JUST A HEADS UP, I'M ON VACATION

I realized this morning that I failed to mention on Friday that I will be on vacation all this week and therefore will not be posting. So here I am, posting in order to tell you that I will not be posting.

   Happy Christmas & Merry New Year

POETRY: THE RICHES OF CHRISTMAS

The lights are held with masking tape

Toothpicks hold the baubles

The tree is made of cardboard

And try as we might, it wobbles

Pennies pinched and couches search

Was not enough this year

No shopping trips or wrapping gifts

Yet still we're filled with cheer

The house is warm, our bills all paid

Good health we still enjoy

With friends and family all around

Our gratitude employ

Tis the season, deck the halls

Familiar carols play

I hope all's well with you and yours

Come this Christmas day

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   Not every Christmas is as grand or extravagant as the others. I've had my fair share of both. What about you?

A FREEBIE FOR TODAY: MORNING MUSINGS

 I realize I already posted today's short story, and I could have saved this for next week, but it's a bit short for my usual short stories, and definitely more essay in nature. So here you go, I hope you enjoy it. Let me know your thoughts on it.

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  The sun rose early over the pond this morning, it's sudden light reflected off the waters surface and through the blinds into my room. Unable to stave off natures instinct to such an occurrence, I awoke and stared out into the still morn, the few ducks that have yet to fly south plodded about in search of their daily sustenance. A solitary crane demanded wide berth from his fellow feathered fouls as he dipped his slender beak through reeds and mire.
  Ripples diminished rapidly in the chill water, giving it the appearance of silvered glass and mirroring, nigh to perfect, the oaks and aspens beyond its bank.
  A raven flew in from somewhere behind my viewpoint and circled, briefly, a lone patch of earth near the center of the pond before landing on the muddy mound. The curious bird patted with its foot all around the island. I was reminded of River Dance, with the many dancers all in a line, stamping and stomping in rhythm. Right at the moment where I thought the raven was about to do whatever its strange dance had preceded, an entire murder of the black birds swooped in. Whatever the original intentions of the first raven were, I'll never know, for no sooner had the murder arrived than he took flight, an angry Caw escaping his beak before he fluttered away.
  The stymied murder flocked around, hopping too and fro in their agitation at not understanding what the first had so clearly understood. Yet the island would not reveal its secrets to them and eventually they left it for some scrap of garbage blowing through the trees on the bank opposite.
  I waited for the first raven to return, hoping to learn what it was that he had sought, and what it was that the other ravens had so jealously coveted for themselves. Alas, I waited in vain. The sun reached fully into the sky and as it did so the pond lost its reflective qualities. Ripples were no longer muted and the ducks, with their natural camouflage, melted away into the dull browns and grays of winter.
  The moment of wonder was broken and I had nothing left to do but to get ready for the day, musing on how little magic there was left in our world, and mourning the loss of it.

SHORT STORY: BEYOND THE HERD

Here's all the pieces of the story.                                                                                     BEYOND THE FREEZER  -  BEYOND THE SELF  -  BEYOND THE HERD BEYOND THE FEW  -  BEYOND THE EDGE  -  BEYOND THE STARS

*     *     *

The farmer walked along the fence line. A small contingent of cows on the other side of the fence, each one turned its head to watch the farmer as he passed. A noticeable shiver ran through the man. In his hand, a long slender tube of metal that terminated in a wooden stock. Patty knew what that was. Enough of the cows had seen it used that now, with their hive mind, Patty was intelligent enough to know it for the death-bringer that it was. Patty had the cows behaving oddly over the last few days in order to get the farmers attention, in the hopes of getting him to come into the field. The death-bringer changed things slightly, but Patty would adapt.

One cow mooed, loud and strong, staring directly at the farmer for the entire length of the low, causing the farmer to hesitate mid step. Once finished, the cow meandered back into the herd so as to make it indistinguishable from the rest. Another cow repeated this, and then another joined in. And another, until all of them were lowing at the farmer at once. While the farmer was thus fascinated with the behavior of these cows, Patty commanded another contingent, the ones he'd sneaked out of the fence the night before, to move around the farmer from behind. These cows walked with a grace unthinkable before their heightened awareness occurred and the farmer never heard them approaching.

The lead cow headbutted the farmer just hard enough to knock him to the ground while the others closed in around him. A pleasant crunch signaled the destruction of the death-bringer.

“What—?” the farmer stammered as the many bovine faces clouded out the sky above.

The lead cow bent down on its forelegs until it as kneeling, its head close to the farmers, and Patty, resting on the head of the beast, flopped forward onto the snout. The farmer stared in disbelief, almost as though he expected to wake up any minute from this horrible nightmare. Patty broke off a piece of himself and lurched it onward towards the farmers mouth. There wasn't much left of Patty now, it had taken so many tiny pieces of himself to claim this portion of the herd. Fortunately, cows, once commanded by Patty, never broke away from his control and he could continue spreading himself through the meat of those cows. But first, he needed the farmer. Old and greasy, the piece of Patty slid down the cows nose until it reached the very end, dangling precariously on the mucousy tip.

The farmers eyes, wide with shock, looked back and forth at the cows, seeking understanding. As one the cows, except for the one holding Patty, opened their mouths. Latent horror filled the mans face as the dawning realization struck him and he jammed his mouth shut tight. Again, the cows opened their mouths, looming down even closer to him, some of them brushing their tongues and noses against him. He resisted, turned his head away from them and shut his eyes.

Patty was prepared for such resistance. With a satisfying thck, one of the cows gored the farmers leg. In the instant that the pain struck the man, his mouth shot open wide and the piece of Patty dropped the few inches and landed in the back of the farmers throat. At once, the cow holding Patty turned its head and placed a horn against the farmers throat, warning him not to expel the piece of meat. Whether he comprehended the threat or just swallowed on instinct, Patty wasn't certain. It didn't matter, though. When the farmers eyes opened back up, he was Patty, and all of his knowledge about the world, about Patty and his kind, filled him.

He limped painfully home. His wife was out back watering her flowers and when she saw him, covered in mud and blood caked down his leg, her face blanched and she ran screaming over to him.

“Are you alright?” She asked, offering him her arm.

Patty accepted her support and looked back thoughtfully toward the way he'd come from.

“Just one of the bulls,” Patty said, his voice even and steady. His wife would expect nothing less from this man, considering all the times he'd been kicked, stepped on, gored and so forth. “He's been getting feisty lately and today,” Patty drew in a deep breath, as though contemplating on the incident, “well, I think it would be best if he were put down.”

“He's not sick is he?” his wife asked, concern for their livestock showing in her face.

“No,” Patty assured her at once, “vet was here just last week. I think he's just turned into an ornery cow and that's the last thing I need with calving starting soon.”

His wife nodded her head and she lead him toward the house. She called for their oldest child who appeared in the back doorway within moments and instructed her to get some rags and to call the doctor.

“Do you think the neighbors are doing anything tomorrow evening?” Patty asked his wife.

“Why?” She asked. “You're in no fit shape to go riding with that leg of yours.”

“Oh I know,” he said, “But it would be a waste not to butcher up such a fine beast as that cow, and I thought we could invite the neighbors over for steak.”

With a grin, Patty allowed his wife to lead him the rest of the way into the house.

IMMOLATION: CHAPTER 46

White walls. White floor. White ceiling. White lights. Joan hated the color. Her cell was a perfect cube, and while Joan burned with as much intensity as she could muster, it was to no avail. No scorch marks, no ash, no sign that she even burned remained behind. It seemed her captors had finally found her a perfect prison. Some days, all Joan did was burn, others she sat on the floor and cried. Today, she paced around the edges of her room with a low burn on to warm her cell. Days went by without any contact with the outside world so she hummed and talked to herself from time to time just so she could hear the sound of a friendly voice.

“Joan,” a voice announced over the loudspeaker hidden somewhere above her cell, out of range of her fire. It was a pleasant voice, and Joan was thankful for that. She couldn't remember when it had taken over the loudspeaker but it was certainly an improvement from the guards who'd controlled it before.

“Yes, I'm here,” Joan replied, pausing in her walk and pulling her fire back in. They liked it when she did that.

“Your letters have arrived and they're waiting for you,” the voice said.

Joan leaped to the door, eagerly awaiting for it to unlock and slide open. The only times they let her out were when she received letters, and the only person who wrote to her was Tom. He'd kept his promise, writing everyday, and she wrote him back. The only problem was, with the country in its current state the mail was only being delivered once a week.

Perhaps it was better this way, Joan thought to herself as the door to her cell opened and she walked out into the fresh air of the enclosure beyond. This way she could spend several hours out of her cell, reading through Tom's letters and writing responses to each one before having to go back to her cell. The stack of letters slid through a small opening on the far side of the enclosure and Joan ran to pick them up.

“How are you doing today?” the voice asked over the intercom as Joan sorted through the letters.

Joan was always careful to get the letters in order before reading them.

“Joan?” the voice prompted.

“What?” Joan asked, distracted and annoyed with the voice. All she wanted to do was lose herself in reading and writing letters.

“How are you doing, Joan?” the voice asked again.

“Fine,” Joan said, finding the first letter and tearing it open.

Dear Joan, she read, I hope this finds you well. Or at least better than last week. Things here are going well—

“Joan?” the voice interrupted.

“WHAT!” Joan shouted up to the voice. Her finger tips singed the edges of Tom's letter and Joan glared from the burned letter to the observation deck and back again. “Look what you've made me do!” she cried out. Tom's letters were like gold to her and now this one was damaged. Burned, like Tom.

“I'm sorry, Joan,” the voice said, and it sounded earnest enough, though that did little to assuage Joan's emotions. “But please,” the voice went on, “it's been so long since you've let me come visit you.”

Joan ignored the voice, quelling the fire within that was struggling to burst out. Flakes of charred paper fell away from the letter but, thankfully, none of the writing was lost. She smoothed the page out lovingly.

“See,” Joan said to herself, “it's not so bad.”

Joan went back to reading her letters, devouring Tom's handwriting. It had improved quite a lot over the weeks that they'd been writing to one another. The first several letters were almost illegible. Tom's writing was still shaky but at least his letters didn't look like they'd been written by a first grader anymore.

I got a cat, Joan read, but I can't think of a good name for him. I've included a picture of him so you can help me out.

Joan picked up the envelope this letter had come from and found the picture. A sleek, black cat with white and orange markings was eating from its bowl in the picture. Joan had never seen a cat with such coloring and could see why finding a name would be difficult. She returned to the letter.

He likes being held, but not being scratched. He'll sit on my lap for hours, purring, as long as I don't touch him. Whenever I do try to pet him he bats my hands away. Sometimes he'll bite if I don't stop right away, but I can't feel it.

Joan frowned. She hated it whenever she was reminded of how badly she'd burned Tom and she quickly finished reading the letter, eager to move on in the hopes of finding happier news.

Tom's remaining letters spoke about his parents, his cat, and his healing. In his final letter he told Joan that his face had begun to get some feeling back, discovered when he awoke that morning with the cat's tail flicking and tickling his nose. Joan clutched this letter to her chest in her ecstasy at the good news before moving on to writing her daily letter to Tom.

She told him about her cell, but not about how she hated it. She wrote about the new voice on the intercom, but left out how it had upset her and that she'd burned his letter. Joan even dared to tell Tom that she'd had a dream about the two of them, though she failed to write down that the dream was about her burning the world and leaving only Tom and herself behind. Tom didn't need to read about the bad things in her life, he had enough pain to deal with already. When she finished her letter, she folded it up and slipped it through the slot that Tom's letters had been put through. Her guards would take care of the envelope and stamp.

Finished with reading her weekly supply of letters, Joan tucked them away in her shirt for safe keeping until she was back in her cell where she could put them in her locker where they'd be safe from her fire. As she turned around to return to her cell she was surprised to see a woman standing there in place of her cell. Where her cell had gone she had no idea.

“Hello,” the woman said. She wasn't dressed like a guard and neither did she wear the same type of jumper that Joan wore. Instead, she wore jeans and a T-shirt.

Joan didn't say anything. The shock of suddenly being confronted with this person and the disappearance of her cell was more than she could take in.

“Joan?” the woman said, “It's me, don't you recognize me?”

Joan wasn't listening. Instead, she was scouring the ground, looking for any sign of her cell and all she found was a pile of rocks lining the perimeter of where the cell should have been.

“What did you do?” Joan asked excitedly.

The other woman looked around uncertainly. “I didn't do anything,” she said.

“But the cell,” Joan said and she moved around the pile of rocks, kicking some of them over, “You destroyed it.” Joan practically leaped into the air with triumphant glee and she proceeded to scatter more of the rocks.

“There never was a cell, Joan,” the woman said uncomfortably as Joan threw handfuls of rocks around the enclosure. “You stacked those rocks yourself.”

Joan hesitated, something in the back of her mind nagging at her like a cog in a gear box slipping into place. “Say that again,” Joan said.

“You put the rocks there, Joan,” she said.

Joan looked back to the letter slot, then back to the woman and the remnants of the rock pile. In the far corner she could just make out the edges of several letters tucked beneath the rocks. Joan moved over to them and pulled them out. Al of Tom's letters, safe and sound, tucked beneath the rocks.

“These were in my locker,” Joan said, confused.

“You've been putting them there the whole time,” the woman said. “Do you remember me?”

That last question sounded as though it was as much of a realization for the woman as it was for Joan to discover her letters beneath the rocks. Joan looked at her, hard, studying her face. The final piece clicked into place and Joan's eyes welled up with tears.

“Melanie?” Joan said and Melanie nodded.

Joan ran to her friend and embraced her.

“I'm losing it, Mel,” she said, fear etched into every syllable. “I can't keep on like this.”

Melanie didn't say anything, she just held Joan and let her cry.

*     *     *

 Thoughts on Joan's mental state? Thought's on Melanie and her behavior? Did it make sense, was it a surprise that it was Melanie at the end?

I'M PUBLISHED IN THIS-Words to Paint With: a collection of prose and poetry

"Eighteen inches. A foot and a half of soil I have to remove before I can plant anything. A foot and a half of soil I can't touch with my skin. A foot and a half of dust and sand I can't breath if I want to live. That's what the book says, the book I found down here with me. There really isn't much here besides a couple weeks worth of food and water along with some batteries, a flashlight, first aid and the book. I'm supposed to wait here until I have three days left of food and water and then I run for it. I have to get away, get to the rendezvous point as quick as I can. The book says so. I hope I can remember which way is North from here. That's important too. There's so much to remember, so many important things. If I forget one of them, do something wrong, I'm dead. Oh, God, watch over me."

That's an excerpt from a short story I got published in a book a little while ago, and I'm not sure if I told you about it. Anyway, the short story is The Last Man (I made a short film based on it, found in the FILMS section of the blog), about a solitary survivor of a nuclear holocaust. The story is told from the perspective of a journal he's keeping, recording his thoughts, impressions, and reflections.

There are a number of other really good short stories and poems in the collection so check it out here.

POEM: SECOND FRIDAY

Baby fell asleep

In his parents bed last night

He slept, they didn't

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Here's the last little update for today, catching up for the missed time and posts of this and last week.