Judo Chop

Mom and Dad walked my brother and I into the Plymouth Cultural Center, a building not far from where a couple of my kids go to school today. We were not here for ice skating, like we were a few years ago. In fact, we walked right by the entrance to the rink, by all the trophies trapped behind glass, into the big room at the end of the building. The room was already full of other student wearing white gis (pronounced gee) and multicolored belts.

We ran past the Tae Kwon Do class to the opposite side of the room. We spent the first few minutes pulling out the long, white foam mats, which would cover the floor, leaving no gaps, when we were done. We listened to the instructions of Mr. Skinner and Mr. Rapherty. They were out senseis, that's right I have a sensei, I thought. In the time we were there, we practiced rolls and falling and throwing each other. We were training.

"Speak softly and carry a big stick," was one of the saying the sensei used a lot. I know now the idea was to keep us out of trouble, keep us from puffing ourselves up, keep us from being jerks. At the time it seemed like the same thing a superhero does. An elemtary school brain is not fully formed.

My days at Smith Elemetary School, after a few weeks of Judo, those words echoed through my mind. At recess, the day felt like summer. The grass around the playground equipment was dry. I was alone with my thoughts. With this new skill, I thought, I didn't need to give into any of the bullies or cool kids. This gave me the courage to talk to the other Jason in my class, he was normally kind of mean, wanting to wrestle, but now I had a secret weapon.

As you might imagine, it took about 30 seconds before we were wrestling in the grass off to the side of the school. With just a sliver of knowledge and a whole lot of luck, I flipped him over my shoulder. I followed this up by immediately telling him I knew Judo and I could teach him. I was on my way to being one of the cool kids. This lasted about.... One recess.

The afternoon recess, I immediately started looking for Jason. He was over talking to Louie, easily the biggest and most athletic kid in our class.

"So, I here you now Judo. Let's see what you've got," Louie said and immediately grabbed my shirt. He lifted me just a little off my feet and swept my legs out from underneath me. He let me fall, hard, on the ground, which I now notice was packed solid. When I got my air back, I stood, played it off and grabbed Louis. I had to prove myself now. Other kids were watching. Louis flipped me over his hip, then hhis shoulder and then just pushed me to the grass. I was done. He and his crowd of supporters walked away. I played by the creek, alone.

I quit Judo in a year or so.

Stacks

The man before me was a little shorter than I was. He had me by more than a few years, probably in his forties, but he was still trying to dress cool. He work leather shoes, black jeans, white tee shirt and a black vest. His dark hair was pulled back in a pony tail, he wore thin rimmed glasses and kept a small mustache. He was a blend between a yuppie and beatnik, at least how I think that blend would look. Though I never saw him wear one, I expected a beret would be in his regular outdoor attire. My new boss, at my new job, was trying to be cool to the college kids he was in charge of.

Waldo library was four floors of books, journals, maps and microfiche. Stacks was on the lower level. New books, returned books, misplaced books and books left out all came to stacks. This little office, was the heart of recirculating the books back to the shelves. This was my home and source of income after my 7:00 AM class ended and before my 11:00 AM class began.

The first few days were the only ones I really remember being around other employees. This job was very much a solo one. It was Mr. Vest who explained what was expected. He showed me the hidden staff elevators, all of them behind hidden doors clearly marked staff only. He explained the Library of Congress system, how the books were marked and organized. He showed me the break room, a room with several chairs and coaches, but I never actually saw anyone in there. He was clear that I should spend about fifteen minutes on break for every hour I worked. It's hard to just put away books, don't push yourself he said. He showed me the basement, giant pipes of heated air, like a Nightmare on Elmstreet basement. He showed me where the books that were dropped chute came into a bin down there, but I was distracted by the doors and the tunnels down there.

Then we grabbed a cart full of books, most of them these solid colored bound tomes with simple printed text on them. Probably P or S books, since those seemed to be the ones that circulated the most. It wasn't hard, I had a couple questions about items that had the same number and what to do when you find a misplaced book.

Forty five minutes later, we were in the break room. We talked for a half hour. I bought a cherry cola and noticed there was no rush to get back to work. I was tired, so I didn't complain. I could tell, by his whole approach, that this job was very casual.

Two days later I was on my own. For a couple weeks I did pretty good. I only took breaks when I needed them. I usually kept them short. I worked to put away as many books as I could each shift. I didn't really see Mr. Best other then on passing and while there were other employees there, they never seemed to be where I was. I didn't start conversations in the library, so it was quiet.

I got to love the top floor. It was small, but had some of the oldest materials up there. So, the items I would handle would be more interesting, like hand drawn maps of an older Michigan. More importantly, not many people were up here. What this meant was, instead of going to the break room, I could take breaks up there, instead of in the room. I had a spot that was mine, a corner which was never used and was secluded from sound and was dimly lit. It had a wooden chair and working desk, with small walls.

I had closed the night before at Arby's, which meant I had to get up to write my paper after about four hours sleep. I could feel the stack of these kind of days wearing me out. I put together half a cart in about a half hour, then I went to my spot. I put my head down on the desk and immediately went to sleep. Even a casual job doesn't usually condone sleeping on the job, but I was tired.

I had no idea how long I had been out when I heard voice. They woke me just enought to realize I had been sleeping pretty deeply. My brain began clinging the bell. Get up. GET UP!! My brain had no idea how the wooden chair had cut into my legs, how I couldn't feel them from about half way down my thighs down. People were nearby, near discovering me napping.

So, I quickly hopped up from the desk. Across the way I saw the two students talking, just before I fell on the floor.

The students glanced at me, them moved away. I took me a while to crawl back into the chair and them on my feet. I wasn't caught, but it was time to go. I managed to make it back downstairs, legs tingling and hurting, to check out in time for class.

I worked, and napped, there for two more semesters.

Surface Light

A few mothers ago, I bought an app for my iPad called Star Walk. It is pretty sweet. By you location and the angle you hold the iPad it knows where stars and planets are from your position. I can hold my iPad in from of my and spin, lifting it up and down until I see the word Jupiter, and if the position and time is right I should be able to see the planet.

This has resulted in me spending a few nights outside, trying to find the various planets in the sky. This has also led to a bit of frustration. The problem is, as I stand in my cool, dark back yard and stare towards space, I just can't see that many stars. They have been swallowed by all the lights of our communities.

I remember being younger, I would drag my blue cardboard telescope into my parents back yard and I'd have a variety of. Right stars to choose from. I didn't know any of there names, but they were there. Now, I have access to all of their name, even can have the lines placed to make the constellations, but I can't see them. Plymouth and Livononia and hundreds of other little towns have grown too much.

In Sunday school today, I asked my class, where can you see God. One of the answers that really stood out to me, was when you can see all the stars. It stood out because, I remember being a kid and craning my neck to see the stars from the back seat of the car. I remember learning to use a telescope so they could seem closer. One of the things I like abut the farm is just the sheer. Umber of stars you can see there. My class was right, God is seen in the many pins of light.

I think about this as I look up into a large black sky. Star walk tells my there are stars there, but I can't see them. What does it mean of the light of God is swallowed by the lights of man? To be honest, I'm not sure. At least not for everyone else. For me, though, it means I'll keep trying to find better and better places to look up and even from my backyard, I'll strain my eyes, if it means I can catch a glimpse of one more star.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Eight

In the dark of the yard, the man looked like a living strobe light. Blinding while snakes of electricity coiled around his body. It should have, but didn't, hurt Savannah. The light that charged up his arms stopped at his elbows. At first his whole body tightened up, even the hands on the girl's throat, then he became completely limp. He fell with a heavy thud on top of the toy Savannah had tripped over.

Savannah rolled away from him as quickly as she could. She got to her feet. The man didn't move. His dark clothes smoked a little. He looked like he might be a little burned, but it was hard to tell because the bright lighting left dots in her eyes. She smelled a strong ozone smell, light during a thunderstorm, and something a little like bacon.

The feather she thought, and her new power kicked in, streamers pointed into the shed where Sierra and Sarah were standing. The feather was on the floor, dropped in the midst of the action. Sarah's hands were outstretched, frozen in front of her. It looked like she was trying to push something away that wasn't there. In the palm of each had was a pulsing spark, a small ball of lightning. She had stopped the man. Sarah was one of them.

The man, the man's gun she thought. Again she could see right where it was, In the back of the shed, underneath an old bed frame, way in the back. She thought of getting it, but didn't want to leave fingerprints on it, when the police came, she would want them to be able to see the man had threatened them with it,

The back door of the house opened. It was the girls dad. He looked angry.

"What are you girls doing out here?" he yelled, "Get in this house, right now."

When they heard Dad yelling, Sienna and Shelby pretended to sleep.

Their Dad, and uncle in Sarah's case, never left the doorway, so he never saw the man laying in the grass. The girls, knowing better than to argue, marched into the house, but as soon as they got through the door, they told him everything. They couldn't help it. Even though, if Savannah was right, it would be dangerous for them to know, they couldn't help it. They didn't know what to do anymore. As they were talking, Shelby and Sienna came down the stairs, rubbing their eyes as if they had been sleeping.

Mom and Dad sat at the table. They couldn't believe what they were hearing. It was night, they had a story no one would believe unless they saw it, and of they saw it, they would take their daughter's away or make them media freaks. On top of that, they had a dead man in the backyard.

They talked it over and, while no one wanted to lie. They were afraid of telling the truth, so they would tell the police lightening had struck this strange man in their backyard. It was true enough, just missing some critical details, like he was hunting a super power giving feather.

Dad made the call. The dispatcher took the information calmly. I would be a half hour before the police would get there.

After he hung up the phone, he looked at the six of them, his wife and the five girls around the table. How was he supposed to protect them, he thought. He grabbed a flashlight from underneath the sink and went in the back yard to check on the man.

He found footprints burned into the grass. He could see the crushed toy the man had fallen on. The man, though, was gone.

4 Hours Left

In the depths of your overworked body, unrerneath your bleeched tee shirt, the one used to protect your fancy shirt from the sweat of your anxiety, do you feel it? Do you look at your overbooked calendar and recognize how close it is? I do. I can feel the pressure being lifted. The stones upon my pressed body being lifted as the minutes tick by. I am not there yet, but I can feel the euphoria of freedom.

There will be plenty to do in the next four days. There will be table and chairs that need to be arranged. There will be cleaning that needs to be done before the knock that warns you of the tidal wave of food and family that will wash through the house. We will clean off the side board, so it can hold way more dessert than anyne will eat. There will be dishes to wash as we're bloated with turkey and pie. The warm soapy water making a nap seem that much more desirable.

I am not stressed by these thing. Nor am I stressed about the normal chores that will take place on the weekend, the march of church respnsabilities or knowing I'll have to prod the kids to do anything productive. These truths have no emotional impact on me right now.

Rationally, I know there are a ton of things for me to be thankful, an attitude we're meant to celebrate this weekend. I have an awesome wife and good kids. I've got a warm home and am not at any risk of missing a meal. I've got a good, stable job, that will pay me for a couple of those days I'm not working. I have a collection if friends and a church family that make my life more rich than I could have ever imagined in my youth. A better me would dwell here, breath in these thoughts and exhale thankfulness.

In this moment, right now, my head is somewhere else.

This is the count down to launch. I'm feeling the anticipation of a knowing I have just one more thing to do before I can walk out the door today. This way too long, in just three days, week is almost over. The five point harness is on. I can feel the rumble of the rocket engines powering up. Mission control is going through the final list. But I can't even think about it.

The power of Lists

I didn't show it, but I was tripping out this morning. My mind had been running since last night at seven when I completed my second review. I have seven I need to write by Wednesday. To do this I planned to do three yesterday, because of meetings today. I never did the third. I couldn't force myself. Instead I just worried about what I was going to do.

Has anyone notice how worry ruins everything? I set in front of my computer wondering from game to game, trying to be distracted. My mind would have none of it. Meetings for seven hours tomorrow. Five reviews left to do by Wednesday, probably two and a half hours apiece. Will need to write my blog, if just to clear my mind. I also don't want to miss writing my section of 2717. I'm committed to exercise for a half hour. I need to go to the church to set up the new computer. Oh yeah, you have a haircut at 4 and Shelly is going out tonight. No game was going to drown out this voice.

I should just talk it through with Shelly, but she is sick and trying to plan Thanksgiving n the absence of her mother. So, I don't.

Oh yeah, friends of ours, a family from church, may need our help today.

In my morning call to my accountability partner, James, we spend most of the time talking about everything else. I don't want to be whiny. Everyone has to juggle priorities, mine are not worse than his. I know everything will work out, I just don't feel that way in the moment.

I weasel it into the conversation by talking about this blog, in fact this very article you are reading. Of course, he is not as put off as I feared he would be. We talk about the article, but more importantly he let's me talk to me. He says what I have said to dozens of people, the advice I hear myself giving often, put it on a list and prioritize what needs to be done. Now, this advice is as basic as it gets. This is why I have said it so often and why it works so well. I want to defend my emotions. I don't because I'll on,y be arguing with myself and even AI don't like to argue with me.

When I walk through the doors at work I'm still worried, but I know the first step of the plan. I make the list. It is long, but workable. I assign my staff to go to the meetings and send me minutes. I make the exercise and book section optional. I'll do two reviews before I leave for my haircut. After the haircut, I'll make sure the kids are good before I head off to church. While I'm installing software, I'll write the first half of a review. It might not all work perfectly, but I feel more in control. Lists do that.

Lost and Found

I sat in the recliner of the trailer I made my home in college. I got a letter back from my friend Eric. The address reminded me he was in the Navy. I thought this was the reason we communicated so rarely at the time, but now I'm not so sure. He was married, had a daughter. When I wrote him I poured as much as I could in the letter, thinking it would cause him to be better at responding. I was holding onto the closeness we had in high school. He wouldn't write back to that letter.

One summer Shelly, my brother and I went to Virginia Beach, where Eric was stationed and spent a little time with him. It was strained. I don't remember much about it, other than the feeling of it not going well. I also saw Eric after he had been n a pretty significant car accident, while he lived in Westland. I visited him once. He hated how he looked, his face had been damaged in the accident, and hobbled on crutches. Outside of these two visits, I didn't really see him much during my college days.

I refused to see it, but we had drifted far apart.

The months before Shelly and I got married, our days were full of planning. She would pretend that I had input, the tell me how it needed to be and why. One of these conversations brought us to the topic of bridal party. Apparently the count is not three, because that is too small. It is also not seven, because that is too many. After my education on this, we talked about who. Eric was in my list.

There was one problem, I had no idea how to get a hold of him anymore. I tried the last phone number, it was dead. I tried his old number, his parent house. It wasn't their number anymore. I eventually got the number of his brother Jason. I got ahold of him, caught up a little but, explained I was getting married and then asked about Eric. He had gone back east. He and the mother of his daughter were separated or divorced. Eric didn't have a number. He was calling from different places in the country, but there was no way I could get a hold of him.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. What could make a person live such a life they were unreachable? Was there a break between him and Jason? Was he so poor he couldn't keep a steady number? What was happening to him?

It would be years before I would find out. Shelly and I were married. A few years later I had a job at Blue Cross that brought us back to the east side of the state. The house we had in Kalamazoo made it so that we couldn't buy a house yet. The twins and Shelby had been born. We were living at the house on Beck Road. We had been there more than a year. This would be around five six years after we had been married.

I really wanted to find out what had happened to him. I used my breaks at work to try various google searches. When I was home, I was trying the different tools at my disposal to locate him. I was afraid what I might find, but I wanted to know. Fortunately for me, Eric had bought a small game company, which meant there was a website and Wikipedia just waiting to be found. Because of the commoness of his name, it took me a while, but I did find him.

As it turned out, when I found him, he was already planning a trip to Michigan, from his home near Philadelpia. I cold sit down with him. I could see the friend I had lost. Additionally, he had bought a game company that produced games we had played together. This felt like it was leading up to a cool conclusion.

Face to face we sat for the first time in many years. I was able to introduce him to three of my daughters and Shelly, who he already knew, but as my wife. I was able to tell him how much I wished he had been there to celebrate with us. He told me of his hard life. How after the divorce he kind of went off the rails. He had spent too long homeless and addicted. I couldn't really understand, but I ached for him. He also told of getting back on his feet, owning a successful game shop, purchasing the company. He told me about his new wife and how she grounded him. His story had become one of success, I wished I had been there to celebrate with him.

Today, Eric and I are friends on Facebook. It is strange, though, for me to think about him and the paths our lives have taken. There was a time when all we had was history, but we were in such different phases of our life, we could really relate. Now, we are both married men with children, but our histories are so different it is still like there is a gap between us.

I considered sending him a message directing him to this article, but I can't exactly put into words why I would do that. There is another part of me, perhaps the selfish, self centered part, that hopes he finds this article on his own.

Q-Tips

I stand in the bathroom behind the locked door. I have just finished washing my hands. The towel is roughly pushed back over the bar. It is not neat, but I din't care. I open the medicine cabinet and look down the disorganized selves. At the bottom are a few small containers and tubes. I can see a single Band-aid poking out and bent where the door has been closed on it. Above that is a bottle of Shaving Cream, a razor, a couple tooth brushed, tooth paste, floss and some other miscellaneous items. On the top shelf is the problem, the left half is empty.

I am out of Q-Tips.

I have opened this cabinet a least six times today, out of habit. I may have open it more, but that seems compulsive. Everytime, I am presented with the same collection of things. Everytime, I am presented with the same truth. I am out of Q-Tips. This is a big problem for me. My ear canals feel itchy just thinking abut it. I actually opened the cabinet before I washed my hands too.

I move things around. Maybe a rogue tip is hidden underneath the shaving cream or in the collection stuff on the bottom. No luck. I can practically feel the wax build up.

I know this is my obsession. I know that it is unusual. These things don't really change anything. Nine times out of ten, if I walk into the bathroom I use a Q-Tip. I've gone though other people cabnets looking for them. I am compelled. An ear wax demon.

I can watch a TV show on parasitic infections, little worms that crawl across the eye and grow in the veins. These things don't phase me much. I love Mike Rowe on Dirty Jobs getting covered in all manner of filth. He can get his hands, face and body dirty and it is just entertainment. On the other hand, I once heard an ear doctor recommend that we not clean our ears, that putting anything in your ear was bad. My eyes bugged out, I felt that familiars tickle and I used two Q-Tips just to make the sensation go away.

Still n the bathroom, still without a Q-Tip I try my finger. I know it is gross, but what choice do I have. My fingers are too fat to do the job. I consider the keys on my ledge. What am I, some kind of hillbilly? I leave them there. The bathroom is too small to give me any hope.

I close the cabinet and walk out like everything is OK. I dn't go back to my seat. Instead, I make a left, go up the stairs to the other bathroom. My quest is not over.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Seven

The girls knew they had a problem. As Shelby described the man, as she told them he had binoculars and a gun, as she told them how angry he looked as he talked on the phone, they knew they had a problem. They went into the house. There was a little daylight left in the day, but they suddenly didn't want to be in their yard anymore.

Sierra took the feather up to her room. For now she just covered it with blankets. She had to think but her mind was racing too fast to figure out what they needed to do. In a minute, Savannah walked not the room and closed the door behind her.

"We are in trouble," Savannah said.

"Should be tell mom and dad?"

"No. In the comics whenever they tall other people, those people get hurt or killed."

"We could just give him the feather."

"But we know about it. I don't think just giving it to him will work."

"Then what do we do? I can turn invisible. Shelby can see through walls, Sienna can make money and you, well I don't know what you can do. We can't stop bullets. We are in real trouble."

"We need another wish."

They both jumped when a sudden knocking happened on the door. It was Dad, he s just trying to make sure everything was Ok. He checked the room, making sure it was clean. He looked at them with suspicion. He knew they were up to something. The twins said they were just talking. He crossed his arms, looked at the shelves filled with books, the wrinkles on the made beds, the things hanging out of the closet. He nodded, not committing to saing he believed them, said Ok and left.

"I'll text Sarah," Sierra said, thinking about her older cousin that lived down the street, "I'll see if she can meet tonight."

Shelby and Sienna played in the basement. Every once in a while, Shelby would look through the walls to where the man was, if he moved, she was ready to tell her sisters. Sienna all but forgot about her power or the man for a while, she played on the computer.

Sierra had turned invisible, grabbed the feather and made her way outside. It was hard to go unnoticed. The stairs creaked, brining Mom up the stairs. Sierra stood still in the dining room and watched her Mom look out into the street, then lock the front door. As soon as her mom went back downstairs, she went through the garage to the backyard. She could see Savannah looking out the window.

Sarah was wearing her blue letter jacket. The evening had turned cool. When Sierra materialized beside her, her eyes got as wide as saucers and she almost screamed. It took, too long to explain everything. Sarah had tons of questions, about the feather, how much money Sienna could make, details on the man. She understood what she needed to do, but she could hardly believe it.

Shelby watched through the wall as her sister talked to her cousin. She hoped this worked. It was then she looked to where the man had been napping. He was gone. He was coming down the street. "No!" she thought, "He's going to be here too soon.".

She tried to get out of bed quietly. She could hear the TV on downstairs. She went to the bedroom next door and told Savannah what was going on.

"Not so fast" the deep voice said, alerting the girls to the man's presence. His huge shadow blocked out all the light from the outside. They could see his gun in the golden glow of the letters on the wall. "I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt. Why don't you just had over that feather, and we can be done here."

Savannah swung as hard as she could, hitting the man in the back of the head with stick. The man tripped forward and the stick broke. His gun skittered to the back of the shed, falling from his hand. For a big guy, he was fast. He recovered almost immediately and wheeled around. He had murder in his eyes. Savannah steeped back, but tripped over the plastic bucket in the yard. In a second the man had her by the throat.

She could hear her heart racing as she lost her breath. Then it happened, something in her vision changed. She thought of the feather, and she could see a where it was, like it was highlighted in blue and had trails going to it from all directions. She thought of Sienna and the trails and highlighting shifts and she could tell the exact direction she was in and how far away. She was being killed, but she couldn't stop using this power. She found the Lincoln Memorial, the Eiffel tower and Disney World, before the world started to go black.

It was then the man was struck by lightening.

Finding the Dead

He was an older guy. Jim was his name. He had long curly white hair. The iron in his water caused it to be a slightly yellow color. He would proudly tell you it was his antenna to the gods and them point out that Jesus, Einstein and Yogi Yogananda all had long hair. The yogi was his favorite of the three. He was a blast to talk to, but he was, without a doubt, crazy.

He delivered pizza in a large white cargo van, which often had wood in the back from his day job. When La Cantina closed, I would sometimes see that van around, but I never stopped.

Now, from other side of the state, I suddenly had the urge to locate him. I didn't plan to call him up, or do a visit, but I really wanted to know what happened to this character. His name was too common for many of my best techniques. He wasn't going to be found on Facebook. Eventually, I plugged in his full name into goggle with Mattawan, where his home was. Nothing useful came up. I changed Mattawan to Michigan, thinking maybe he moved. I clicked on images and started to see if I could pick out his face. First picture, third row down. The picture was faded and he looked more aged. The URL was obits.mlive.com. The description said "View Full Obituary & Guest Book"

I read and paused.

Being a finder, this was not my first experience with this. Less than a year ago I found a woman, April, who I worked with at Arby's the same way. Since we parted way, she had gotten married, built quite a circle of friends at church and then passed away. It felt wrong. I wasn't grieving exactly, but my view of the world had to shift with this new information.

I clicked Jim's picture and was taken to the obituary archived onthe Kalamazoo Gazette website. June 10, 2010. His last day had been more then a year ago. I would never have him wander into a restaurant I'm eating in, so I could introduce him to my kids. I would never again hear the wisdom of keeping long hair and meditating in the woods. As crazy as he was, as easily as we parted ways, he had poured some of himself into me and I had poured some of myself into him.

How could he die without me knowing. It doesn't feel like someone you have spent hours with, given some if your energy to, shared a pizza with, should be able pass without you knowing. It's haunting, rather the dark mirror of haunting. This isn't someone I don't know tapping the walls of my house, it's someone I do know leaving me only silence.

He was born in Balimore, Maryland. He had a son and daughter, who are still alive. He had four grandchildren and a brother. He was home when he died. No explanation of why, no mention of health issues, nothing to satisfy that feeling.

I jot down the notes in my finding folder. I give the picture one last look. I wonder when it was taken. I close the web browser.

In the Deep End

The baby monitor sat on the night stand beside the bed. Even turned away from it, you could see the red light reflecting on the wall. It was raining. Not a light enjoyable rain you normally associate with spring. A dismal grey rain. This is how I remeber these days in my mind.

Shelly and I were in our new house. Our parents had gone back to their homes on the other side of the state. For the moment is was quiet. The exhaustion of the last few weeks took over.

I closed my eyes for when seemed no more than a minute and quiet was shattered. The alarm? Radio? No, it was Savannah. Shelly and I took turns getting up, so we could at least sleep through the night every other night. Ok. Who's night was it. Shelly bumped me,melting me now it was mine. Crap. I have to get to her before she wakes her sister.

I roll out of bed and lean on the wall for balance. The dizziness of my head and wobbly legs make the first few steps seem risky. Our bedroom is long. In the dim light I can see the rocker beside the wall. I can make out the shelf with a golden New York and replica of Neuschwanstein. To the left of them, I can see the doorway. Savannah is getting louder.

I'm on the move now, trying to beat the clock before Sierra is up too. I don't look but I know the rooms I pass. Our closet, a strange separate walkin across the hall, a bathroom, another smaller closet and the guest room when family had slept while they were there to help is. They were grey doors, holding grey rooms that I passed on another grey night. This wasn't just night, this was a night that a lack of sleep had drawn the very color off of every surface.

If they had a color, Savannah's cries would be red.

I made it into the bedroom. A hand full of Noah's ark creatures looked at me. We had more, but who had time to put them out. Surrounded by cloth and wood, I could see the angry, yelling mouth of the baby. With a quick move, I lifted her and rushed her out of the room. Only time would tell if I had been successful. I was hoping Sierra wouldn't wake as soon as I was done with Savannah, as had happened two nights ago.

Her whole body clenched as I held her to me while I waited for the water to get warm. She wouldn't quit until she had the bottle. Two ounces to one scoop. The water warmed, but was not hot. Perfect. I held Savannah in my left arm and deftly move the open bottle underneath the stream of water. Four ounces. I opened the can of formula beside the sink. I dug the scoop into the yellow sticky powder and keeled it off using the side of the can. Twice a dumped it's contents into the water. I put the nipple into the ring and the whole assembly onto the bottle. Almost there.

As I walked back to the couch, where the bouncy chair and the changing bag were, I held the nipple and shook the bottle mixing it's contents. At the couch I flopped down. This felt as much like the middle of the night as anything can. I sat the bottle on the coffee table and the baby beside me. I changed her diaper quickly, to even more ear shattering cries. Hungry babies do not care if the have wet pants. I had forgotten this before, so I knew I was saving myself trouble in the morning.

I put Savannah in the crook of my arm, a move that now felt natural, and I pressed the bottle to her lips. Red screams were replaced with the sound of suckling. Quiet. I closed my eyes and listed to the house. Listened for her sister.

I could hear the cars leaving wet tire prints on in front of the house. I imagined them spraying water into the yard. I sunk into the neutral hum. I resisted sleep, but I dreamed.

I love my wife, but I already fantasized about the next night, when it would be her turn to get up. Maybe tomorrow I would stay in the warm embrace of the bed. Maybe tomorrow I wouldn't even wake when the monitor told us it was time. Maybe tomorrow life would get a little of its color back.

Theo and Stacy's

The little airport passed on the left of Kilgore Road. This was the section the turned a little to the right to line up with the expressway. As I always do when I pass an airport I drained my neck looking for plane taking off or landing. Aunt Nancy, who sat beside me in the tan colored car, did the same.

The car was hers, but I drove. Because of her seizures she could not drive anymore. I expect she would have let me drive anyway. We didn't take my red truck, which I loved, because the car was easier to get in and out of, the seats were comfortable and the car did needs to be started every once in a while. That hadn't be an issue while we had lived together. We were always going places.

If you went straight down Kilgore and made a right, you could get to our church. The Methodist church in the middle of the Millwood neighborhood. I volunteered with the youth group there, with Richard and Sheri. One of the places my Aunt introduced my to when I first came to the west side of the state. We weren't going there today.

We made a left to hop onto the little service drive that took you by the few business parked just off of airport property. This wasn't any of the paces we normally went, this was just the path through. We talked about her friend Pat, who worked with her at Upjohn, not knowing that I would work there myself. We talked about my work and school schedule for the next few days.

We made waited to make a left at the light, turning onto Portage Road. Then we made an immediate left into the parking lot. It wasn't a big fancy place. It was a stand alone building with a parking lot that never seemed to be very full. Inside we were met by the woman who owned the place. She knew us. She had known Aunt Nancy long before I ever arrived. This had been one of her places, now it was ours.

She seated us and asked us if we wanted menus today. We didn't always need one. The inside of the place was dark wood and vinyl uppolstered booths. Tables with chairs around them were in the middle of the floor, but we always took a booth. We could look out the window. We could stretch out and it gave Nancy a place to set her cane with out it being kicked over by a server. I ordered the Souvlaki and she got the Greek salad. We got menus, but ordered the usual.

Tomorrow I would go to school early and go to work immediately after. I wouldn't make it home until late. The day after that I would leave a little later, but I had picked up a couple hours doing stacks at Waldo library. Friday I had school and work again. So, tonight we would have to make the most of it.

As usual, Aunt Nancy paid the bill. I was a poor college student after all. We drove to K-Mart to pick up some prescriptions, then to Hardings for coffee and milk, a couple of the few food items we kept stocked. Then it was home to watch a little TV. I wrote a few letters to people who had written me, I included in them strange questions just to keep the communication going. Frankie, my Aunt's cat, watched with us.

Tomorrow would be a full day and my letters were done, so before it got too late, probably not long after Voyager ended, I headed to bed.

Lock-In

I am not familiar with Eastern Michigan University. I have friends that work there. It is pretty close to where I live. The problem is I only go there about once a year and the roads are a twisting maze that in the dark are hard to distinguish. I had step by step directions on how to get to the Rec center, but reading in the dark while driving and looking for streets is not as enjoyable as you might think.

I did make it to Rush Hour without an real incident. I looked up the concrete stairs to the main doors of the large five floor building. From the outside it didn't look that different from lock-ins in the past. Lock-ins where there was too much free time, or there were areas a little too secluded, or it was no managed by just a few of us. Thinking about the past made me tired. The last two years, before Rush Hour, I've gone to the lock-ins thinking it might be my last one.

After crossing the threshold, I knew is was different. The EMU staff looked at my hands, I was holding a rice crispy treats and Cookie bars made by Shelly, and told me the food was all going up on two. I looked at the kids playing in the courts, there was a staff member by each court, and turned back to get to the stairs.

On two I found three long tables of food. There was a table just covered with two liters of various flavors, beside it a variety of chips in giant bowls, with melted cheese in a crock pot and a couple containers of salsa. Across the way was a third table covered in cookies, candy and sweets. Kristie and another staff person were working the cafe. Apparent I had missed the Pizza, which had been delivered across the way, the more than 100 kids and 40 staff had emptied boxes as fast as they could get them out of the way.

This was clearly different than any lock-in I had been a partof before. In addition to the cafe, there was an air soft arena and field hockey rink on the second floor. On three there was a Velcro wall, obsticle course, moon bounce, pool tables, basket ball courts and volleyball. Four was a little more quiet, but there were kids up there walking the track or using the exercise equipment. Five, which I had never seen before, was opened for a few hours while four of our staff, including Brintany, who was one of my youth not that long ago, had a hair a nail Salon.

This was an impressive and well organized event. It seemed every wall had a poster telling you what you could do on that floor and a schedule letting you know when events, such as open swim and the wallybaLl tournament would take place. For the staff there were assignments for all of us, so that all events were staffed and it would all run smoothly. Staffing was not limited to just rooms and events, at anytime every floor also had security personel.

This was easily the most well run event of it's size I have ever been a part of. It really changed my idea of what a lock-in could be. For many of these kids I expect this will be the best party they go to all year. For the adult workers, like me, I expect many of them went from a mind set that said, "next year someone else can do this," to "I'd like to be a part of this next year."

When I consider what this means for my kids, a couple of them who are in youth now, for Praise Baptist Church, people I consider family, and the community, I can't help but thank God. Pastor Jim, Jackie Chan to the kids, Praise's Youth Pastor and my friend, has done an amazing thing here. We have been blessed.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Six

There was something about the man's eyes that looked wrong. They were piercingly bright. They didn't just stand out against his dark skin or close. They made you feel like they were boring a hole in you. Shelby was glad the man was three houses away.

The house he was in had, had for sale sign in the yard for a few months. The last people there had just rented for a year. Shelby could see the rooms were still empty. The only room that had stuff in it was the room n the second floor where the man had binoculars, there were blocky like they had some military attachment.

The glass lens locked in on Shelby. She knew, they he knew, she could see him. He lowered the binoculars and tapped the Bluetooth in his ear.

"There is a man watching us!" Shelby got out, but no ne was listening. Savannah was the joy one near here, so she grabbed her. "There is a man watching us from over ther," she said pointing to the house, but trying to do it in a way the man wouldn't know.

"What are you talking about?"

Shelby pulled Savannah to the patio, so Mr. Neal's house, the one right next door, would block them from the view of the man. "There is a man in the empty house down there. He's watching us with some big binoculars. I think he knew I could see him."

The man watched the girls duck out of his line of sight. His gift had brought him here, he knew they had the artifact. He was the last of the specials his boss had allowed once they had figured out there was a limit to the number of wishes that could be active at the same time. He had his time with the feather. He did as he was told. He wished to be able to find anything. When the artifact decided to move on, it was his job to locate and return it.

Who knew how long it would be here before it moved again, he had to get it and return it quietly. Based on the phone call he just had though, this just got a little more complex. Apparently, the girls had figured out how to use the device, robbing his boss and the others of their powers.

What to do, he just had to think. He wasn't a fan of killing kids, but there was always problems if you left traces. He could just be reall friendly to them, and maybe they would give him a chance to take it. On the other hand, he could probably just scare them.

He looked at the gun on the floor beside him. He knew what his boss, Mr Li, would want.

The girls gathered around Shelby and listened to her talk about the man. He sounded kind of scary, but they were not sure what to do about it. Sienna thought they should hide, a man watching them was kind of scary. Savannah, figured he must know about the feather, maybe he even put it there, but didn't want to find out. Shelby had seen the man, knew his cold look, she hoped her sisters had an answer. Sierra wondered if she could find out more while she was invisible. She didn't say this to her sisters, but she was really scared.

The man would make his move at night, after the girls had gone to bed.

GOTO 10

Smith Elementary still looked huge to me. The distance between my hall, where the first grade and kindergarten class was, to the hall in the far side seemed a long long way. I didn't concern myself with anything outside of my hall, too much. My world was small.

That all was about to change. My first grade year my teacher, Mrs. sunstrom, owned a computer store, one of the first in the area. As I understood it, as a result my school and specifically my class, got an Apple ii compouter. It also meant my library got an influx of some new and unusual books.

From the first day, I loved the computer. It was a little bit of a mystery, you typed these storage commands in to make it do things. This was a couple years before every class has a computer and a copy of Carmen Sandiago. In those days, in the hall, where the computer was, the black a green screen just hinted at what it could do. I can't tell you how many times my family died of cholera in The Oregon trail, but it didn't matter. This box could take my somewhere. It was an endless book that moved.

I imagined the stories I could tell. You didn't have to just find food, you could find treasure and fight dragons. I had played Zork at my Aunt Cy's house, after all, so I knew the potential.

For those younger readers, the Zork I'm talking about has no pictures, it was completely text based and I'm pretty sure always ended with, "You have been eaten by a grue!". It was fantastic.

These thoughts consumed by young brain, like a grue (sorry).

Library day comes, and I'm checking iut this new section in computers. It is a small section and mostly pretty boring. I only remember one book. It was titled simply BASIC. Beginner's All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code. It was the way, or so I believed, The Oregon Trail and Zork were created. Sure, I knew we weren't going to get Zork at the school, but what if I wrote one. I would be so cool. I checked the book out.

I didn't understand a lot of it, but I could understand how everything needed a line number, a command and smething you wanted to do with the command. I took a notebook and started writing how I would do various things. I needed time with the computer.

I talked to my teacher about the book and she even said I could get extra credit for writing a program. I am not sure what extra credit means in elementary school, nor do I remeber the logistics of how this was going to work out. I remember she said I could do it. I can't imagine Sienna, my first grader, posing such a thing, but I can Umagine letting her try.

I told my parents I was doing this as extra credit for class, I would stay after for a little while, write a program, then ride my bike home. We rode too and from school everyday, so this wasn't that unusual.

They must have said yes, because I remeber the oddness of being in a nearly empty school, slowly typing on this computer.

10 PRINT "HELLO"

RUN

HELLO

It worked. Then I pulled out my notebook. I typed what I had written, it didn't work. I fixed a typo, it didn't work. I wrote an rewrote codes from my book and every one of them failed. I remeber the heat on my face as I couldn't do this. What was I doing wrong? How come my codes didn't work?

My teacher didn't know how to help me. I don't even think she tried. So, underneath the chalk drawing of Pipes all fitted together, I wrote a very simple code from the book. I checked it. Iit worked. It wasn't mine. I showed my teacher, but I didn't care what she thought. I felt like a failure. There was nothing cool about what I made.

By the time I got to my bikes, I had resolved that I would need to recheck out the BASIC book on our next library day.

100 Brown Boxes

I stepped through the back door and glanced to my right. The plain washer and dryer were not running. Outside of the clothes I was wearing everything was clean and packed. This fact did not make me happy. Had there been wet jeans in the tub, it would have met this place, the place we had called home was still ours.

I walked past the little bathroom, the noe you washed your hands in when you came in from pulling weeds in the flower beds, or to get the dust off from the seeds we fed the birds. It had ship n the wall reminding me that you couldn't change the wind, but you could adjust your sails. I didn't care to be reminded.

I left the garage door closed. That is where they were.

I stepped into the kitchen, a broad sunlit space. I looked at the island, where the Swiss Cake Rolls and laptop sat on the weekends. I looked at the kitchen table, where we played games with Pat and Gary, the owners of the house and had many meals with Kenny, their son who lived with us the years we were there. It was hard to conceive of their generosity. They truly considered this place a gift from God. I looked at the sink were I had what was the most important talk I ever had with him. About his Dad and about God.

I knew why we had been there, I recognized God's plan in it. I couldn't help but want to stay.

Over the kitchen table, through the arch of brick I can see into the great room. It is a tall ceiling open space. It served us well on many a holiday and church gathering. You could be close, but not cramped with a lot of people in that room. I could imagine the white plastic tables and numerous chairs, seating for the complete family in Christmas colors. Now there was only the couch and chair. A lamp sat between them. It was there Shelly and I struggled with the reality of our home not being our home. We didn't want it to be true. We loved this place. We had been blessed by this place. We had blessed our friends with our place. We wanted it so much to be ours, in our hearts it was, the problem was it wasn't. Pat and Gary had been so generous across the years they never broke that illusion. They came as guests NATO their own house. They had given us this place for that time. They gave us a home.

I walk down the hall toward the master bedroom. On the left are the bedrooms of our girls. They had just finished their Kindergarden year. We thought we could work it out for them to go there, for us to live here. For reasons we didn't understand, the home needed to be sold. No matter how we worked it, Shelly and I didn't make enough money to buy it.

The illusion was gone.

The master bedroom, t Shelly and I, may have been the jewel of the house. Our bed sat in the large dark room. Bedside lamps on either side. Just off the bedroom was a walk in closet connected to a changing space with the sinks. Off this room was the bathroom with a nice shower. I drifted through these space for one of my final times. My mental fingers were loosing their hold.

I changed into clothes more suitable for the job ahead. It took a deep breath, letting it all go, and went into the garage.

Flight of the Valkyries

I pull a Stewarts Lime Sode from the cooler in front of the counter. It is almost as good as the orange, but not quite. I'll drop my buck in the drawer after I've picked up a few tips. This is going to be a good night.

The phones have started ringing, Jen and Wayne are both taking orders, delivery orders. In the back I can see Shelly using a large white machine to roll out the dough, Dr. Bob is beside her placing the squares of cheese and fresh sausage on the pizzas. Eventually, one of them will slide to the end of the oven to start bagging pizzas as they come out. There is a hum and a laughter and a comraderie here.

Wayne and I are the only drivers on right now, which is good for me. He's a good driver, but he doesn't know the addresses like I do. We take turns taking deliveries, but I stack the runs. What this mean, for someone who has never done this, I'm putting deliveries together. This is a single, only one delivery vs. this is a double or triple, how many can you string together. Often these form themselves, you don't put runs way to north with runs way to the south, but there is just enough wiggle room you can get a financial edge, if you know what you are doing. It also helps if you can tell by the address the big tippers from those that want exact change back. Wayne was my friend, but he was also my competition.

The deliveries come in, they are everywhere. In the next hour we'll be running from the lakes of Portage to the neighborhoods around the Mental Hospital in Kalamazoo. I love to see the tower there, an old brick tower you can see from all over the city, but the tips are bad. I'm up next, it is going to be a double. I don't just check my addresses, I check Wayne's too, he'll be getting a double as well. He'll get the tower, but I'll get the tips. What matters though is the fifth run, it is not just a good neighborhood, but I know this address. Never less that five dollars and usually more.

Now I have a problem, I'm out first, but my run is going to be a little longer. Wayne might get back first. Additionally, Jim might get here a little early, snagging the good run. He didn't even fully appreciate the value of a good run. The phone is ringing and I need to think.

I go do dishes while I wait. I plan the route, I consider traffic and adjust. I know the neighborhoods with good pass throughs, I can use that to my advantage. It might not be enough. I tell Shelly, who will be plotting the runs when I walk out, that is the run I want. It might work, it might not.

I'm up.

The pizzas are in the hot box and I'm to my truck as quick a possible. I sit the box in the passenger seat, the door facing me so I don't have to struggle at the address. I plug the the light that says LaCantina inot my lighter and start her up. The Counting Crows blare out of my speakers. I like them, but not the inspiration I need. CD 3, Wagner. I have this CD in here for just such a trip. I crank the sound up and my personally changes. I am an invasion force, the wind, a victor. I am certain that I can not be defeated.

I love this job.

I don't know know if it is Shelly or Wagner, but I don't see either Jim or Wayne when I return and the big tip delivery is waiting for me. I drop off the money I just got, an extra dollar for the soda, grab the single and go.

A tough find

A few days ago I started a new file. I'm looking for one of those lost people from high school. Robert. Many of you won't know who this person is. Robert wasn't my friend. In fact, he shared only a few classes with me. I never talked about him at home and barely to my friends.

I am finding him very hard to find. I've looked on Facebook, Pipl, Spokeo and simple google. The problem is his name is fairly common and none of the people who have posted pictures with the same name look like him. I am torn. Part of me feels like I have failed, but there is another part of me that is a little relieved.

Mr. Sanders class was large and free. It was an art class where the students worked on wildly different projects. It was a double sized room with only half the seats filled. The desks made long rows in the from, whine the back had a collection of light tables and air brushing stations. Every wall had easels and sinks. In the annex was the computers, where I did most of my work.

I liked this class, except for Robert. The people in here were friendly. They didn't care that you were part of the group of unpopular kids who hung out in the library. They didn't know, and wouldn't care, that a group in your home room loved to call you "Snotty" for no reason other than it embarrassed you. They kept their heads down or admired other people's work, the rest of the world ended at the door.

Robert, though, couldn't blend into this world. I would see his dark curly hair and goofy walk and think to myself, please don't sit by me. I don't know why, but he loved sitting by me. He would bump me, but my pencil in the middle of projects. When I would tell him to leave me alone, and he would more aggressively talk to me. I was mean to him, and he wouldn't get it. As unpopular as I was, this guy was worse. I didn't want to be his friend, at every turn I would push him away, but everyday, there he was.

I even went so far as leaving my stuff packed up, so when Robert sat down, I would move to a different seat. He would follow me. The class that would admire my work in art, left me to face this ne on my own. Looking back, I realize I didn't know how to handle this, but then I knew what I would do. I would hurt him.

Robert had a fatal flaw, which was easy to exploit in high school. He had a high pitched voice and when he talked he used hands that flopped back and forth on his wrists. This meant his sexuality was constantly under suspicion. My high school was not understanding of any level of femininity in men. Youth who are not yet grown were no expection.

At some point I shift from calling him Robert to "Bob the Fag", which made him mad, but he was still there. I shifted to using that title to reference Robert in hallway conversations, with people who only loosely knew him, with people from other cicles. I wanted this to be his new name. I wanted him to hurt. He annoyed me and wouldn't back down. I thought, at the time, he was the bad guy, that he deserved what ever happened. He wasn't the bad guy, I was.

Now, when I see no useful results, no leads to follow up on, I am tempted to quit trying. If I don't find him, I don't have to tell him I'm sorry. That, while I was young and stupid, it is no excuse for how mean I was. I don't have to ask him what it will take to make it up to him, or give him permission just to let me have it. If I don't find him, I don't have to own up to my bad behavior from a generation ago, but I'll also not be able to tell him that really hope he is ok in spite of me.

I keep looking.

Perfect Couch, a Sunday Afternoon Story

We live in a tri level house, with out living room on the lower level. This means it is half submerged beneath the earth and is slightly cooler then the rest of the house. It would not be a surprise, we're you to walk into this room, to find a couple blankets on the furniture. Probably the Mickey Mouse fleece, my wife's favorite and the Bright green fleece, which is mine. This room also tends to be a little darker the rest of the house.

There is something about this space that has always been a little sudductive. Before the end of August, though, this draw was a little more resistable.

Before the end of August, or before couch, I would have told you the centerpiece of this room was my computer. My wife probably would have said the TV. We had a couch in the room, we are American after all, but it was old. The material had held up, but had gotten rough. It covered cushions that had lost there fluff. Additionally, pieces of the wood and syringes were starting to go. You could get a nap out of it, but it always fell short.

I would imagine the perfect nap, like a scene from a tv show where the main character is subject t all manner of pranks because his sleep is so deep. In reality it would always fall short. Your neck would be sore, the cushions flatten, a zipper poke you in the face, it just couldn't measure up. It was like so much of life, where satisfaction is always tainted by not meeting the ideal.

This all changed when we got the new couch. It is a chocolate brown, micro-fiber sectional. It has a chaise lounge, and armless love seat and an overly long couch. The cushions are firm, with just the right amount of sink. They are smooth and cool to the touch. With your feet up on the chaise, a fleece blanket over you, and a single lamp casting dim light through the rom, it is hard to imagine anyone else you wuld like to be.

Today, after church, we had a potluck and a teacher's meeting. This meant we got home a little later then usual. I waited for my wife, emptied my pockets, and plugged in my phone, which had only one bar left. I too seemed to only have one bar left, so I brought my iPad to the couch and wrote about the only thing which seemed to be on my mind.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Five

Shelby found it hard to think of something good. Her hands turned sweaty as she stared at the wall for a while. She made dots of gold on her arm and watched them disappear. Sienna had left her stack of money in the corner of the shed. She could hear her sisters running around the yard. When she could choose for herself, nothing came to mind.

Perhaps she would take money like her sister. She could buy everyone iPods and take the family out to eat. Maybe even buy a car or a house. "Money" she wrote on the wall, the same as Sienna had. It disappeared. Maybe you couldn't wish for the same thing. She kicked at dry grass on the floor of the shed.

Sierra had gotten a super power, she thought, maybe she could too. Superman could fly. Spiderman could sling webs. Perhaps something like strength or X-ray vision. She chewed over her options. She wanted to know what was going on behind the pulled drapes of her neighbor's home. She wanted to know what they watched on TV and who was playing the same Wii games she was. She also wanted to get better at finding things.

"I want X-ray vision" she wrote. The writing hardened and shown on the walls underneath the others. She opened her eyes trying to look deeply and at first nothing happened. She slid her eyes out of focus, causing the world around her to appear blurry. Then the wall changed, she wasn't looking at the writing, but the wood underneath, she could see the nails holding it together, then the pain on the outside, then she could see straight through it. Through her eyes she could peel the world like an onion, layer by layer stripping away the parts that just blocked what she wanted to see.

She dropped the quill on the ground and studied the world around her, she peered into her house, where Dad was on the computer and Mom wa reading on the couch. She peered into the neighbors house, they had a lot of junk on their floor. She peered into the earth, finding worms beneath the soil, seeing the root systems of trees, seeing the big pipes that connected all the houses together.

Savannah, seeing that Shelby was done, picked up the quill again. She had an idea not wishes, but powers. She didn't want to be able to produce money, like Sienna or turn invisible, like Sierra, she wanted all of it. All of that and more. She wanted to be able to turn into an animal and shoot fireballs. How would she word it?

"I want all the powers" she wrote. It seemed a sloppy way to say it, but it stuck. The forth wish was on the wall. Her mind screamed, you got your wish. Then she was stuck. How was she supposed to do these things?

She left the shed. Shelby was gazing into the distance. Sienna was making more money and Sierra was seeing what she could turn invisible. Savannah thrust her hands not the air and thought, fireball. Nothing happened. She jumped, seeing if she could fly, but she didn't feel any different. She even tried breathing in to see if she could turn invisible, like Sierra, but no matter what nothing seemed to happen. The closest she got was when she stuck her hand in her pocket and found a one dollar bill, but she thought it might have been there already.

She could do anything, but she didn't know how.

It was then Shelby saw the big, dangerous looking man, dressed all in black, watching them.

Star Struck

We had been at Gen Con two days already. Across the last couple days I had played dozens of games of Empire. I played them through my mind as I walked to our booth. Most had been with families, with kids that loved playing games and parents who were fun, but a little unusual. I played games with dark clothes wearing groups of guys who smacked and punched each other spas they played. Several games were occupied by our first stalker, Mark from Oklahoma who told us he slept in the anime room and ate cans of tuna and pudding at the table. I will note, he didn't have anykind of platic ware. He made us all uncomfortable, but he bought a whole case of games. All told, this trip had been great publicity, but costly.

The demo hall, where the games were played, would be quiet right now, but the show room was just coming to life. The doors had just been opened for vendors. A couple guys were stocking the giant Wizard of the Coast display, the Activision booth already had the TVs on. Several of the store owners were pulling the velvet covers off their glass cases at the sides of the room. I was heading to the Alternate Realit Games booth, which was in the section of Indy game manufacturers. The cavernous space filled with only a dull murmur, as opposed to the roar this room would produce later.

This was convention every young person I had played games with would want to go to. I was not only here, but I ran one of the booths. My company was here. I was trying to draw it all in. I didn't want to forget anything. Thousands of games. Purples and red and blacks. Miniatures and oversized hard cover books. There were vendors of dice, swords, artwork, puzzles and games. It would be easy to get lost in the swirl and forget why you were here.

I said good morning to everyone I saw, these had gone from being my idles to my peers.

I turned the corner by a battlefield set up in a three dimensional cavern. It was about eight feet long, four feet wide and the cavern walls were more than a foot tall. It Was set low so you could look down into it where mech warrior with colored battle flags could enter from either side. I look into it as I was walking, then down the direction of our booth. I could see our banners. A man was walking right toward me. He had smile that told me he was pleased to be there too.

As I got close, I maintained eye contact and said, "Good Morning." I remember thinking he was a little older than myself. He had a goatee, was little heavier and shorter then me. He was sightseeing, which was strange for an early morning vendor, and wanted to talk. It was never too early to land a sale, so I stopped. He asked me about what I was doing there, I told him about Empire and our company. He said he had seen out booth and saw the game. He thought it looked great. I think he was considering getting a copy for his nephew.

I not sure if he used my name, which was clearly visible on my badge, or if I suddenly wanted to call him by name, or see why he was there, for what ever reason I followed his lanyard down to his Gen Con badge. Tracy Hickman - Author.

My mind stopped. This man was half of the duo that created DragonLance my personal favorite fantasy world. He brought to life Raistlin and Tasslehoff. He wrote the death of Flint Fireforge. I had his books, his words, his thoughts in my house. Here I was talking to him about my game and I didn't even know who he was.

I didn't want to be a drooling fanboy, but I didn't want to diminish the value of his work. I had stopped talking and I couldn't break out of the mental gridlock caused by the revelation. His nephew, Tracy Hickman's nephew might be getting my game for his birthday. He was too plain, too normal, too friendly. I wanted to just shake his hand, but I was frozen.

"it's been good talking to you," he said and walked into a nearby booth and started talking to the vendor there.

Writer's Block

When I walk into Office Max there are a few aisles I always walk down. The first holds rows and rows of notebooks. Some are cheap, glue bound, brightly colored notebooks designed for kids. I know after a little use the pages will start to separate from the binding. There is the cardboard covered notebooks with a metal spiral down the side. Then you get to the small or unusual notebooks, some have plastic covers and others have the spiral along the top.

It is not enough to just look, to fully appreciate the selection, you need open them. Look at the steno notebook with the line done the middle, perfect for the lists and ideas I surround myself with. I find the slightly yellow notebook with graph paper, it draws me back to many a Dungeons and Dragons session. They call to me. I then move to the expensive selections, I know I won't buy them, but the hand crafted sketch paper or stich bound hard cover books just beg to be filled. Blank pages are all opportunity. You can go anywhere with one. Tell any story. They are perfect and stimulating.

The next aisle is contains rack and pens. Some are the cheap kind, the ones you find everywhere. In my mind these pens hurt my hand, cause me frustration because they won't write, have air bubbles that cause your words to fade in an out from existence. I don't buy these. I look at the pens that are thicker, a little weight to them, the kind that could produce a novel. I look at the one that have a grip, which I know will massage my fingers when I hold it. I find the one that will glide across the page. A smooth stream of thoughtful ink.

On my desk these things change. The page of the notebook is not just perfect, but too perfect to be written in with some common story. Every blank page does this to me. My eyes are wide with possibility, but no idea seems good enough. Do I write on Rob, who I tortured in high school? Not enough there. Do I write about living with my Aunt in College? I needs more substance. Do I write about pining for some girl because I was young and stupid? I might not be able to both evoke the emotion of the time and show how starkly different I am now. While I watch the page, the page watches me.

I start an thought and stop. Again, I imagine what I will say, but I don't think I can say it in the right way. An action story. No. A comedy. No. Then there is nothing. The story ideas are all gone. I pull out my old notebook of ideas on what to write about when you can't think of anything to write about.

I scan across the text. My eyes skip those that are already crossed out. I ignore the fact I can tell these were written with a cheap pen. I lock in, "Write on writing.".

I cross out the entry and close the notebook. I start filling the white space. "When I walk into Office Max...."

Headaches

I could tell by her walk, by the way she held her head something was wrong. She was normally an outspoken force. Could even go so far as to have an attitude that could rub you the wrong way. Today, Brenda, had none of that. She came into my office to let me know she needed to go home.

At first I could just tell she was sick. Then she looked at me. Her eyes looked stretched and pained. Every noise caused a minor flutter in her eye. The light hurt her. In trying to get comfort her neck held her head at an angle that was just slightly off. This was a headache a bad one.

Instantly, I could feel the tension in my own neck. My back pulled my skull, causing my temples, my sinuses to throb. I remembered my last, and maybe my only, major headache.

Shelly and I lived the apartment in Portage. She didn't really drink coffee yet, but I did. Well, I had except for the last 24 hours. I don't remember what madness consumed me, but I had decided that I would quit coffee. Additionally, I had decided that I wasn't going to wimp into it. I was going cold turkey.

The morning was no problem. I drank water. I wanted the coffee, but I didn't really wake up any slower and I was able to get my day going. I looked at the clean and unused coffe pot and imagined having the additional counter space. I was so naive.

Nothing much really stands out about my morning and afternoon, at least not about what I did or thought. The next thought I could recall was an odd feeling in my temples. It felt tense, but wasn't a headache. I don't get headaches. I rubbed my temples and it seemed to get better.

The next sensation was in the sides of my neck. The muscles there were tightening. I thought my neck needed to be popped, so I grabbed a towel, wound it up placed it behind my neck and looked up. This stretched my spine and gave a satisfying pop. Then the real pain began. The muscles of my neck an shoulder made my arms, my back, my head hurt. I remeber wondering if my muscles could get so tight they would rend themselves.

I tried a hot shower, but only when the water was to the point of burning could I forget the pain. I tried stretching, but every move caused my muscles to further fight me. I couldn't sit or stand or lay. I drank water and massaged the muscles as best I could. I tried aspirin, then Tylenol, but it didn't do anymore for me than the water.

The pain finally moved fully into my head. I'm not even sure this is possible, but I remeber my ear drums hurting. It was as if someone was stepping with a boot behind my eyes.

My thoughts were scattered, but I had figured out what was happening. Caffiene. My body was overwheling me, trying to get Caffiene. I weighed my options in my crippled state.

Even the smell of the coffee was magical. It seemed to loosen some of the tightness. No more than fifteen minutes after the first cup, the headache was gone. The muscles kept just that hint of pain, the dull reminder of what could be.

I looked at Brenda with compassion for that she must be feeling and l told her is was no problem if she needed to go home early.