on the pressed wood of the sill and my hand shoots out to snatch up the small silver ring and, more importantly, my car keys.

Week 4: If Things Could Talk....

Ah, my book shelf. That little wooden construct full of some of my favorite reads: Sci fi novels from alternate history, the blasted, war-torn future where massive armies collide to decide the fate of mankind. Not to mention all the educational texts and the random National Geographic that finds its way there but you know what would be amazing? If my book shelf could actually speak, or better yet read! This way I could offer it books that I was not so sure on if I would enjoy and it could offer me insights into what I should, or should not, read.

Perhaps we could chat back and forth about the latest novel I had read, which I'm sure my book shelf would have read far faster than I as it certainly would have greater access to the text. Though I'm not really sure it would like my choice of reading materials...I may have to introduce it to a more expansive choice of reading material. Perhaps in this way I might find other types of literature to read?

I'm sure we could talk about the various works stored on the shelf. Certainly I could add some more philosophy, I do have a few of Nietzche's works kicking around from a few years back. But how interesting it would be! What insights could be gained from having such an animated shelving unit?

Or how scary?

Week 4: What is Writing Like for You?

It's a funny thing conversations with friends; this on in particular is always an interesting experience. Of course we've known each other since grade school, even back then when the teacher first introduced us we had a clumsy dialogue and to be honest I hated ever moment of it. It was like being forced to play in the sandbox with your least favorite person and being told that it was important to be nice and share your toys. Well I didn't want to share my toys! The arts and crafts table was so much more interesting! But no...my teachers made us sit down and go through the labourus steps of being acquainted despite my frustrations and initial resistances.

Now we keep in touch regularly, though sometimes there are large gaps between our conversations. We chat here and there about normal every day things or something that strikes our mutual fancy. Most times when my friend calls the conversations are deep, thoughtful, though spontaneous. It's not always easy though, outside distractions can easily derail either of us while we talk and then it takes a great deal of 'Now where were we?' to get back on track. Sometimes we stumble and fall over each others thoughts; other times we can talk as smoothly and easily, almost like we could finish the others thoughts.

Week 4 Theme. Truth...or Consequences. Playing with truth, facts, and the area just beyond them

Part 1.

We're sitting in chemistry class. I'm next to my lab partner Tim and the teacher has just explained that we're going to try to make a white cloud in a test tube using Chloride and Hydrochloric acid. The tube itself is clear glass with several rubber bands attached for venting, I think. Collectively the class is seated and waiting patiently for the desired result to happen but nothing seems to be. Our teacher frowns at the tube then shakes her head.


"I guess the tube is too big for this to work, sorry guys."


Part 2.

I'm sitting next to my lab partner Tim in chemistry class waiting for our Prof to gather up the various materials required for the lab demonstration. Quiet whispers went through the students as she dipped a Q tip in Hydrochloric acid. Small wisps of steam rose from the chemically quenched material as it was fitted into an arcane looking tube assembly. Our attention is once again caught as she places another Q tip, this one dipped in Chloride, into the assembly. We wait in anticipation as the steam from the Hydrochloric acid simmers at one end of the tube which our Prof promptly held up for our inspection, but nothing seemed to be happen. After several minutes of waiting she sighed then set the contraption down.


"I guess the tube is too big for this to work, sorry guys."


Part 3.

Test tubes bubbled over with all manner of noxious fluids and the class sat in rapt silence as their Professor brandished a test tube that frothed near to the brim with a hellish green liquid. Beside me Tim coughed hoarsely as fumes from the concoction waft past us, I was lucky enough to hold my breath. Our instructor is wild eyed, turning brass knobs and rusted steel leavers of a giant steam punk machine that dominates a quarter of the room, her movements are a manic display of insane genius that none of us in the room can hope to follow.


I'm pretty sure she cackled on about at test at one point...but I was too wrapped up in what she was doing to really pay attention


Down through a funnel goes the green liquid to spiral through several tubes, through bunson burners and mingled mixtures to finally rest in a single, monstrous vat. The entire machine quakes with the reaction, brass washers and iron bolts rattle to the ground as our instructor laughs madly at what seemingly is something of great importance.


And that's when the whole thing blew up.

Another Observation

I've only really written about either a) Games or b) food/situations about food. Of course there are a few exceptions but I think the majority fall into the two catigories.

I think I must try writing when I'm a) more relaxed or b) not hungery. So maybe on a Friday a few hours after work and before I do all my home work and after I've eaten. Yes....this is a brilliant idea!

Or it'll fail and I'll just write about lunch :)