I was thinking earlier today - why are politicians so irresponsible and short-sighted? Probably part of it is that the least logical people make the best leaders. There's not a lot we can do about that. We could make logic tests necessary for holding office, but, by virtue of the irrational being the best leaders, they would still make trouble, elected to office or not.
However, while not exemplars of logic, or of knowledge, or perhaps even common sense, politicians are rational - they do what they perceive to be best for themselves. And it seems to me that for the most part, politicians pursue whatever sounds good, as pleasing the people will lead to re-election. Not what is good, or what they think is good, but what sounds good. Many have a knack for saying things that sound logical, moral, and insightful, but which are actually proven not to work.
Take, for example, the issue of corporate taxes. Many argue that corporations have more money, so they should pay more. That they have a debt to society, and must help to pay for the burden of governance. Currently, corporate taxes in this country are at nearly 40%. Most corporations find loopholes to avoid paying taxes. Many legislators are outraged by this, and say that better enforcement must be put in place, and loopholes closed. However, they forget that businesses can locate themselves wherever they wish - if taxes are high, they will leave. It does not matter how good enforcement is, if there are no businesses to collect from. These same people will argue that we cannot lower taxes because the government is running a deficit. They ignore that businesses, when allowed to keep the money they earn, are much better at investing than the government. They ignore the fact that a low tax rate allows for high growth and for a bigger economy - this brings in just as much, if not more, tax revenue, and has the added benefit of raising everyone's standard of living. And why should business be responsible for government's inability to restrain itself?
But politicians ignore this, because it is far easier to demonize big business for big problems, and to ignore the fact that government is usually to blame when acts of God are not. After all, if big business can cause big problems, what worse mischief could our government cause? It is, after all, larger than any company on earth.
So, what can be done?
Politicians say what sounds good. So, what will they say if no one can hear them? I would propose a system whereby politicians are given no media voice - the media can report their actions, but not their words. And politicians will not be allowed, under any circumstances, to appear on TV. The only possible exception being the President, who as commander in chief, must occasionally address the entire nation.
Just think how pleasant life would be if there were no more political commercials! We could spend election months watching the usual ads for beer, feminine hygiene, and food. They are insipid, mindless, and even disgusting enough to hold us over, I'm sure.
I expect politics would carry on as usual, for a time. Then politicians, attention-seekers by nature, would notice that no one was watching. Perhaps that means they would be more corrupt, but I fail to see how they could be. With no one watching their grandstanding, they would be forced to accomplish things for the papers to report - without accomplishments, people would wonder what exactly they were doing. Accomplishments would be the only way of seeking attention.
Perhaps denying them all outlets would be too harsh. I don't especially think so, as most people are rather reasonable when discussing issues other than politics. And since most are ignorant of issues until politicians raise them, I believe most people would be more reasonable if they were not so misled. However, as I said, some people may think it too harsh to deny these firebrands all communication.
Perhaps they could be permitted time in the slow media - newspapers and the like. Sound bites work well on TV, but are much harder to sell in written form. And since people often don't read, the discussions would be limited to politicians, those who understood the issues, and the insane. The first and third categories would be assumed by the second to be dangerously ill-informed, and rightly so. Once those two sides were excluded, only those with understanding would be left, and their recommendations could be easily examined. In practice, it might not be possible to separate the first and third groups. At any rate, written discussions take more effort and thought, and it is much harder to intimidate or yell over the other side. Of course, the extra effort and thought might go into making even more devious and misleading statements, but, since the supply of truly devious writers is rather limited, I am willing to risk that.
In summary: politicians will nearly always pursue their rational self-interest; that is, to get re-elected. The only way to be elected is for people to know of you, and to support what you do. In order to be known, you must get attention. The current system allows politicians to garner attention mostly by making nonsensical statements, or to say whatever is popular at the moment, both being usually the same thing. If these masters of publicity were restricted - if people could only know of them by their actions - they would be forced to act, rather than bloviate, in order to receive attention. No amount of "ethics training" and no set of qualifications will change the way politicians act: human nature never changes. So it is far better to change the system, in order to reward different behaviors.
The main problem with this proposal is that legislators make the rules, and rarely make rules restricting themselves. So I expect this idea will never be implemented. But I do want to see it happen, if only to discover why it is a bad idea.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Advice on writing
Ach. I was going to write something earlier. I was excited, motivated, and knew precisely what I was going to say. And actually, I still know what I'm going to say, because it is directly related to my forgetting. But it won't be as good, and it will definitely be less organized.
I was going to say: here are my rules for writing.
It's not like I'm some wonderfully successful writer (I have won a little prize money, but nothing to brag about); however, these work for me.
The first, most important rule, and the one that I can't forget because forgetting reminds me of it, is this: never, never, never delay writing anything down. When it comes to mind, write it down. Don't wait until it's convenient. That'll be too late. Thoughts are ethereal - they leave once new ones come, and are gone without a trace. Sometimes you can summon them back by mulling over the same things that led to them, but that depends on you remembering those thoughts. Thoughts are like lives - they are ours, but they are not ours to keep. Use them while you have them.
The other important rule is very similar - write all the time. I say it is similar because most people will say to themselves, "someday I will write this or that," but someday is always another day away. There is only now.
As an excuse, people often say, "I don't know how to write very well," or, "I don't know what to write." That isn't important. The only way to improve is to practice. So, even though the first efforts will almost certainly be terrible, write them anyway. Go nuts. Finish them. Then, when time has removed you from the effort, go back and read it. You will be disappointed, and, if not, have someone else critique it. You will be disappointed. Write something new. Repeat. And if you say you have nothing to write about - well, having nothing to say has never stopped anyone from talking, has it? Write whatever comes to mind. If nothing comes to mind, you might be dead. Get that checked out. If you're not dead, something will come to mind. If you are, try writing anyway. Everyone wants to know what the dead can tell.
I suppose it would also be helpful to read good writing. Very helpful. Having friends, or even enemies, tear apart your writing can probably do an alright substitute job. But it is always easier to learn by following an example, than to learn through error what is not allowed. Writing only seems easy while you're reading it. When you know how difficult it is to write, you will learn much more from reading. Chances are, you will lose respect for some authors when you see how boring and mechanical their writing is. And of course you will gain respect for others.
A big part of writing is forcing people to see. We all forget the things that are always around us, due to familiarity. Often these things are important. So the writer's job is to find a new way of looking at the familiar, in a way that makes it strange and new again.
There are exceptions to these rules, and by no means are they inclusive. If you can concentrate on one thought, uninterrupted, you might not want to write it down immediately. Consider it, and let it develop and mature. See how it is embellished and changed. It may become more interesting than it originally was. Of course, it might also become dull, and then you will not want to write your original thought. Which is your loss, really - that thought may not have been bad, and it may be that it only occurred to you. Or, more likely, it has occurred to many, but none have written it. Be the first. There are other good rules on writing, but I am stubborn: I only know the ones I use, and ignore the advice of others.
I give this advice assuming you want to write, and that you are fool enough to trust me. I think nearly everyone wants to write, though. Most people like the idea of making their thoughts known, or at least making them permanent (as permanent as things get around here). Like I said, there is no way of knowing when, where, or whom 'your' thoughts will next strike - with such an uncertain future, it seems best to immortalize what we can while we still have time.
Probably the biggest misconception people have about writing is that it's easy. That is where nearly all the problems originate. People assume that, because it is easy, it requires no practice - the thoughts on paper will flow beautifully without effort. That writers do no 'real' work, but only relax and amuse themselves. Those are both totally wrong, of course. Writers are all crazy - the importance and difficulty of their work is out of all proportion to their pay. They control ideas, the most powerful tools we posses. And yet, most writers can only afford to write on the side, when they are not earning money at a 'real' job.
So, my message, especially for those of you in school: write. Now. Don't put it off.
(Oh - heh - and let me read it. We can help each other out.)
I was going to say: here are my rules for writing.
It's not like I'm some wonderfully successful writer (I have won a little prize money, but nothing to brag about); however, these work for me.
The first, most important rule, and the one that I can't forget because forgetting reminds me of it, is this: never, never, never delay writing anything down. When it comes to mind, write it down. Don't wait until it's convenient. That'll be too late. Thoughts are ethereal - they leave once new ones come, and are gone without a trace. Sometimes you can summon them back by mulling over the same things that led to them, but that depends on you remembering those thoughts. Thoughts are like lives - they are ours, but they are not ours to keep. Use them while you have them.
The other important rule is very similar - write all the time. I say it is similar because most people will say to themselves, "someday I will write this or that," but someday is always another day away. There is only now.
As an excuse, people often say, "I don't know how to write very well," or, "I don't know what to write." That isn't important. The only way to improve is to practice. So, even though the first efforts will almost certainly be terrible, write them anyway. Go nuts. Finish them. Then, when time has removed you from the effort, go back and read it. You will be disappointed, and, if not, have someone else critique it. You will be disappointed. Write something new. Repeat. And if you say you have nothing to write about - well, having nothing to say has never stopped anyone from talking, has it? Write whatever comes to mind. If nothing comes to mind, you might be dead. Get that checked out. If you're not dead, something will come to mind. If you are, try writing anyway. Everyone wants to know what the dead can tell.
I suppose it would also be helpful to read good writing. Very helpful. Having friends, or even enemies, tear apart your writing can probably do an alright substitute job. But it is always easier to learn by following an example, than to learn through error what is not allowed. Writing only seems easy while you're reading it. When you know how difficult it is to write, you will learn much more from reading. Chances are, you will lose respect for some authors when you see how boring and mechanical their writing is. And of course you will gain respect for others.
A big part of writing is forcing people to see. We all forget the things that are always around us, due to familiarity. Often these things are important. So the writer's job is to find a new way of looking at the familiar, in a way that makes it strange and new again.
There are exceptions to these rules, and by no means are they inclusive. If you can concentrate on one thought, uninterrupted, you might not want to write it down immediately. Consider it, and let it develop and mature. See how it is embellished and changed. It may become more interesting than it originally was. Of course, it might also become dull, and then you will not want to write your original thought. Which is your loss, really - that thought may not have been bad, and it may be that it only occurred to you. Or, more likely, it has occurred to many, but none have written it. Be the first. There are other good rules on writing, but I am stubborn: I only know the ones I use, and ignore the advice of others.
I give this advice assuming you want to write, and that you are fool enough to trust me. I think nearly everyone wants to write, though. Most people like the idea of making their thoughts known, or at least making them permanent (as permanent as things get around here). Like I said, there is no way of knowing when, where, or whom 'your' thoughts will next strike - with such an uncertain future, it seems best to immortalize what we can while we still have time.
Probably the biggest misconception people have about writing is that it's easy. That is where nearly all the problems originate. People assume that, because it is easy, it requires no practice - the thoughts on paper will flow beautifully without effort. That writers do no 'real' work, but only relax and amuse themselves. Those are both totally wrong, of course. Writers are all crazy - the importance and difficulty of their work is out of all proportion to their pay. They control ideas, the most powerful tools we posses. And yet, most writers can only afford to write on the side, when they are not earning money at a 'real' job.
So, my message, especially for those of you in school: write. Now. Don't put it off.
(Oh - heh - and let me read it. We can help each other out.)
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Prisoners
I was thinking today, not for the first time, that we should do something with our prisoners. Sure, we could set them to work doing menial labor - but we already do that, and while we do get some use out of them, they don't benefit much from it. They are returned to the world beaten men, without skills or money. So of course they get arrested again. And while we could continue as we are - raising taxes and building ever more prisons - I'm not happy with that.
Who does it benefit to re-arrest these men, time and time again? Not me. I pay for them. And yet I get no benefit - there is a reduction in crime, but the lack of negative action is not the same as the presence of the positive. They do not benefit, either: in prison they make almost no money, no real friends, and no useful skills. Even if they do stay clean after their sentences, they have records that will haunt them - records that make employment difficult.
Our prisons are full. So full, in fact, that many have to parole prisoners early, just to free up space. There are nearly two million imprisoned at this moment, and so I say the time is right for something new.
We could provide job-training, forgive lesser criminals, and give money with which to start new lives. But no one wants to pay criminals, and chances are most of them wouldn't take it seriously.
My thoughts are not so original: we need to train these prisoners, at least the promising ones, and give them a new path in life. We also need more soldiers.
The military most likely does not want criminals in its ranks. And neither would I. Instead, I would create a new branch - the American Foreign Legion. It would accept anyone seeking a fresh start, offering a clean record and American citizenship to those able to fulfill their contract.
Criminals would be free to choose whether to serve time in prison, or in the Legion. The Legion would be under no obligation to accept them, and could thus weed out some of the worst from the start. Training would be brutal, of course, and discipline harsh. Those who made it through training would make it into the Legion; those who did not would return to prison.
These soldiers would be paid like any others, and would learn discipline, trust, and honor, as well as pride in themselves and in their country. They would be sent wherever they were needed, and would not require the large bases that ordinary units require: they would have no families.
Remember, they are new men, with no past.
At the end of their commitment they would be free, with new skills, money, and clean records. If they so desired, they could remain in the Legion. Or they could join one of the other armed services. But they would be under no obligation to do so - after all, they have met their obligation, and been forgiven.
This would decrease crowding at jails to some degree, though that would depend on a decent number graduating from training; it would teach prisoners valuable skills, as well as give them money and clean records for life after the sentence; and it would provide us with more manpower. It would probably cost more than current programs, but this money would be well-spent. After all, better a man should feed himself than we should feed him. A jailed man benefits no one, whereas a free man, working, benefits all. And most importantly, don't we in this country believe in forgiveness, and in new beginnings?
I see this as a system that can benefit everyone.
Who does it benefit to re-arrest these men, time and time again? Not me. I pay for them. And yet I get no benefit - there is a reduction in crime, but the lack of negative action is not the same as the presence of the positive. They do not benefit, either: in prison they make almost no money, no real friends, and no useful skills. Even if they do stay clean after their sentences, they have records that will haunt them - records that make employment difficult.
Our prisons are full. So full, in fact, that many have to parole prisoners early, just to free up space. There are nearly two million imprisoned at this moment, and so I say the time is right for something new.
We could provide job-training, forgive lesser criminals, and give money with which to start new lives. But no one wants to pay criminals, and chances are most of them wouldn't take it seriously.
My thoughts are not so original: we need to train these prisoners, at least the promising ones, and give them a new path in life. We also need more soldiers.
The military most likely does not want criminals in its ranks. And neither would I. Instead, I would create a new branch - the American Foreign Legion. It would accept anyone seeking a fresh start, offering a clean record and American citizenship to those able to fulfill their contract.
Criminals would be free to choose whether to serve time in prison, or in the Legion. The Legion would be under no obligation to accept them, and could thus weed out some of the worst from the start. Training would be brutal, of course, and discipline harsh. Those who made it through training would make it into the Legion; those who did not would return to prison.
These soldiers would be paid like any others, and would learn discipline, trust, and honor, as well as pride in themselves and in their country. They would be sent wherever they were needed, and would not require the large bases that ordinary units require: they would have no families.
Remember, they are new men, with no past.
At the end of their commitment they would be free, with new skills, money, and clean records. If they so desired, they could remain in the Legion. Or they could join one of the other armed services. But they would be under no obligation to do so - after all, they have met their obligation, and been forgiven.
This would decrease crowding at jails to some degree, though that would depend on a decent number graduating from training; it would teach prisoners valuable skills, as well as give them money and clean records for life after the sentence; and it would provide us with more manpower. It would probably cost more than current programs, but this money would be well-spent. After all, better a man should feed himself than we should feed him. A jailed man benefits no one, whereas a free man, working, benefits all. And most importantly, don't we in this country believe in forgiveness, and in new beginnings?
I see this as a system that can benefit everyone.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Part 5
Something was definitely wrong.
The sunshine was gone. Worse, something had woken me. My confusion didn't last long: everyone was running from the restaurant. I got up, and followed the crowd to the door.
In the middle of the street was a mob of people - crowded around someone laying on the ground. Chuck was kneeling beside the person and, when he reached his hands back to wipe them on his pants, I could clearly see they were red.
I started to run, to see if I could help, but someone grabbed my sleeve.
It was an old woman, leaning on a cane, her eyes wide with concern. Holding my shirt both for balance and in plea, she asked, "what is it? What's going on?" I couldn't let her down.
"I don't know! I was going to find out! Whoever that is, they're bleeding pretty bad." I tried to see through the crowd, without much luck.
"Oh dear! I thought I heard a rifle. I hope it was just an accident." She was shivering, but just a little. She shook her head back and forth as if she could simply disagree the situation away. She didn't look at all like she thought it an accident.
"You think they got shot?"
"People don't just lay down in the street, bleeding. "
"You're right. Look, I've got to go see -"
"Are you a doctor?" I looked. Her eyes were stony. I wondered why.
"No."
"A nurse?"
"No!"
"Any medical training?"
"No, ma'am," I spat out, trying to stare her down "look, I -"
"Then don't get in the way. That boy looks like he knows what he's doing." Damnit. I couldn't just run from such a helpless (and demanding) old woman.
The crowd drifted a little. That seemed like a good sign. But, as it began to break apart, I saw him. That pale kid was right there in the crowd. He was smiling...at the wounded man?
It was a little creepy.
The crowd faded into darkness, as though something had covered the sun. No, my head...something...can't focus. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I shuddered uncontrollably. I saw the crowd staggering, even through my dull vision. What was going on?
Then I saw him moving - and heard a sudden, slick sound. I hoped I had misheard, but it replayed in my mind. The man he had been near slumped forward, and then met the ground. The sound repeated, another man curled up on himself, then fell.
I think it happened more, and the sound was very wet. That's all I know. A wet sound, obscene. I kept hearing it.
I don't know why no one moved. I couldn't see.
Someone was yelling. Someone angry. It was Chuck! With that thought, my vision came back. I was laying on the ground. Chuck had a big gash in his shirt, and there was blood everywhere. On him and on the ground. I hoped it wasn't his. He was still yelling when he lunged at the kid.
That pale freak's eyes widened, and he reeled back, arms out. I was glad to see him surprised. He tripped as he threw himself backwards, and suddenly I felt much better. Everything would be alright.
But, still falling, he smiled again, wider than ever. I wanted the moment to end, but time was slow. Chuck tackled him. They skidded slowly through the air. I worried - what was behind that lunatic, beatific smile? I felt like I could reach out and grab him, demand to know what he was doing, and still have time left before he hit the ground.
There was a sudden, hollow sound, a resounding heavy drum, and they were down. I wondered if his ribs were broken. Chuck pinned him. The kid did nothing but wheeze, and weakly struggle - I felt exultant. Then I noticed why he was able to struggle as much as he was - Chuck was getting very, very pale, and shaking like a sheet in the wind. He slouched forward, slowly. And then, like he was laying down to sleep, ever so slowly, with his arms resisting, he fell, and there was a heap of two bodies.
I was halfway there before I remembered the old woman. I turned my head quickly, and, unsurprisingly, she had collapsed without my support. I looked forward again, and I was already there. I rolled Chuck over, and looked at the kid: sure enough, he wasn't moving. So I turned my attention to Chuck, and to his wounds. Where his shirt was torn and bloody, there was an oozing hole, and blood coursed from it. I fumbled around, trying to apply pressure, but I'm not sure it did any good. A little less leaked out, but I think it leaked out inside, instead. Or maybe there wasn't much left. No! Damnit! He couldn't die!
He moaned. He was alive! I never thought I'd enjoy hearing moans of pain, but it meant he was alive!
"Chuck, buddy, you gotta help me out. Hang in there. Tell me what to do. You know what to do. You're bleeding. A...a stab wound. A puncture, I guess. I'm trying to stop the bleeding but I don't know how! Help me out!" He rolled his eyes to me, slowly.
He mumbled, "...shit. Praugh...probably too late. So cold. .... I need...a little water."
I really wanted to get him some water. I didn't think it'd do much good, but I really wanted to help. I got up - and the kid was gone. I panicked.
Up the street just a bit, I saw him. He seemed to have recovered. He saw me, and started running, hard. His knife swung in his hand, tearing the air. This couldn't be! He had been so weak only moments before! I ran.
I felt ashamed, running off to let Chuck die. And these people, too. I couldn't even think straight.
I collapsed again. Before I hit the ground, all I could think of was, "why?"
I was terrified, yet, I could not move. In a way, it was peaceful. Everything was out of my control now. There was nothing I could do; no reason to worry. I'd always known I was going to die, sooner or later. Now was not so -
There was a harsh grunt. That got through to me. It was followed by a sound - perhaps like the sound of a sack of flour, filled with sticks, cracking against the ground. From the tops of my eyes, I saw the kid slide down a wall, and Chuck's limbs drop to the ground. I couldn't understand.
My senses returned, at least a little. That perplexing sound...
Then I knew. That was the sound of bones breaking. Somehow, whether by luck, or blind rage, or divine intervention, the kid had run right overtop of my dying friend. The old man must have willed enough strength to pull off a throw - transferring all that forward momentum into a short flight to the wall. I felt sick from the sound.
Slowly, unsteadily, I rose to my feet. There were a lot of people on the ground, now that I had time to look. I moved to my friend as quickly as my legs and balance permitted.
There was just a flicker of life left in his eyes. He looked around, dully, and though I called his name, he did not look. He did not hear, and he could not see. He whispered, "it's only fear, only fear, that's all, that's how they do it, just...weak mind...just...." Almost imperceptibly, he was moving slower, and less, each instant. Each moment was a short age. I pleaded with him, and with God. Nothing happened. And, before I was ready, there was no movement at all.
I felt sticky.
I was covered with drying blood, and with tears. I do not know how long it was, but as the blood was not dry, and the body not cold, it could not have been long. Something had broken through my sorrow. It was...it was another noise. A slick noise. That same one as...what was it? That was so long ago. Another. Again. Oh, wait...my stomach knotted up. It was...it was....
Oh shit.
I looked up. There, as if reaping a crop, was the thing. Kneeling, cutting, rising, and then stumbling to the ground again. It was only a thing now. No human being could do that. Not so...gleefully. So mechanically. He limped, and sagged, and was misshapen. I could not understand how he still moved. He staggered from body to body. His head rolled to one side, and he saw me. Blood leaked into his eyes, and a crusty stream ran from his mouth. He straightened somewhat, and turned to me. He shambled towards me, smiling, but his jaw hung to one side, and there were new gaps in his grin. Before, his eyes had sparkled with evil delight. Now, they were vacant, dead, empty - they simply saw. But still he smiled, and shambled more.
Directly before him, a woman woke up. Before she could move, though, he stooped, and put his knife through her neck, just behind her windpipe. He pulled, and I saw it rise - oh, it rose! He never looked away from me.
I was running. I did not know it, and then, once I did, I did not know where I meant to go. Away. I only wanted away. But he would follow me! Like before! He followed me from the woods. It did not matter if I ran - I would tire, and he could not. He would walk until I collapsed, and then he'd have me, too.
I saw a van. A white van. The driver was slumped in the seat, leaning against the door. It was patiently trying to idle forward, but a...a something I would not look at was keeping it back (oh her eyes! They...stared!). I scrambled to it, and yanked the door open. I was not sure, but I thought the driver might be alive. Before I had decided anything, I tossed him from his seat and onto the pavement - the murderer was almost here.
I was driving away already. I thought, "I could not run him over - I would have to run over the people who might not be dead. I can't." But this was just an excuse - the van was turned around before this even occurred to me.
After that, I do not know what happened. I was at home. I did not want to sleep. There were times when I was not awake - black times - but they were not sleep. I could see the heaps of bodies, still, and I imagined that poor old woman I had let fall, murdered because of me. Chuck was breathing raggedly, leaking blood, staring at me with hateful accusation. That driver...he was in his rightful place, in his own vehicle, bloody from the wounds that killed him, and he watched my every move. They all watched me. All of them. I screamed, and I told them it wasn't my fault, but they did not care. They were dead. They had all the patience in the world. They would never stop.
I am not sure how long I was there. I had not changed clothing. I could not shower. It would be too noisy - I couldn't hear if I showered. And what if he came when I was changing clothes? I didn't eat. There was no way to eat.
Even though it was noisy, I turned on the television. I had to know.
"We bring you more on this evening's tragic news. Police responding to a nearly incoherent motorist found a grisly sight - an entire town, murdered. Police do not have any details, but they are recommending that people in the local area stay in their homes, and be on the lookout. And for those of us further away, they urge caution as well - they do not know where the killers went. Whoever did this, whatever group it was, is very dangerous, and presumably heavily-armed. Police have not yet said what they think killed these people, or how long it took, or why no one called for help. But they stressed that they do have some leads - some witnesses recall the last vehicle on the highway from that direction as being a white van." My mind went blank, and the room was suddenly cold. The TV said something about the model and license. "Preliminary reports are sketchy, but it appears that the vehicle was stolen from town - its owner was among the victims. The police ask that any and all possible sightings be reported - and that if you spot this van, do not go near it. I repeat, do not go near this van. It may very well be the murderer's getaway vehicle.
Even more troubling, it appears that most of these victims did not put up a struggle. Only one young man survived, and he appears to have put up a fierce fight - many of his bones are broken. He currently is in extremely serious condition. But he alone seems to have resisted. Could this have been a chemical or biological attack? Is this the work of terrorists? The governor and the President both are asking people around the nation to join in prayer for -"
I switched it off. They were coming for me. Coming for me. And they would not believe.... They would never believe anything I said! I felt like I deserved it. I abandoned those people. They all died. And here I was, alive. They all died so I could get away.
Damn them all! The cops had their killer. But they were coming for me! Why? Why had any of this happened?
The sunshine was gone. Worse, something had woken me. My confusion didn't last long: everyone was running from the restaurant. I got up, and followed the crowd to the door.
In the middle of the street was a mob of people - crowded around someone laying on the ground. Chuck was kneeling beside the person and, when he reached his hands back to wipe them on his pants, I could clearly see they were red.
I started to run, to see if I could help, but someone grabbed my sleeve.
It was an old woman, leaning on a cane, her eyes wide with concern. Holding my shirt both for balance and in plea, she asked, "what is it? What's going on?" I couldn't let her down.
"I don't know! I was going to find out! Whoever that is, they're bleeding pretty bad." I tried to see through the crowd, without much luck.
"Oh dear! I thought I heard a rifle. I hope it was just an accident." She was shivering, but just a little. She shook her head back and forth as if she could simply disagree the situation away. She didn't look at all like she thought it an accident.
"You think they got shot?"
"People don't just lay down in the street, bleeding. "
"You're right. Look, I've got to go see -"
"Are you a doctor?" I looked. Her eyes were stony. I wondered why.
"No."
"A nurse?"
"No!"
"Any medical training?"
"No, ma'am," I spat out, trying to stare her down "look, I -"
"Then don't get in the way. That boy looks like he knows what he's doing." Damnit. I couldn't just run from such a helpless (and demanding) old woman.
The crowd drifted a little. That seemed like a good sign. But, as it began to break apart, I saw him. That pale kid was right there in the crowd. He was smiling...at the wounded man?
It was a little creepy.
The crowd faded into darkness, as though something had covered the sun. No, my head...something...can't focus. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I shuddered uncontrollably. I saw the crowd staggering, even through my dull vision. What was going on?
Then I saw him moving - and heard a sudden, slick sound. I hoped I had misheard, but it replayed in my mind. The man he had been near slumped forward, and then met the ground. The sound repeated, another man curled up on himself, then fell.
I think it happened more, and the sound was very wet. That's all I know. A wet sound, obscene. I kept hearing it.
I don't know why no one moved. I couldn't see.
Someone was yelling. Someone angry. It was Chuck! With that thought, my vision came back. I was laying on the ground. Chuck had a big gash in his shirt, and there was blood everywhere. On him and on the ground. I hoped it wasn't his. He was still yelling when he lunged at the kid.
That pale freak's eyes widened, and he reeled back, arms out. I was glad to see him surprised. He tripped as he threw himself backwards, and suddenly I felt much better. Everything would be alright.
But, still falling, he smiled again, wider than ever. I wanted the moment to end, but time was slow. Chuck tackled him. They skidded slowly through the air. I worried - what was behind that lunatic, beatific smile? I felt like I could reach out and grab him, demand to know what he was doing, and still have time left before he hit the ground.
There was a sudden, hollow sound, a resounding heavy drum, and they were down. I wondered if his ribs were broken. Chuck pinned him. The kid did nothing but wheeze, and weakly struggle - I felt exultant. Then I noticed why he was able to struggle as much as he was - Chuck was getting very, very pale, and shaking like a sheet in the wind. He slouched forward, slowly. And then, like he was laying down to sleep, ever so slowly, with his arms resisting, he fell, and there was a heap of two bodies.
I was halfway there before I remembered the old woman. I turned my head quickly, and, unsurprisingly, she had collapsed without my support. I looked forward again, and I was already there. I rolled Chuck over, and looked at the kid: sure enough, he wasn't moving. So I turned my attention to Chuck, and to his wounds. Where his shirt was torn and bloody, there was an oozing hole, and blood coursed from it. I fumbled around, trying to apply pressure, but I'm not sure it did any good. A little less leaked out, but I think it leaked out inside, instead. Or maybe there wasn't much left. No! Damnit! He couldn't die!
He moaned. He was alive! I never thought I'd enjoy hearing moans of pain, but it meant he was alive!
"Chuck, buddy, you gotta help me out. Hang in there. Tell me what to do. You know what to do. You're bleeding. A...a stab wound. A puncture, I guess. I'm trying to stop the bleeding but I don't know how! Help me out!" He rolled his eyes to me, slowly.
He mumbled, "...shit. Praugh...probably too late. So cold. .... I need...a little water."
I really wanted to get him some water. I didn't think it'd do much good, but I really wanted to help. I got up - and the kid was gone. I panicked.
Up the street just a bit, I saw him. He seemed to have recovered. He saw me, and started running, hard. His knife swung in his hand, tearing the air. This couldn't be! He had been so weak only moments before! I ran.
I felt ashamed, running off to let Chuck die. And these people, too. I couldn't even think straight.
I collapsed again. Before I hit the ground, all I could think of was, "why?"
I was terrified, yet, I could not move. In a way, it was peaceful. Everything was out of my control now. There was nothing I could do; no reason to worry. I'd always known I was going to die, sooner or later. Now was not so -
There was a harsh grunt. That got through to me. It was followed by a sound - perhaps like the sound of a sack of flour, filled with sticks, cracking against the ground. From the tops of my eyes, I saw the kid slide down a wall, and Chuck's limbs drop to the ground. I couldn't understand.
My senses returned, at least a little. That perplexing sound...
Then I knew. That was the sound of bones breaking. Somehow, whether by luck, or blind rage, or divine intervention, the kid had run right overtop of my dying friend. The old man must have willed enough strength to pull off a throw - transferring all that forward momentum into a short flight to the wall. I felt sick from the sound.
Slowly, unsteadily, I rose to my feet. There were a lot of people on the ground, now that I had time to look. I moved to my friend as quickly as my legs and balance permitted.
There was just a flicker of life left in his eyes. He looked around, dully, and though I called his name, he did not look. He did not hear, and he could not see. He whispered, "it's only fear, only fear, that's all, that's how they do it, just...weak mind...just...." Almost imperceptibly, he was moving slower, and less, each instant. Each moment was a short age. I pleaded with him, and with God. Nothing happened. And, before I was ready, there was no movement at all.
I felt sticky.
I was covered with drying blood, and with tears. I do not know how long it was, but as the blood was not dry, and the body not cold, it could not have been long. Something had broken through my sorrow. It was...it was another noise. A slick noise. That same one as...what was it? That was so long ago. Another. Again. Oh, wait...my stomach knotted up. It was...it was....
Oh shit.
I looked up. There, as if reaping a crop, was the thing. Kneeling, cutting, rising, and then stumbling to the ground again. It was only a thing now. No human being could do that. Not so...gleefully. So mechanically. He limped, and sagged, and was misshapen. I could not understand how he still moved. He staggered from body to body. His head rolled to one side, and he saw me. Blood leaked into his eyes, and a crusty stream ran from his mouth. He straightened somewhat, and turned to me. He shambled towards me, smiling, but his jaw hung to one side, and there were new gaps in his grin. Before, his eyes had sparkled with evil delight. Now, they were vacant, dead, empty - they simply saw. But still he smiled, and shambled more.
Directly before him, a woman woke up. Before she could move, though, he stooped, and put his knife through her neck, just behind her windpipe. He pulled, and I saw it rise - oh, it rose! He never looked away from me.
I was running. I did not know it, and then, once I did, I did not know where I meant to go. Away. I only wanted away. But he would follow me! Like before! He followed me from the woods. It did not matter if I ran - I would tire, and he could not. He would walk until I collapsed, and then he'd have me, too.
I saw a van. A white van. The driver was slumped in the seat, leaning against the door. It was patiently trying to idle forward, but a...a something I would not look at was keeping it back (oh her eyes! They...stared!). I scrambled to it, and yanked the door open. I was not sure, but I thought the driver might be alive. Before I had decided anything, I tossed him from his seat and onto the pavement - the murderer was almost here.
I was driving away already. I thought, "I could not run him over - I would have to run over the people who might not be dead. I can't." But this was just an excuse - the van was turned around before this even occurred to me.
After that, I do not know what happened. I was at home. I did not want to sleep. There were times when I was not awake - black times - but they were not sleep. I could see the heaps of bodies, still, and I imagined that poor old woman I had let fall, murdered because of me. Chuck was breathing raggedly, leaking blood, staring at me with hateful accusation. That driver...he was in his rightful place, in his own vehicle, bloody from the wounds that killed him, and he watched my every move. They all watched me. All of them. I screamed, and I told them it wasn't my fault, but they did not care. They were dead. They had all the patience in the world. They would never stop.
I am not sure how long I was there. I had not changed clothing. I could not shower. It would be too noisy - I couldn't hear if I showered. And what if he came when I was changing clothes? I didn't eat. There was no way to eat.
Even though it was noisy, I turned on the television. I had to know.
"We bring you more on this evening's tragic news. Police responding to a nearly incoherent motorist found a grisly sight - an entire town, murdered. Police do not have any details, but they are recommending that people in the local area stay in their homes, and be on the lookout. And for those of us further away, they urge caution as well - they do not know where the killers went. Whoever did this, whatever group it was, is very dangerous, and presumably heavily-armed. Police have not yet said what they think killed these people, or how long it took, or why no one called for help. But they stressed that they do have some leads - some witnesses recall the last vehicle on the highway from that direction as being a white van." My mind went blank, and the room was suddenly cold. The TV said something about the model and license. "Preliminary reports are sketchy, but it appears that the vehicle was stolen from town - its owner was among the victims. The police ask that any and all possible sightings be reported - and that if you spot this van, do not go near it. I repeat, do not go near this van. It may very well be the murderer's getaway vehicle.
Even more troubling, it appears that most of these victims did not put up a struggle. Only one young man survived, and he appears to have put up a fierce fight - many of his bones are broken. He currently is in extremely serious condition. But he alone seems to have resisted. Could this have been a chemical or biological attack? Is this the work of terrorists? The governor and the President both are asking people around the nation to join in prayer for -"
I switched it off. They were coming for me. Coming for me. And they would not believe.... They would never believe anything I said! I felt like I deserved it. I abandoned those people. They all died. And here I was, alive. They all died so I could get away.
Damn them all! The cops had their killer. But they were coming for me! Why? Why had any of this happened?
Further non-work on that story
But seriously, I'll finish it sometime. There are two reasons why I haven't so far:
1. It takes time, which I unfortunately have wasted on other things.
2. It takes the right mood, and honestly, I'm far too cheerful to finish this the way I intended. At least for the past few weeks.
I'm thinking of something to write in the future. It's about...space Mormons!
...
I wrote a description on it. The description was desperately boring. So, I deleted it. If I get around to fleshing it out (or perhaps flushing it out), maybe it will be funny. Or maybe it'll piss people off. Either way, I'll be entertained.
Well, it's more than space Mormons. But that probably doesn't matter to you right now.
When I'm tired, like I am now, I can't write for crap. It comes out boring and insipid, and kind of depressing (I have now gone through and rewritten every sentence - because they were all crap the first time, and some even the second or third. When I'm less tired I need less revising). So, why don't I go to sleep and write later? When I am well-rested, I want to do everything but write. That's why. Come to think of it, I'm most lazy when I feel good. When I'm tired, or overwhelmed with work - that is when I am usually most productive. I could speculate that's it's because when I feel good, it doesn't seem like I need to do anything further. So I don't. Hmmm....
Why did you read all that? It couldn't have been very interesting.
Sleep is sounding really good now.
Want a poem? No? Unfortunately, the Internet is not yet interactive through time. If you are protesting, you'll have to do it just a little louder and without regards to the usual chronological flow. If you do that, I'll definitely do as you ask, just for the novelty of it.
Of course, you could easily stop reading.
How about this one -
If ever I gain
enough acclaim,
perhaps I shall be renouned -
recalled by a different name.
(I am such a sucker for bad puns. My apologies to those of you who aren't - http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=renown might help you figure things out.)
1. It takes time, which I unfortunately have wasted on other things.
2. It takes the right mood, and honestly, I'm far too cheerful to finish this the way I intended. At least for the past few weeks.
I'm thinking of something to write in the future. It's about...space Mormons!
...
I wrote a description on it. The description was desperately boring. So, I deleted it. If I get around to fleshing it out (or perhaps flushing it out), maybe it will be funny. Or maybe it'll piss people off. Either way, I'll be entertained.
Well, it's more than space Mormons. But that probably doesn't matter to you right now.
When I'm tired, like I am now, I can't write for crap. It comes out boring and insipid, and kind of depressing (I have now gone through and rewritten every sentence - because they were all crap the first time, and some even the second or third. When I'm less tired I need less revising). So, why don't I go to sleep and write later? When I am well-rested, I want to do everything but write. That's why. Come to think of it, I'm most lazy when I feel good. When I'm tired, or overwhelmed with work - that is when I am usually most productive. I could speculate that's it's because when I feel good, it doesn't seem like I need to do anything further. So I don't. Hmmm....
Why did you read all that? It couldn't have been very interesting.
Sleep is sounding really good now.
Want a poem? No? Unfortunately, the Internet is not yet interactive through time. If you are protesting, you'll have to do it just a little louder and without regards to the usual chronological flow. If you do that, I'll definitely do as you ask, just for the novelty of it.
Of course, you could easily stop reading.
How about this one -
If ever I gain
enough acclaim,
perhaps I shall be renouned -
recalled by a different name.
(I am such a sucker for bad puns. My apologies to those of you who aren't - http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=renown might help you figure things out.)
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Unfortunately, it's still not finished (unless you don't want it finished, in which case you are in luck)
Things have been a little busy. But just you watch - if they get busier, I'll retreat by writing. Then it'll be finished. And we can all be happy. Unless you're disgusted by such a worthless collection of words. Hey, at least I have started a small collection. Maybe it's not very exotic or well-arranged, but at least it's something.
Anyway. Here's a poem.
Raised and called,
raised and called
Good Christian nation
that we are, but
Lazarus's not involved.
The preacher's going
to drive me to drink
I wish instead
I could be seeing the shrink.
He wants me to give up
all my earthly possessions -
and he'll get them all
in these damn poker sessions.
Heh.
Anyway. Here's a poem.
Raised and called,
raised and called
Good Christian nation
that we are, but
Lazarus's not involved.
The preacher's going
to drive me to drink
I wish instead
I could be seeing the shrink.
He wants me to give up
all my earthly possessions -
and he'll get them all
in these damn poker sessions.
Heh.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Could I write any slower? Yes.
Lunch was delicious.
Instead of hurrying out, we decided to enjoy the atmosphere - there was nowhere to hurry to, anyway. I leaned all the way back in my bench, stretching my legs out. I sipped my sweet tea, languidly, as it was meant to be. Sure my car was still broke, but what a difference a decent meal and some relaxation could bring. Life was looking good.
Chuck started up: "I said some things back there - maybe they sound a little crazy now. Well, that's how it goes. You say crazy things when you don't know what's happening. When you get scared." He chuckled. "Even I wonder how real any of that was - what I was talking about. Maybe that kid was just really good. Maybe it didn't happen. I was probably delirious. Hah!," he half-shouted, "I bet we scared that poor kid today straight out of his right mind."
"I wonder if he was just lost? Do you think we should go back and see if he's all right?"
"You gonna walk?"
"Oh, right. Well, we could ask some of these people for help. Someone here must know him."
We waited until the waitress came back. "Excuse me, miss," Chuck said, "do you know if there's anybody lost in those woods? Tall, thin kid, real pale?"
"Let's see...there was...well, not recently, no. No, the Coopers got a little turned around last week, but they weren't lost for long. Oh, but Hon, but don't say that to Mr. Cooper. He's a little touchy about that. Why do you ask?"
"We were out last night," he pointed to the camo uniforms we still wore, "and I kept thinking I heard something. Then, this morning, we saw this kid - I'm pretty sure I'd been hearing him. He was hanging around our camp. I didn't get a real good look at him, but he was tall, and thin and pale like he hadn't seen much food or sun recently. He must've been out there a while. The beers were thinking for us, so we didn't get a good look at him, and we left before we could chat."
That's odd - he'd only had a few beers yesterday. Oh - he doesn't want to admit that he was scared.
"Sorry, can't say I know of anyone like that. Did you ask the police?"
"Well, not yet, no."
"They'd know best, but I'll ask around the kitchen."
She refilled our glasses, and we returned to lounging and drinking.
I watched the sunlight drifting in through the blinds, catching flying grains of dust. It was something I'd always enjoyed - light revealing what had always been there, and in such a pretty way. The grains, once part of the ground, no more than dust and dead things, were now flying about in the glorious, golden light. Truly beautiful.
"Tell me something." I turned my attention to Chuck. "Are you still scared of death?"
He cocked his head and stared at me a moment before replying. "Damn right I am. Me being here is proof of that." He looked away. "The ones who don't fear Death meet him quickest."
"So even though you've been in combat, and seen it up close -"
"I got even more right to be afraid, I think. The rest of you all think you're real brave and fearless, but I tell you what. You ain't. Thinking things through and living them are different - I think God was warning Adam and Eve away from the apple for that reason."
"What?"
He looked up at me, then down at the table. "You know what I mean. You plan all these things out, you think you're real clever: then shit happens. You lose it. All that thinking gone to waste. All the good and high-minded stuff goes right out the window, and you just do what you have to. So I think maybe God just didn't want to see them suffer. Or making fool's plans about things they didn't understand. Good intentions making good paving stones and all that. What good did thinking ever do us?"
"You really think that?" I smiled at my own cleverness.
"Shit!" His eyes came up briefly, then he choked out a little laugh. "Excuse my Latin. I don't know. I ain't got God's number or nothing. Lots of times I wish I did. Save me a lot of prayin'. What's all this talk for anyway?"
I was a little embarassed at my melodrama. "It's nothing. I just...I guess I didn't expect you to take off back there."
He turned ever so slightly red. "Don't get me wrong. I was mostly worried about you. That kid was creepy, but I could've taken him if he really meant trouble."
"Is that why you dropped your gun?"
"You're more trouble than you're worth, you know that?" He pointed his finger at me, and he was angry, but his eyes showed just a hint of amusement.
"Well, I'm not going to trouble you anymore. I feel great now. I'll take him myself, and then you, too! I'll show you a thing or too, old-timer."
"Bah! You couldn't wrestle mustard out of a jar." He laughed.
I decided to let it slide, and resumed enjoying my afternoon sun.
Instead of hurrying out, we decided to enjoy the atmosphere - there was nowhere to hurry to, anyway. I leaned all the way back in my bench, stretching my legs out. I sipped my sweet tea, languidly, as it was meant to be. Sure my car was still broke, but what a difference a decent meal and some relaxation could bring. Life was looking good.
Chuck started up: "I said some things back there - maybe they sound a little crazy now. Well, that's how it goes. You say crazy things when you don't know what's happening. When you get scared." He chuckled. "Even I wonder how real any of that was - what I was talking about. Maybe that kid was just really good. Maybe it didn't happen. I was probably delirious. Hah!," he half-shouted, "I bet we scared that poor kid today straight out of his right mind."
"I wonder if he was just lost? Do you think we should go back and see if he's all right?"
"You gonna walk?"
"Oh, right. Well, we could ask some of these people for help. Someone here must know him."
We waited until the waitress came back. "Excuse me, miss," Chuck said, "do you know if there's anybody lost in those woods? Tall, thin kid, real pale?"
"Let's see...there was...well, not recently, no. No, the Coopers got a little turned around last week, but they weren't lost for long. Oh, but Hon, but don't say that to Mr. Cooper. He's a little touchy about that. Why do you ask?"
"We were out last night," he pointed to the camo uniforms we still wore, "and I kept thinking I heard something. Then, this morning, we saw this kid - I'm pretty sure I'd been hearing him. He was hanging around our camp. I didn't get a real good look at him, but he was tall, and thin and pale like he hadn't seen much food or sun recently. He must've been out there a while. The beers were thinking for us, so we didn't get a good look at him, and we left before we could chat."
That's odd - he'd only had a few beers yesterday. Oh - he doesn't want to admit that he was scared.
"Sorry, can't say I know of anyone like that. Did you ask the police?"
"Well, not yet, no."
"They'd know best, but I'll ask around the kitchen."
She refilled our glasses, and we returned to lounging and drinking.
I watched the sunlight drifting in through the blinds, catching flying grains of dust. It was something I'd always enjoyed - light revealing what had always been there, and in such a pretty way. The grains, once part of the ground, no more than dust and dead things, were now flying about in the glorious, golden light. Truly beautiful.
"Tell me something." I turned my attention to Chuck. "Are you still scared of death?"
He cocked his head and stared at me a moment before replying. "Damn right I am. Me being here is proof of that." He looked away. "The ones who don't fear Death meet him quickest."
"So even though you've been in combat, and seen it up close -"
"I got even more right to be afraid, I think. The rest of you all think you're real brave and fearless, but I tell you what. You ain't. Thinking things through and living them are different - I think God was warning Adam and Eve away from the apple for that reason."
"What?"
He looked up at me, then down at the table. "You know what I mean. You plan all these things out, you think you're real clever: then shit happens. You lose it. All that thinking gone to waste. All the good and high-minded stuff goes right out the window, and you just do what you have to. So I think maybe God just didn't want to see them suffer. Or making fool's plans about things they didn't understand. Good intentions making good paving stones and all that. What good did thinking ever do us?"
"You really think that?" I smiled at my own cleverness.
"Shit!" His eyes came up briefly, then he choked out a little laugh. "Excuse my Latin. I don't know. I ain't got God's number or nothing. Lots of times I wish I did. Save me a lot of prayin'. What's all this talk for anyway?"
I was a little embarassed at my melodrama. "It's nothing. I just...I guess I didn't expect you to take off back there."
He turned ever so slightly red. "Don't get me wrong. I was mostly worried about you. That kid was creepy, but I could've taken him if he really meant trouble."
"Is that why you dropped your gun?"
"You're more trouble than you're worth, you know that?" He pointed his finger at me, and he was angry, but his eyes showed just a hint of amusement.
"Well, I'm not going to trouble you anymore. I feel great now. I'll take him myself, and then you, too! I'll show you a thing or too, old-timer."
"Bah! You couldn't wrestle mustard out of a jar." He laughed.
I decided to let it slide, and resumed enjoying my afternoon sun.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Part 3 (Sorry, it's a bit later than I said it'd be)
After nearly two hours of tough negotiation between the car, the rutted dirt road, and Chuck, we made it to town. It wasn't far - only perhaps ten miles in a straight line - but, between the winding roads and my truck's recent dilapidation, it was not a short trip.
Chuck seemed to calm down the closer to town we got, and was downright cheerful once we passed the outlying buildings. I was glad to see him in such good spirits, but I hated him for being so cheerful about wrecking my vehicle. I had to admit, though, I was feeling much better myself, and it was a truly beautiful day, so I didn't say anything to spoil the mood.
Chuck scowled a little, then said, "we got to go to a shop and get this fixed. I ain't got a lot of money, and I had to haul your ass out of there, so I figure I'll pay for half the repairs. That fair?"
"Uh...yeah, I guess it is. That'll work fine, Chuck." I hadn't really expected him to make the offer, but was greatly relieved that he had. Even though I'd known him for a while, I didn't know him very well - I'd worried that asking him to pay would offend him, somehow. Thank God for small things, I guess.
"I haven't been 'round here much, but I think they've got just the one place. Should be up ahead a bit. Keep an eye to the right, would you?"
I did, and I enjoyed seeing their quaint main street stretch of shops. Savory smells wafted from a few. I hadn't had anything to eat since the night before.
"Hey, Chuck, I want to stop at one of these places later and get some lunch. I'm starving. Sound good?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that does sound good. How 'bout some barbeque?"
"Barbeque would be awesome. I was thinking that myself."
He chuckled. "Damn straight! I'd be glad to think it for you, if you weren't. Stuff's good."
The auto shop was only another mile down the road. I was glad - I would keel over dead from hunger if I had to walk any further than that for a decent meal. But I wasn't as glad to hear the prognosis: repairs were going to be expensive, and worse yet, they didn't have all the parts. So we would have to stay in town for a few days, unless we could finagle a ride from someone. None of my family lived near, I didn't think Chuck even had any left, and everyone else I knew wasn't going to drive all the way out here on such short notice. This town was so small it didn't have a place to rent cars, and the shop's only loaner sat in the corner, looking pitiful and forlorn.
So, we walked back to the barbeque place, and kept our eyes open for hotels.
Chuck seemed to calm down the closer to town we got, and was downright cheerful once we passed the outlying buildings. I was glad to see him in such good spirits, but I hated him for being so cheerful about wrecking my vehicle. I had to admit, though, I was feeling much better myself, and it was a truly beautiful day, so I didn't say anything to spoil the mood.
Chuck scowled a little, then said, "we got to go to a shop and get this fixed. I ain't got a lot of money, and I had to haul your ass out of there, so I figure I'll pay for half the repairs. That fair?"
"Uh...yeah, I guess it is. That'll work fine, Chuck." I hadn't really expected him to make the offer, but was greatly relieved that he had. Even though I'd known him for a while, I didn't know him very well - I'd worried that asking him to pay would offend him, somehow. Thank God for small things, I guess.
"I haven't been 'round here much, but I think they've got just the one place. Should be up ahead a bit. Keep an eye to the right, would you?"
I did, and I enjoyed seeing their quaint main street stretch of shops. Savory smells wafted from a few. I hadn't had anything to eat since the night before.
"Hey, Chuck, I want to stop at one of these places later and get some lunch. I'm starving. Sound good?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that does sound good. How 'bout some barbeque?"
"Barbeque would be awesome. I was thinking that myself."
He chuckled. "Damn straight! I'd be glad to think it for you, if you weren't. Stuff's good."
The auto shop was only another mile down the road. I was glad - I would keel over dead from hunger if I had to walk any further than that for a decent meal. But I wasn't as glad to hear the prognosis: repairs were going to be expensive, and worse yet, they didn't have all the parts. So we would have to stay in town for a few days, unless we could finagle a ride from someone. None of my family lived near, I didn't think Chuck even had any left, and everyone else I knew wasn't going to drive all the way out here on such short notice. This town was so small it didn't have a place to rent cars, and the shop's only loaner sat in the corner, looking pitiful and forlorn.
So, we walked back to the barbeque place, and kept our eyes open for hotels.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Unfortunately, no update yet
Well, except for this. Real life, with its usual smarmy attitude, is hogging all my time right now. Like somehow, my time belongs to the world and not me. So, tomorrow, I intend to finish writing what I began.
Ok, honestly I only spent some of the time doing necessary things. I did probably waste a few hours doing important...uh...'studying' of the words in newspapers. And maybe just a few on a game...but just to keep my reflexes sharp, you understand?
I was hoping I'd bring up something witty by now, to make up for the nothingness, but I can't even do that. I'm so harried I think I dropped the 'w' somewhere, so I've only got something...itty. Heh. Funny that you'll hear itty-bitty but not itty. Is it even a word? No one knows. Well, I do. It's not. But neither I nor anyone else has ever been too good to use made-up words. They're fun.
And 'itty' sounds funny alone.
Ok, honestly I only spent some of the time doing necessary things. I did probably waste a few hours doing important...uh...'studying' of the words in newspapers. And maybe just a few on a game...but just to keep my reflexes sharp, you understand?
I was hoping I'd bring up something witty by now, to make up for the nothingness, but I can't even do that. I'm so harried I think I dropped the 'w' somewhere, so I've only got something...itty. Heh. Funny that you'll hear itty-bitty but not itty. Is it even a word? No one knows. Well, I do. It's not. But neither I nor anyone else has ever been too good to use made-up words. They're fun.
And 'itty' sounds funny alone.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Part 2 (The title had nothing to do with the story, except that it explained why I am writing)
I opened my eyes, and saw the world was white. While I had slept, fog had crept in and covered the trees. It was like waking from one dream into another - for a moment I laid there, listening to the hushed damp sound of fog. But something was not right...I recalled the quiet of the previous night, and sat up, looking for Chuck. I felt heavy.
He had not moved. He was watching me with sunken eyes, still clutching his rifle. The skin of his face sagged as though it might slough off, too tired to hang on any longer. But, he was leaned forward - tense, and intense. His eyes stared into nothingness, looking for answers, watching.
"Hey, Chuck, man, why didn't you sleep?"
His voice geared up from a crackly, growling whisper: "somethin' ain't right. Didn't you feel it? There's eyes on us."
There was something strange going on. There still wasn't any noise. There still weren't any animals. And I had felt - no, heard - something when I woke up. Something quiet and whispery. And, worse yet, I think I must've come down with something: I felt a little wobbly, and more than a little weak.
But, that was no reason to stay up all night, or for his expression. "Chuck," I said, "there's fog all around. How can you even tell if something's watching us? You need some rest, and the sun's not up quite yet - how bout you get some rest?"
"No." He stared at me. At times I thought his stubbornness was entertaining: he was just another grumpy old man. But now, it was disquieting. What was wrong with him?
I felt a bead of sweat run down my forehead. I was suddenly shivering. And then I noticed my heart was pumping faster. I chalked it up to my sudden illness.
"Be reasonable. You aren't going to make your shots if you don't have any rest. The deer won't be coming out quite yet. Just sleep for a little bit, I'll wake you up. Don't worry." My eyes hurt now, too.
He looked at me. His expression was unreadable. "We have to leave. Now. Look at yourself. You're shaking." I noticed he was, too. "If you're sick, we -"
And then I heard it. A fern swished. The air seemed close. Then my heart jerked and skipped, and everything went black.
I woke again, this time in significantly more pain. I was heaped in my truck, and Chuck was trying to start the engine. He was panicking, and fumbling with the keys. He kept muttering "just a kid just a kid just a kid just a kid" over and over. I tried speaking, but my mouth was dry. Words wouldn't come. I was shaking pretty bad, and I noticed my legs were caked with dirt and leaves, as though I'd been dragged here. I didn't see Chuck's rifle.
The key fit suddenly, and the engine roared to life. He slammed the thing into gear, our tires spun - and I caught a glimpse of a young man, or a boy - something tall and thin, anyway, with long arms, and pale skin. Its face was stretched tight, bony, deathly looking. In the mirror it looked very much like a ghost - some apparition leaning out of the fog, leering at us. He stood in the mirror and shrunk as we tore over the ground, smiling obscenely, calmly, at our getaway.
The fog was billowing around the truck, and I watched the trees fade away behind us. A few minutes went by, and I was just starting to feel better - when the inevitable happened. Chuck swerved to avoid a stump. We hit a small boulder. The fog was only barely lighter colored, and had hidden the boulder well. There was a horrible crunching sound, I was tossed from my seat, and then my truck shut off. The pit of my stomach sank. This was going to be expensive.
Chuck hopped out, looked around, and then popped his head back in. He declared "It'll run. Just tripped the fuel shutoff thing." I knew it wasn't just that - I'd felt something scrape, hard, against the bottom. But I could hardly move to see for myself.
He flitted around for a few minutes, and then climbed in the cab. "Here we go," he said, and pushed in the key. And, it did start, just as he said.
We drove more slowly after that. Chuck had to pull the wheel hard to one side.
"I suppose we'd best go to town, and have this looked at," he said.
I nodded my assent. I didn't think we'd get all the way home like this.
I had just drifted back to sleep when Chuck spoke again. "That kid, back there. I wasn't scared for no reason. I saw something like that once. During the war."
Inexplicably, I was feeling much better now, and I asked, "what? What was that?"
"Well, let me tell it like this: We were pinned down. My squad, and one from another company. We'd been there a while. Things had gotten almost peaceful, when for some damn reason the fighting got hot again. I think the other guys got reinforcements. Anyway, we were shooting again, and after a minute the other squad was kind of quiet, so I looked, and here was this kid standing up. I was gonna yell at him, but then I saw he'd already been shot - He was leaking pretty bad - but he had this expression. I'll never forget it. I mean, I remember the faces of the guys I killed, and I see them in my dreams, sometimes, but this was different. His face was all contorted, all crazy looking. He was smiling this empty smile, like a demon. It scared the crap out of me. Just standing there, smiling, looking down with those wide-open eyes at his CO. He turned his rifle around, completely natural, and unloaded the whole magazine in the poor bastard's face. Before anyone could move, he dropped a grenade, then chucked another at us. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I blacked out then. I think it was fear." His knuckles were white, and I worried that he might pull the steering wheel off with that grip.
"So, what -"
"I ain't done. Now, clearly, I didn't die. Got lucky, I guess. But I can't say the same for most anyone else. When I woke up, there were only two other guys left, and we were honestly scared shitless that we were gonna get wiped out. They'd blacked out, too, so we were all looking around trying to figure things out. We didn't see that crazy bastard anywhere, even though he should've collapsed from his wounds, or got shot again, or something. But things were real quiet. Real quiet. I could see a couple guys sticking out of their hiding places, not moving, on the other side; these guys hadn't been dead a few minutes before. The other two guys were messed up a lot more than I was, so I crawled around to see what'd happened. It was like a morgue - those guys were all just laying there. None of 'em were moving. All of 'em dead, and I think it was all knife wounds. One had his head bashed in. It didn't look like they'd run away, or even fought back - it was like they'd just collapsed where they were, and been killed. I finally found that kid. He'd ripped the eyes out of this other guy, then collapsed on him. He was dead as shit, you know - all hard and pale, except for his new coating of blood. Blood loss caught up to him. But there wasn't anyone alive over there."
"So, what's this got to do..."
"I tell you what. What we saw back there, it reminded me of that time. That kid, he murdered probably 30 guys, by himself. It wasn't fighting: it was murder, and it was crazy as Hell. I still don't understand it. Now, it's not the same guy, 'cause I know he's dead. I made sure of that. But the way it felt - it felt the same. It's this tingly feeling, and your heart races, you know? And the way you blacked out - I think a couple guys did that, too, when that kid was standing there. I don't know what it is, but I'm old, and I don't really want to find out now. I'll just ask God what in all of Hell that thing was, whenever I do meet up with the big guy."
I wanted to ask something, to try to make sense of this, but what was there to say? Sure, the kid was creepy looking, and there's no denying that I blacked out - but...it couldn't have been anything like that. I decided the old guy's past must finally be catching up with him.
He didn't say anything more. We drove the rest of the way in silence.
He had not moved. He was watching me with sunken eyes, still clutching his rifle. The skin of his face sagged as though it might slough off, too tired to hang on any longer. But, he was leaned forward - tense, and intense. His eyes stared into nothingness, looking for answers, watching.
"Hey, Chuck, man, why didn't you sleep?"
His voice geared up from a crackly, growling whisper: "somethin' ain't right. Didn't you feel it? There's eyes on us."
There was something strange going on. There still wasn't any noise. There still weren't any animals. And I had felt - no, heard - something when I woke up. Something quiet and whispery. And, worse yet, I think I must've come down with something: I felt a little wobbly, and more than a little weak.
But, that was no reason to stay up all night, or for his expression. "Chuck," I said, "there's fog all around. How can you even tell if something's watching us? You need some rest, and the sun's not up quite yet - how bout you get some rest?"
"No." He stared at me. At times I thought his stubbornness was entertaining: he was just another grumpy old man. But now, it was disquieting. What was wrong with him?
I felt a bead of sweat run down my forehead. I was suddenly shivering. And then I noticed my heart was pumping faster. I chalked it up to my sudden illness.
"Be reasonable. You aren't going to make your shots if you don't have any rest. The deer won't be coming out quite yet. Just sleep for a little bit, I'll wake you up. Don't worry." My eyes hurt now, too.
He looked at me. His expression was unreadable. "We have to leave. Now. Look at yourself. You're shaking." I noticed he was, too. "If you're sick, we -"
And then I heard it. A fern swished. The air seemed close. Then my heart jerked and skipped, and everything went black.
I woke again, this time in significantly more pain. I was heaped in my truck, and Chuck was trying to start the engine. He was panicking, and fumbling with the keys. He kept muttering "just a kid just a kid just a kid just a kid" over and over. I tried speaking, but my mouth was dry. Words wouldn't come. I was shaking pretty bad, and I noticed my legs were caked with dirt and leaves, as though I'd been dragged here. I didn't see Chuck's rifle.
The key fit suddenly, and the engine roared to life. He slammed the thing into gear, our tires spun - and I caught a glimpse of a young man, or a boy - something tall and thin, anyway, with long arms, and pale skin. Its face was stretched tight, bony, deathly looking. In the mirror it looked very much like a ghost - some apparition leaning out of the fog, leering at us. He stood in the mirror and shrunk as we tore over the ground, smiling obscenely, calmly, at our getaway.
The fog was billowing around the truck, and I watched the trees fade away behind us. A few minutes went by, and I was just starting to feel better - when the inevitable happened. Chuck swerved to avoid a stump. We hit a small boulder. The fog was only barely lighter colored, and had hidden the boulder well. There was a horrible crunching sound, I was tossed from my seat, and then my truck shut off. The pit of my stomach sank. This was going to be expensive.
Chuck hopped out, looked around, and then popped his head back in. He declared "It'll run. Just tripped the fuel shutoff thing." I knew it wasn't just that - I'd felt something scrape, hard, against the bottom. But I could hardly move to see for myself.
He flitted around for a few minutes, and then climbed in the cab. "Here we go," he said, and pushed in the key. And, it did start, just as he said.
We drove more slowly after that. Chuck had to pull the wheel hard to one side.
"I suppose we'd best go to town, and have this looked at," he said.
I nodded my assent. I didn't think we'd get all the way home like this.
I had just drifted back to sleep when Chuck spoke again. "That kid, back there. I wasn't scared for no reason. I saw something like that once. During the war."
Inexplicably, I was feeling much better now, and I asked, "what? What was that?"
"Well, let me tell it like this: We were pinned down. My squad, and one from another company. We'd been there a while. Things had gotten almost peaceful, when for some damn reason the fighting got hot again. I think the other guys got reinforcements. Anyway, we were shooting again, and after a minute the other squad was kind of quiet, so I looked, and here was this kid standing up. I was gonna yell at him, but then I saw he'd already been shot - He was leaking pretty bad - but he had this expression. I'll never forget it. I mean, I remember the faces of the guys I killed, and I see them in my dreams, sometimes, but this was different. His face was all contorted, all crazy looking. He was smiling this empty smile, like a demon. It scared the crap out of me. Just standing there, smiling, looking down with those wide-open eyes at his CO. He turned his rifle around, completely natural, and unloaded the whole magazine in the poor bastard's face. Before anyone could move, he dropped a grenade, then chucked another at us. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I blacked out then. I think it was fear." His knuckles were white, and I worried that he might pull the steering wheel off with that grip.
"So, what -"
"I ain't done. Now, clearly, I didn't die. Got lucky, I guess. But I can't say the same for most anyone else. When I woke up, there were only two other guys left, and we were honestly scared shitless that we were gonna get wiped out. They'd blacked out, too, so we were all looking around trying to figure things out. We didn't see that crazy bastard anywhere, even though he should've collapsed from his wounds, or got shot again, or something. But things were real quiet. Real quiet. I could see a couple guys sticking out of their hiding places, not moving, on the other side; these guys hadn't been dead a few minutes before. The other two guys were messed up a lot more than I was, so I crawled around to see what'd happened. It was like a morgue - those guys were all just laying there. None of 'em were moving. All of 'em dead, and I think it was all knife wounds. One had his head bashed in. It didn't look like they'd run away, or even fought back - it was like they'd just collapsed where they were, and been killed. I finally found that kid. He'd ripped the eyes out of this other guy, then collapsed on him. He was dead as shit, you know - all hard and pale, except for his new coating of blood. Blood loss caught up to him. But there wasn't anyone alive over there."
"So, what's this got to do..."
"I tell you what. What we saw back there, it reminded me of that time. That kid, he murdered probably 30 guys, by himself. It wasn't fighting: it was murder, and it was crazy as Hell. I still don't understand it. Now, it's not the same guy, 'cause I know he's dead. I made sure of that. But the way it felt - it felt the same. It's this tingly feeling, and your heart races, you know? And the way you blacked out - I think a couple guys did that, too, when that kid was standing there. I don't know what it is, but I'm old, and I don't really want to find out now. I'll just ask God what in all of Hell that thing was, whenever I do meet up with the big guy."
I wanted to ask something, to try to make sense of this, but what was there to say? Sure, the kid was creepy looking, and there's no denying that I blacked out - but...it couldn't have been anything like that. I decided the old guy's past must finally be catching up with him.
He didn't say anything more. We drove the rest of the way in silence.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
I am thinking of ways not to work - for I shirk
"Didn't you hear nothing?" Chuck's eyes popped comically out from under his thick brows, which in turn were protruding from under his tired, worn, and ancient camouflage hat. I couldn't decide if the hat was meant to match with his surroundings, or with his own grubby, dingy self.
"No, Chuck, I didn't hear anything." He's an old friend, and right now he's my hunting buddy. He might be nearly as old as my grandparents, but I've never asked. I imagine he's been around these parts the entire duration of his considerable long life, and he doesn't strike me as one who'd get out much. I'm not sure he'd even be recognizably human in the city - people might mistake him for - well, hell, I don't know. Maybe a really pungent ad of some sort. It's not going to be long before marketers add overwhelming odors to attract attention. Kind of like the way flowers do for the critters that pollinate 'em. But I guess they wouldn't want to use Chuck. Who in their right mind would want a decaying, backwoods, self-described "Southern gentleman" for much of anything?
Well, I would. He's a damn fine hunter. He's a little gruff, and more than a little cranky, plus he smells like old chewing tobacco, but he really is a damn fine hunter.
"Damnit all, you ain't even paying attention. Just now, your eyes wandered up into the back of your head." His leathery jowls were shaking a little, and honestly it reminded me of a bulldog.
"Oh, I was paying attention. I was thinking, that's all."
"Concentrate, boy! Hunting demands it." He laughed a grumbly, leathery laugh - "Well, I do anyway. I want to eat tonight!"
I had to admit that was fair enough. "Alright, old man. There'll be food tonight, don't worry."
"Hah! Spoken like a city boy. You gonna go out and pick us something up? Maybe ask a plump deer to cook itself? Or are we gonna drive around in your truck 'till we see something? We'll drive up, shoot it, pull it through the window and leave our casings as change. We could even cook it up real fancy with the cigarette lighter. You like that?"
He is old, so I humor him. "Yes, sir, that sounds like a plan."
"And a damn fine one, boy. I have half a mind to do it, too, but it just ain't sportin' to play that way. You gotta respect your prey. It's gonna die for you, the least you can do is show some respect. God put it there - if you just up and shoot it, you're tellin' Him 'hey, this stuff on Earth is mighty fine, but I ain't gonna spend the time to appreciate it.' Gotta respect the Lord Almighty, that's for sure. All this mess is his art." He waved his arms around expansively.
"Yeah, that's true - so that's why you were getting after me for not listening. Did you figure out what that noise was during all your talking?"
"Boy, are you sayin' that I should be payin' attention myself?"
"Yes sir."
He laughed. "Fair enough. Now let's be quiet, and appreciate things a bit."
We went without speech the rest of the day, and through the early part of the night. The forest stayed silent. We didn't catch anything - we didn't see any animals. Not even birds. Chuck complained about it, but we ate the packaged food I'd brought. I had to endure a tirade of his on how the food scent would attract all the wrong kinds of animals, and maybe even scare off our deer. He wasn't one to talk much so I figured he'd enjoy the silence, but he seemed to be nervous - like he was talking to keep the quiet at bay. His leathery hands kept moving, too, endlessly grasping each other. It was making me nervous. But, there wasn't much else to do, and we needed to get up early if we were to have another chance at our hunt. I asked Chuck if he was going to sleep, but he stared at me from across the fire and said "you go ahead. Old men don't much need it." I looked at him, about to ask what he was going to do instead, but he ignored me and took out his rifle. Before drifting off to sleep, the last thing I saw was that rifle cradled in his arms, and him taking great pains in its cleaning.
- More later (of course it's not finished. Nothing has happened yet.)
"No, Chuck, I didn't hear anything." He's an old friend, and right now he's my hunting buddy. He might be nearly as old as my grandparents, but I've never asked. I imagine he's been around these parts the entire duration of his considerable long life, and he doesn't strike me as one who'd get out much. I'm not sure he'd even be recognizably human in the city - people might mistake him for - well, hell, I don't know. Maybe a really pungent ad of some sort. It's not going to be long before marketers add overwhelming odors to attract attention. Kind of like the way flowers do for the critters that pollinate 'em. But I guess they wouldn't want to use Chuck. Who in their right mind would want a decaying, backwoods, self-described "Southern gentleman" for much of anything?
Well, I would. He's a damn fine hunter. He's a little gruff, and more than a little cranky, plus he smells like old chewing tobacco, but he really is a damn fine hunter.
"Damnit all, you ain't even paying attention. Just now, your eyes wandered up into the back of your head." His leathery jowls were shaking a little, and honestly it reminded me of a bulldog.
"Oh, I was paying attention. I was thinking, that's all."
"Concentrate, boy! Hunting demands it." He laughed a grumbly, leathery laugh - "Well, I do anyway. I want to eat tonight!"
I had to admit that was fair enough. "Alright, old man. There'll be food tonight, don't worry."
"Hah! Spoken like a city boy. You gonna go out and pick us something up? Maybe ask a plump deer to cook itself? Or are we gonna drive around in your truck 'till we see something? We'll drive up, shoot it, pull it through the window and leave our casings as change. We could even cook it up real fancy with the cigarette lighter. You like that?"
He is old, so I humor him. "Yes, sir, that sounds like a plan."
"And a damn fine one, boy. I have half a mind to do it, too, but it just ain't sportin' to play that way. You gotta respect your prey. It's gonna die for you, the least you can do is show some respect. God put it there - if you just up and shoot it, you're tellin' Him 'hey, this stuff on Earth is mighty fine, but I ain't gonna spend the time to appreciate it.' Gotta respect the Lord Almighty, that's for sure. All this mess is his art." He waved his arms around expansively.
"Yeah, that's true - so that's why you were getting after me for not listening. Did you figure out what that noise was during all your talking?"
"Boy, are you sayin' that I should be payin' attention myself?"
"Yes sir."
He laughed. "Fair enough. Now let's be quiet, and appreciate things a bit."
We went without speech the rest of the day, and through the early part of the night. The forest stayed silent. We didn't catch anything - we didn't see any animals. Not even birds. Chuck complained about it, but we ate the packaged food I'd brought. I had to endure a tirade of his on how the food scent would attract all the wrong kinds of animals, and maybe even scare off our deer. He wasn't one to talk much so I figured he'd enjoy the silence, but he seemed to be nervous - like he was talking to keep the quiet at bay. His leathery hands kept moving, too, endlessly grasping each other. It was making me nervous. But, there wasn't much else to do, and we needed to get up early if we were to have another chance at our hunt. I asked Chuck if he was going to sleep, but he stared at me from across the fire and said "you go ahead. Old men don't much need it." I looked at him, about to ask what he was going to do instead, but he ignored me and took out his rifle. Before drifting off to sleep, the last thing I saw was that rifle cradled in his arms, and him taking great pains in its cleaning.
- More later (of course it's not finished. Nothing has happened yet.)
Sunday, November 06, 2005
The alpha blog
Is known to be dangerous - all blogs after it challenge its supremecy, and thus it must vie for position.
Unfortunately, it is locked in time, and thus unable to move. And since the writer gains experience with time, the first can only be poorer than the last. Ah, what a tragic life the first post posesses: to always be first, but to always be surpassed.
heh. Maybe I should start a nature show like "Wild Writing World". Heh. It'd even be WWW. Because I'm I-trendy like that.
Which reminds me. The name of my blog is...well, you know me. It's a pun. It's pretty clear to everyone that I do babble on, but the other may not be quite as obvious. As the tower of Babel rose, the event that unified all men in their efforts and glory; the end, the chaos, and the confusion drew ever nearer. And in time, Babel came to refer to the confusion of languages, and confusion in general. What better modern equivalent do we have than the Internet itself? It is the single greatest thing built in our time - and it is leading to an explosion in incoherence. Or so it seems.
So, to end, here is something I wrote the other day.
Through osmosis
the barren page
draws thoughts
through my pen.
Unfortunately, it is locked in time, and thus unable to move. And since the writer gains experience with time, the first can only be poorer than the last. Ah, what a tragic life the first post posesses: to always be first, but to always be surpassed.
heh. Maybe I should start a nature show like "Wild Writing World". Heh. It'd even be WWW. Because I'm I-trendy like that.
Which reminds me. The name of my blog is...well, you know me. It's a pun. It's pretty clear to everyone that I do babble on, but the other may not be quite as obvious. As the tower of Babel rose, the event that unified all men in their efforts and glory; the end, the chaos, and the confusion drew ever nearer. And in time, Babel came to refer to the confusion of languages, and confusion in general. What better modern equivalent do we have than the Internet itself? It is the single greatest thing built in our time - and it is leading to an explosion in incoherence. Or so it seems.
So, to end, here is something I wrote the other day.
Through osmosis
the barren page
draws thoughts
through my pen.
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