The Life and Works of Chris

The Flood is Coming or An Experiment into Surrealism

2009-02-17T17:04:00.002-05:00

So, this is actually based on a dream I had the first night of the inclimate winter weather Louisville had a few weeks back. Some aspects of the dream really shook me up as this almost foreshadowed some elements of my life over the next few weeks. I think the story that came out of it turned out well but I was thinking of submitting this to a writing contest and would love some constructive criticism. So take a look and hit me back either on here or on my facebook. Hope you enjoy regardless.

I closed the door strongly on my way out into an asphalt playground covered in white powder with a thin layer of frozen water in between. I couldn’t drive in such unsafe conditions so I put my legs and feet to work. The sky was bright, much brighter than normal almost as if a demi-god had my neighborhood under a microscope. Likewise, the air was thick and left a bland taste in my mouth whenever I exhaled.

Recently, a friend had called me and wanted to hang out if I could come to his house. He didn’t seem too happy and wanted some company. He was going through a rough time in his relationship and, I suppose, needed some advice. These conversations are always better in person, and his house wasn’t too far but took some time to walk the distance. The time would pass if I could listen to music. So, I took the headphones lying across the back of my neck and placed them around the appropriate ears. I took one concentrated look at the eerie sky before simply staring off at my feet for every step I took.

I resided close to the mall which broke up the trek. My local mall wasn’t abnormal; it was five-stories tall and had red painted bricks with azure windows that lacked any glistening qualities to make them shine. I could see the mall grow larger in my eyes as I came closer to it. Every step I took made it shake in my vision as my thoughts morphed into a fearful idea of ambiguous fright. Some sixth sense was telling me I shouldn’t be out right now, but as I looked behind me there was nothing there but a long street with a ruby red car speedy down at increasing velocity.

The car pulled up beside me with no roof. The car was a Mini-Coop convertible with the top laid down in the back of the car. I hadn’t seen the driver for some time. She stepped out and leaned down to speak to me. I couldn’t make out her strange language or how she now dominated my past tall body. Had I shrunk or had she grown? No matter, I looked up at her expressionless face but her voice carried a tone of fear and worry. All I could make out was that the rain coming. From where and how long, I didn’t know. I was thrown into the car as we drove into the parking lot of the mall.

In the car I realized with whom I was riding. A face from my brother’s past, I believed he dated her some time ago. I was never angry at her or understood why their relationship ended but I assume it was a good reason. We rode into the mall’s parking lot in haste. I couldn’t even recall the memory in much detail. The only detail not left in obscurity was this lady telling me, “The rain is coming. The flood is coming.” My reaction was to get to higher ground. I had to get to higher ground.

In the mall I could we could access the roof five stories up from the ground. My driver took off in lightning speed. I paced around the bottom floor telling the mall patrons a foreboding of the coming flood. I saw people rush up the stairs and I came up behind the crowd.

There were stragglers. I watched as two little boys, assumedly brothers, in red shirts and anonymous faces storm down the stairs in the wrong direction. I was so anxious at the time that I reached down to stop the children. I could get a grip but the older of the pair looked up at me was surprised eyes and a sense lost childhood innocence. I was stirred up to have an ability to father. I shouted, “What’s wrong with you two? Don’t you know there’s a flood coming? Come up the stairs and find your dad!” In a great fear the children followed me up four flights of stairs and out the roof access door. Immediately they rushed to their fathers sighed who hugged both of the in one explosion of relief. I turned to my left to see the young lady from my brother’s fast – never quite finding her name on my tongue.

She handed me a strange cell phone I couldn’t figure out how to operate and repeatedly told me to call my mother. The phone didn’t ring but I knew my mom was on the line. I was panicked and left struggling for words. All my thoughts were focused on telling my mom something comforting.

My mouth filled with water and with every ounce of effort I attempted to gargle the words, “I just hope you’re happy.” I was left with the sentence: I just hope you’re safe… as the rain poured down from the sky in buckets.

The Cocktail Party: An Exercise in Dialogue

2009-01-06T20:18:00.003-05:00

Woohoo! I posted two stories. This is actually roughly based on a night out but I really wanted to try to have an entire story based in dialogue because I later plan on working on a script... maybe.

I’ve noticed, through my many years, that the most colorful people come out at night. I’m not saying that everyone out in the city past one a.m. is a drug abuser, but rather that these people have stories to tell, and each one is worth a listen.

For example, last week, that cold night on Wednesday, a young man came into Frank’s Tavern. I had recently finished putting in a few extra hours at the Chrysler plant in hopes of collecting a sufficient amount of money before Christmas next week. A young man up late isn’t much of a sight, but this young man was wearing a suit- a suit that was ruffled. His tie was loosened, shirt untucked and unbuttoned, and his dark brown hair was an unsightly mess.

Maybe he found some wisdom in my grey beard or was looking for someone with eyes looking as tired as his. No matter, I was glad he joined me for a drink. “Excuse me, sir, if I may have a Jack n’ Coke, please,” he ordered with a young, optimistic tone. His dialect was very proper. The bartender quietly nodded and began to pour. The young man was disheveled at best and his eyes, though blue, glowed with a deep redness. He gave a deep breath or a sigh, scratched the back of his head, and then chuckled when handed his drink. He gave a nod of gratitude to the bartender, picked up his drink, took a hearty swallow, and finally turned his head to observe the musky bar. What else could I do but greet my new neighbor?

I shifted my body towards him, leaned in and asked, “Say, what’s with the suit?” I’ve been in some dramatic arguments brought on by my infamous frankness, but this young man gave the right reaction. Showing his teeth along the rim of the glass, the young man smiled and laughed. He shook his head and sipped some more of his drink. I whispered to him, “C’mon let an old fogy keep what is left of his youth by letting him hear a tale or two from the generation running this lost country. Hell, now that I think about it, you owe me the reason for the suit for fucking up my home.”

“Sorry, sir, but it requires a lengthy story on which I would rather not dwell, and I doubt you have the time,” he argued.

“I’m sad to admit that I do have the time. I’ll most likely stay until closing time. Besides I won’t recognize anyone in the story, and don’t we always feel better when we say what’s on our mind?” I refuted.

“You’re persistent. Fine, but before I begin may I have the name of my audience?”

“The name is Green, Joseph Green, but Joe will be fine.”

“Well Joe, my name is Eric Smith. Eric is perfect also. The suit was for a party – an office party. However, why I am wearing it in here is a reason for a story. If only I could decide where to begin.”

“I would say at the beginning.”

A short chuckle erupted from his vocal chords and while still recovering he began to tell:

Well now, as many stories before mine started, my story involves a woman - a beautiful young woman by the name of Holly. She is beautiful enough to knock any man back off his feet with just the right stare from her eyes. A pure penetration of perfection – that’s the only way to describe her and her gorgeous hair lightly lying on her shoulders molded with flawless skin. I’m hypnotized most by her face, particularly her eyes. Have you ever stared at the ocean for hours? That same enchantment entrances me every day. Her eyes are a deep blue just like that ocean. I’m never able to look away.

You must know how these things go. My caring for her made me listen to all of her problems in her relationship which I didn’t much mind, but I knew the outcome. We became friends.

Eric took a big drink of his Jack n’ Coke and asked for another glass of the same. I couldn’t tell if what he was blathering on about was exposition or tired drunk rambling in which he missed the question. Still, I continued to listen as he continued to speak:

Don’t get me wrong. I’d rather be friends than nothing at all, but as we continued to spend time with each other the more I seemed to crave her. I controlled my addiction the best I could until recently when she came to her senses. She dumped what’s-his-face. I don’t know what finally persuaded her, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The only issue was to decide how I would confess my true feelings for Holly. To be honest, I’m not a brave person. My fear will tell me every possible situation that could arise from a heartfelt confession.

The irony is delicious! Destiny decides to pull a practical joke on Eric when Holly invites me to a holiday party. Which as you can guess was today. First, allow me to discuss the series of events leading to the party. She gave me the invitation first thing at the office last week. The party was to be at her place with pseudo-formal wear. The idea was a cocktail party for the less than rich folks. She told me how she envisioned people in nice clothes sipping wine and easy mixes while discussing politics and philosophy- something we found enjoyable to discuss. This was not an office party though as previously stated; in fact, I would be the only co-worker to attend. I felt… special; it was nice. Hmm, I think that’s what we strive for in love. We strive to feel special – that certain acceptance that only that woman, or man, can give us. Maybe that’s what I hoped for all week. I had my haircut two days prior to the party so I didn’t have that fresh haircut look and bought a beard trimmer so I could still look a little rugged, as you can see. I don’t know why, but when I freshen up and look nice I also feel nice. That feeling wouldn’t last.

At the party-

“Excuse me. Before we have part two of this story I have to use the restroom. So far I feel for you though,” I explained as I made my way into the back. As I was urinating I began to ponder over Eric’s story. How would I have acted differently if I were in his shoes? Did I ever have trouble confessing my feelings? After a moment I realized that yes I did, but why?

The key is vulnerability. I believe all men desire to be bulletproof, but not for himself, but for all others. Leaders do not have weaknesses. So, when a man confessed to be emotionally overpowered by a woman he becomes vulnerable.

This idea cannot be true in all cases. Some sly men have found a way to sap a woman of her dominance, but a philosophical man cannot have this ability. The over analytical quality of that man overpowers such a weakness as to falsely attempt to remain invulnerable- hypothetically. I would never know; a wise and poetically deep thought crosses my mind once in a blue moon.

I stopped staring at the ceiling and urinating. I washed my hands before rejoining my partner. The break let me accumulate my thoughts on Eric’s story and on Eric as a whole. I’ve seen him before… somewhere.

“Where did I leave off” he said.

“You were about to describe the party,” I answered.

“Oh,” he exclaimed:

The party had a wonderful environment. Every decoration was classy and elegant. She decorated her house with special lighting shades and bought a new centerpiece statue of bronze swans to place on the table. The table had finger foods and tiny pastries upon which to snack. All of those elements were minute compared to what held the spotlight.

Holly looked amazing. She was an angel in a black dress. The only question was how did she lose her wings?

I was taken back and breathless. Her eyes radiated with the blue glow of an uncut sapphire in the sun, especially when contrasted against her black, satin dress. I wondered how much time it took for her to coordinate her appearance, because she was flawless – the perfect balance between beauty and sexiness.

I somehow conjured the nerve to speak when she greeted me at the door. “Wow, you look lovely tonight,” I said. She laid her fingers on her heart with gratitude.

She replied, “Aw, thank you. You look handsome yourself sir.” I both liked and disliked the use of the title.

No matter, “Thanks,” I said and smiled thinly; I may have been blushing. Nervousness had sunk deep into my chest, from ribcage to ribcage, all through my heart. Until that point in time I had never been inside Holly’s house. We had always met somewhere or when I picked her up she was waiting. She had intriguing décor, for example, in one room she had eastern influenced lamp shades that left shapes and symbols of light dancing on the wall. Every inch of furniture in her house was polished and vibrantly shining. Obviously, she went through a lot of trouble to add ambiance to her abode. I had stood still for a moment simply to allow my eyes to take in all the details.

Holly approached me from behind. I was startled. “My family gave me those lampshades from India on their vacation, and for an early Christmas present they had this whole house wired for a full sound system! They’re so good to me; how could I resist a party?” She switched and strolled through the living room into a kitchen that appeared to be from five years into the future. Then, as if half dancing she twirled, grabbed a remote, and turned on some Coltrane cool jazz. She knew my fondness for it and smirked because of her knowledge. She continued her steps, beckoning me with one finger, to a room further down the hall- probably the entertainment room. This is where the other guests were. There were only five at this time, mostly girls with which Holly went to college. These young ladies were not very talkative. Only the most outgoing one, a slender blonde, approached me to shake my hand and inquire as to how I met Holly. I replied with the truth; we worked together. There were no follow-up questions.

The room felt stuffy so I decided to walk out to the back deck for some fresh air. The sky was nice and clear at the time; all the stars were twinkling and the moon was simply illuminated. The air was pure and clean. I could taste the crisp flavor to my exhalation. Finally, I was able to relax until Holly found me.

“Wow, the weather is a lot nicer than the weatherman predicted! I may ask if people want to come out here. I have some patio furniture. Do you want to help me set up? More people should be arriving soon,” she said. I couldn’t refuse, but before I even realized the fact I had done the action. I was sitting outside sipping some nice wine. The cold made it taste better. Holly went inside to mingle.

I got company soon enough when a man stepped outside into my vision in order to light a cigarette. He had a nice grey shirt and a head with slicked-back black hair. “Nice night,” he tells me. I nodded and mumbled an uncaring agreement. I wasn’t feeling much for talking. Yet he persisted. He persisted and endured my callous responses. He asked, “How do you know Holly?” From work. “The Sagittarius? You write editorials too?” Yes. Yes. “How do you like it there?” Just fine.

By this point in the conversation I believe he was beginning to read my thoughts, but his cigarette was barely burning into ashes, and he continued to pick at my brain- but now more intensely. “Holly really is a lovely woman, isn’t she?” he asked. I nodded once again. “So, Eric, is it?” I stood more erect at the sound of his deduction. He ceased to talk through the side of his mouth and held the cigarette between two fingers in his right hand. With a clear voice he spoke again, “Holly’s mentioned you before. You’re her cute friend at the editorial staff. She said you were affable and she could discuss anything with you…” That last sentence was saturated with the tonality of disappointment.

So, I caved. I more openly replied to him, “I usually am, and I can be right now. Why did you come out here?”

He held up his cigarette as an answer before placing it back between his lips and returned to the offensive. “My question to you though, Eric, is why you’ve been avoiding everyone?” Then he took a few more puffs before discarding his cigarette on the ground as I sat back down ignoring an answer. In the silence, the nameless man proceeded back inside, leaving me back in my lonesome serenity.

I sipped my wine peering into the skyline that was glistening with the lights of the stars and the city. I emptied my glass enjoyably, but I left the bottle inside Holly’s house. I was turning to go back inside when I bumped into a rather handsome man about my age. He had nicely styled his blonde hair and owned penetrating azure eyes, and his dress was a fantastically styled Hugo Boss suit.

I stopped Eric, who was diving into a sarcastic tone to ask, “Did you not know this guy?” and, “What was his name?”

He took a breath and continued:

No, Joe, I never quite got his name, but I spent the rest of the night with him and his cronies – after I got some more to drink. All similar looking guys came out with attractive young ladies dangling from their arms and shoulders.

Once everyone sat down I felt like a cardinal in an eagle’s nest. My ears opened to the talk of all these people taking trips to France, English, and Spain or buying new Mercedes, Volkswagens, and even a Lamborghini; oh, and someone even bought a new airplane to fly at his leisure. On top of feeling inferior financially I had to listen to full conversations in Spanish and French- at the mention of these vacations. I didn’t feel much better when Holly sat down. She and another girl were chuckling in between sentences in the French dialect. So-

I had to stop Eric there. I put my glass down hard on the table. My voice was forceful and stern. I spoke to him staring straight into his eyes, “You mean to tell me that all of your self-pity is a result of felling like less of man at a party full of yuppies that play around with Daddy’s inheritance and feed off of old money? Son, let me tell you something! A true man isn’t defined by his money or intelligence; he’s defined by his heart and his actions.” I leaned back, relaxed, and took a deep breath I continued, hoping to bestow some sage wisdom. “Eric, you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders and a big heart in your chest. Now, we as people always strive for acceptance, but a man can’t live or die for it. I didn’t find an everlasting source until I made one, with a family. Still someday my daughter will grow up and distance herself from me. By then, I’ll learn to work harder at it; I can’t replace my daughter. People will always be people- love ‘em or hate ‘em. If you want their acceptance, sometimes you just have to worker harder, if it’s really worth it.”

There was a silence all throughout the bar. I don’t believe everyone in the vicinity heard my long winded speech to Eric, but fate made sure Eric understood every word. I was greatly surprised when his humble words reached my ear. “Feeling left out was only one issue,” he began. “I understand and appreciate what you told me, but the party was only halfway down the mountain of disappointment. I’ve noticed that adding more people breeds and brings more problems.”

Eric sat more comfortable as he began to finish his story: So, here’s everyone in this circle sitting down with full glasses of martinis and wines. I must have looked nervous or tense because Holly sat next to me and whispered softly into my ear, ‘Are you having a good time at all?’ My expression was forcibly transformed to appear shocked by her comment as I nodded to reassure my enjoyment. I was not comfortable with the idea of being the one who spoils all of the fun. After Holly turned her head to face the crowd she turned back to whisper, ‘Good, I really hope you can enjoy yourself. I was worried you may not.’ I felt like a jackass! She began to engage in conversation with other guests as I attempted to sink into my chair as much as physically possible.

For several minutes I stayed in that position as if I were part of the chair. Once a moment or two passed, one of the young men began to hush the crowd. He made a grin on his face wider than the Amazon River. His dialect became smug and childish while his eyes had a glow of mischievous delight. ‘Alright, who wants to really get this party going?’ he proposed. No one answered aloud; therefore he dug into all of his coat pockets to collect a zip-lock bag of white powder, a razor blade, and a small mirror. My eyes must’ve grown double in size at the sight (as I see yours are Joe by the mere mention).

I don’t know if ‘surprised’ is the proper adjective to describe my emotion at that moment. Would the sound be too parental if I claimed to be disappointed? In that moment I began to see the true appearance or form of everyone at the party as if they had removed or peeled away a layer of skin and underneath was some unfinished product hollowed out and the only means of feeling complete was to brag about the possessions they had or trips they’d taken or use drugs that balanced out everything.

I had no reason to believe she wouldn’t, but I watched Holly look at the drug dealer. I wanted her to laugh at him or command him to leave. I would’ve been satisfied if she were to have simply walked away. Alas, my disappointment remained. A certain twinkle, or possible lack thereof, may have hinted that I wasn’t proud of her forthcoming choice.

For some time all the sounds of the supposed cocktail party halted; I can now only remember flashes of the cut powder, the white lines, but mostly Holly’s face when she became tainted. All the details of her enlarged nostrils; closed, shaded eyes, and the true boniness of her flesh engulfed my memory and overthrew all other thoughts. Her beauty still existed but was overshadowed by a layer of dirt and grime.

I spent a few minutes sitting and watching as I had been doing most of the night, but I began to feel anxious- possibly I was full of panic. Therefore, without any notice, I stood up, grabbed my belongings, and left the party.

In my car I collected my thoughts. Did I truly know Holly? Yes, in some version or manner. Did I belong at the party? Yes, I wanted to be there at least for her. So, was the night worth all of the trouble? Yes, it truly was worth every moment. The last question is, then, why do I feel so sick to my soul?

Reflecting on the story as a whole, I now know the answer. Let me compare mine to yours, Joe.

I rubbed my graying chin hairs to bide some time as I collected my thoughts. Being unbiased and experience I knew what to say, “Sorry, life’s disappointing sometimes. As kids we’re raised to believe that this place is magical, and to some people growing up is accepting that magic isn’t real. Likewise, you must accept that times events happen that we think are magic and really our minds set up the smoke and mirrors. Sometimes the same is true for people.” I watched as Eric nodded as he does to agree with what someone is telling him. I hate to be the bearer of bad news.

Eric rested his head in his arms on the bar. His expression wasn’t sad but numb. I believe all along he knew the truth but was hoping someone would tell him otherwise, perhaps give him a different perspective. I feel sometimes we ask another person’s opinion only to want a lie for a truth we already know.

A few muffled words resonated from Eric’s arms before I shoved the boy gently to ask him to act properly. He repeated with his head raised, “I suppose the feeling is difficult to withstand when you’re heroes fall. I suppose you’re right though; now, if I want someone to act maturely then I must do the same. Here, here, cheers to you Joe and your patience, time, and ears!” He raised his last glass of the night to me. We connected our drinks to loud clank before indulging in a gulp.

Now, Eric’s night was not over. He said his goodbye and straightened his suit, but making his way to the door his eyes fell onto a beautiful young lady shivering in a black dress. The atmosphere of the bar was offset by this overdressed, disheveled couple. He’d spoken the name Holly aloud before she took the reins of the conversation.

I could hear her begin to explain, “After the party died down a friend of mine offered to grab some late coffee before we did some clean-up, then I had realized you had left and never told me goodbye. Who would’ve thought I would’ve found your car in the middle of my ride?” She laughed to hide her offense at his premature departure or her curiosity or both. Her eyes showed her true expression. She was hurt. She was hurt by Eric walking out, but not on the party, but on her. She leaned forward and closer into him balancing on her toes to look him straight in the eyes. “What made you leave?” she asked frankly.

Eric was trapped. Stress constricted his body and everything about him seemed wound up and tight. After a deep breath, he took Holly’s hand and led her to a booth next to the door. They sat down but Eric never let go of her hand.

“Holly, do you remember how you felt when you were a little kid and you found out Santa Claus wasn’t real?” Eric asked finally moving his eyes to hers.

“Yeah, I was disappointed, but what does that have to do with anything?” she returned.

“Well, what I mean to say is... I like you. I have for some time, but as much as I do I also don’t know if I just liked the fantasy of you. At the party I saw a side of you I never knew, and it wasn’t something that was right for me. I still -seeing you before me as gorgeous as you are and were just a few hours ago – I still do like you. A bad night at a party isn’t going to ruin that,” Eric laughed while looking at his hands cup around Holly’s. He had a sincere smile that wasn’t shown all night. Women can so easily make a man sway his emotions to her desire. I’m glad she wanted him happy.

Holly entwined her hands into Eric’s. Her cheeks turned a rosy pink from the blushing and her teeth were a bright pearl when she smiled, feeling flattered. “Eric, you are one amazing man, you know that? Even when I let you down, you tell me that you care for me regardless. You even suffered a party to just make me feel special. I think you’d be happy to know that I don’t do that often, and the one’s who encourage that behavior, aren’t my truest friends. I am sorry though; what can I say except, ‘It was a party.’

“However, I do like you, but I can’t offer what you are looking for right now. We still have so much going on and so much to do. I just want to keep what we have and never jeopardize it again.”

“Well I love you and that’s all that matters and ever should,” Eric closed. They arose from the booth saying all the words left unspoken Holly embraced him so tightly that some would say she never truly wanted to let go of him. She placed a gentle and soft kiss on his cheek before walking out the door. Eric stood still for a moment after Holly left smiling to himself, possibly amazed at how much he said with so little words. He sat down beside me again with a new grin on his face.

“Boy, she was right to call you amazing,” I said as he sat in his same stool as earlier.

“Joe,” he said. “I’ll never claim to be amazing. I claim to be honest and happy. This is true only because I stopped running. She just found me… I love it when a woman makes the first move.”

At that moment our bartenders traded out for the moment. Our new one was a young woman who covers the late shift of factory workers in town. She had dark hair, milky skin, and emerald eyes. She greeted Eric and me with a smile before asking us if we wanted another round. Eric and I decided against the idea.

“Well, Eric, at least you still have a hell of a story,” I said as I rose from my stool.

“What kind of story is that?” the lady bartender chimed-in with a curious voice.

I began to head for the door as Eric’s and the new lady’s eyes met. I stood in the doorway walking out to hear a few more sentences.

“Oh, nothing much, I would much rather hear about your day miss…” Eric trailed off attempting to gather information.

“Well, look at you, charming enough to match the suit, and handsome enough to match it too. My name is Deb and it’s a pleasure to meet you Eric,” she said sharing with Eric a much deserved smile.

Alone

2009-01-06T18:23:00.001-05:00

Wow, I went and looked over my past posts and how lacking my writing has been. Needless to say, there hasn't been any in over a year! I'm sorry to anyone this affects. Anyways, I guess I type these introductions mostly for my own sake. So, for the three people that read this I'm posting the two short stories I wrote over the summer and finally finished and typed up to self-publish. I don't plan on immediately writing anything but will post whenever I do.

I am here now, although, my recollection of how I came here is absent from my memory. Truthfully, those details are unnecessary after all the events I have experienced here. I’m not sure how, but now I am sure why I am here. This “why” is a convoluted idea. To come to an adequate understanding I will have to tell my memories from the beginning… the arrival here.

Enlightenment is a good word. My definition is the action of gaining new knowledge and understanding. This new understanding is as if a light had been turned on in a dark room. So, if one wanted to understand a room completely he or she would need to know it both in dark and in light. The dark was the abyss that once filled my reminiscences. I can still hear sounds of honking forklifts and rattling metal from the plant at which I worked. The sight though was no more than a dark grey. Outside of my dead-end career, my recreational habit drinking dizzied my dark sight. The only thing clear and bright was my childish crush on the bartender Debra.

She preferred to be called Deb; I preferred Debbie – we were both only twenty-five.

I’d spend a few nights a week walking to the bar from my apartment and chat with her. She’d show me a glistening smile laced with ivory white teeth. Maybe her smile was what attracted me to her in the first place. I could never have one on my own face. Whether for tips or for my unexpected humor she gave a girlish giggle at jokes as we enjoyed each others’ company. When she tended to other customers I would quietly watch, but as a man I would notice her fit body and milky skin out of place against the dim lighting of the atmosphere. Lights would flicker in their fluorescent bulbs leaving the place in a gloom. If Debbie became busy for too long the haze of the weak lighting and bites from the glasses of rattlesnakes became unbearable.

My apartment wasn’t much to return to by myself. Darkness encompassed the studio room and windows were strangely absent yet multiple times at night I could feel the chilly draft of the wind. If I were to try a redecoration I may have felt a small difference, but I could never muster the effort to try. I rarely attempted to turn on my lamp; seldom did I even dream when I slept. Darkness simply washed over my eyes until I awoke once again in another day of perpetual dusk.

But what good is light except to reveal the underlying layers of what is in the dark?

My last memory before my arrival was lying down in my bed. When I awoke I was here. I awoke amongst nature. I awoke bathed in light from the sun and the light refracting off the water droplets resting on the leaves. My subconscious was yelling out of fear but my consciousness just wanted to stay amongst the light.

I had to survey the area. A rush of excitement and euphoria coursed through my veins. My surroundings seemed brighter, welcoming even. While I believe most men would’ve been paralyzed in shock, I felt rather adventurous. My body felt tighter but my clothes may not have been suitable. I immediately tore my sleeves from my shirt and did the same to my leggings of my jeans.

My survey consisted of many hours hiking through various terrains. Truly, my location was indescribable. If one were to imagine the entire Earth condensed into one land mass one would arrive here. I scouted a small mountain directly north, maybe a mile or so away of where I was standing. I approached it. The mountain was a foreboding figure. The rocks forming the base were of a dark color but felt firm to grip. I did not wish to climb a mountain so I return to my arrival point.

In my scouting venture I uncovered a fair portion of the northern region so I went south aiming for at least the same amount of distance. Conveniently, I stumbled across the sound of running, flowing water. Following my ears, and soon my sense of olfaction, I was saved. Maybe I was blessed, lucky, or perhaps even destined. My eyes beheld a sparkling lake like the ground was a cup under a faucet that was the waterfall above. The waterfall was a curtain to the plateau from which it dropped. Serenity echoed from the scene as the sun danced in the setting sky. Now I only needed one thing. In my head I began to pray for shelter.

My thoughts congealed into reality. As I circled the lake behind the waterfall I uncovered a small cave. This would be my shelter; maybe all of this won’t be too bad. From inside I could truly notice wondrous details of my surroundings. The warm temperature put me at ease, and the sound of rushing water filled my ears.

I decided to bask in this environment during the remaining hour or so of sunlight. I tasted crisper air on my tongue and heard the very sounds of beauty. Melodies were harmonizing between the birds, water, and wind. The sun was setting and I gazed across the colorful landscape. I felt a sensation of being inside a painting. This feeling was followed by an even greater, powerful emotion: happiness. With a smile on my face, I retreated into my new dwelling. I made a bed of soft leaves, which may have been dirty but more comfortable than nothing, then rested. I would have a busy day when I awoke tomorrow.

I awoke early. I realized this was no dream, which actually made me smile. I believe the mere existence of more light just made me cheerful. My head shook fiercely with thoughts the entire time I finished setting camp with my hands. Satisfaction was all I felt when sharpening stones, trimming rope, and gathering wood. I also fetched edible berries and kindling. Survival did not seem hard; the island was somewhat welcoming of my presence.

Although the entire day had passed, the roughest part was behind me. My third day began with a rush of blood. My spirit and vigor was shocked to life with adrenaline. Simply put, I felt stronger. I wanted to wrestle a bear or shatter rocks, but I knew what I had to do. Today would be the day I climbed the mountain. Something from the peak kept calling me, beckoning me to join with spirits and dance at the top. I gave into the urge.

Once I approached my mountain foe, I observed a passable clearing. The beginning of my trek was possible to hike. My legs carried me as my mind wandered. A few times thoughts collected about my life before arriving here. My memories were heavy on my eyes– as if my whole life had been lived in a fog. My only sensation when those thoughts came was that of a mild fluster of guilt for not being here with everyone else. I shook my head clear like an etch-a-sketch and returned to hiking. I don’t recall who “everyone else” would be. My feet never laid deep prints, and the cool air kept me refreshed. My equipment was only a tall stick I dug into the ground to keep my footing on steep inclines.

My feet reached the end of the path, what I later figured was an hour or so before sunset. I only know now because I was able to watch the sun dip into the horizon. This wouldn’t be the end of this journey though.

I turned around leaning my head back to lay my eyes upon a glistening rock wall that shaped up into a small plateau. Again the mountain spoke to me, “Come watch from up here.” I smelt and tasted a challenge. My ego would accept any challenge that appeared. Slowly, I approached the obstacle still staring upward. My eyes locked onto various possibilities. No matter what, though, I had to start with the first step forward.

I reached my right arm up allowing my hand to grasp one smooth rock sticking out; I raised my right leg to place my foot inside an indentation. I matched my symmetry with my left side, and then I repeated the process. My muscles flexed and I began to struggle to pull my weight. No surprise that I lost my footing more than once, but my desire to reach the top lifted me up to where I needed to be. I gave all my energy at the end to drag my weight to the edge of the cliff. Exerting my soul and effort I collapsed with my back on this bed of grass laughing after escaping death on the face of a mountain.

My eyes looked onto the sky. The time was dusk, truly my favorite hour. A cool breeze rubbed against my damp skin, giving me a rather comfortable chill. My mind drifted at a peaceful pace. I noticed how bright sky was even with the sun setting. The rocks even sparkled with twinkling, dancing lights. An uncontrollable smile smothered my face as my body cringed succumbing to more laughter. Everything was as cheerful as if on holiday.

With a deep internal sigh, the kind released from the diaphragm, my thoughts became complex, all too introspective. The placid sky of purple and orange became hazy. I felt a familiar darkness, a mixture of shadows and grays. The voices of the outdoors sounded in a supple hush. This voice was different, a soft-spoken female with a pleasing voice but with a hidden sadness. “How do you feel?” she said. Her voice came from all directions. Was this a trick? Who was this?

I responded to the air hoping my voice would travel. “Actually… I’m great. I feel… at ease.” Finishing my statement, I sat up with my hands on the ground. I was startled. Somehow I had found peace here – wherever here is.

She, this voice, continued asking interrogating questions, “You look happy, but can you be so happy like this?”

While I knew she was right, my reasoning had yet to analyze the situation. I stood erect with my hands on my hips. I licked my teeth and stared off into space. This voice had altered my surroundings the darkness had eaten away at my beautiful sun-drenched sky. I caught my breath. The inhalation brought thousands of mental images. The exhalation left only one truth. “Because I’m alone,” I spoke out loud to myself. That fact was the only reason I could conjure – and it was true and the truth is powerful. I could begin to feel light warming my back, if only a little. The lady gave a sigh and that was all I heard.

The voices wouldn’t stop there. I physically heard my own voice behind me. No matter my orientation, the voice was directly behind me. It would speak, “But don’t you feel lonely? What becomes of happiness when it cannot be shared with others?” These questions attacked and antagonized me, the warm on my back faded. Instead my own thoughts paralyzed me with an arctic chill, as if to find an answer I must first traverse the harshest blizzard.

My mouth was agape, but I tried to answer. I replied, “Yes I am lonely, of course I am. However, I feel that this loneliness is rather sweet. For this is a peaceful loneliness. There are no distractions, no unnatural demands, and no responsibilities for others. I am here making due with my self-existence. As for right now, I am contempt with this. I think, maybe, we’re conditioned to need people and use them as crutches to make it through societal living. Without society, however, humans should be fine with themselves. I think…” I wouldn’t call my thoughts “beliefs”, but rather they should be identified as reasons – the only reason I could develop in regards to my attraction to being alone. This would be the reason why children want to disappear sometimes, or adults need “me time”, or why everyone has an incident of anger with no cause for it.

The voice returned with one final question, speaking with a hint of reluctance. “Well,” he paused as if he knew the answer, “if you were asked whether or not you wished to return to the world out of here, knowing you could never change your mind what would your answer be?”

“I apologize society,” I answered. “But leave me my spirit and forget the rest of the world and I’ll be fine.” I closed my eyes to aid in trying to refrain from second thoughts. I opened them once again to behold my paradise. Golden yellow sunlight beamed down to the dirt. Colors were vibrant as birds raced across the horizon. All why’s, how’s, and where’s were superfluous questions.

Slowly going down the mountain and back to camp, I tried to take in as much as I could. Introspection is a healthy technique at times. I spent a cool night in front of a camp fire eating fish and apples. I drummed with two sticks to the rhythm of any music in my head. I felt like now I was in charge of my own life. I had ultimate freedom and perpetual bliss. I write this down to let you know that there is no fear and sorrow. However, I could still not explain the reason for this feeling but likewise I couldn’t think of a reason to leave here.

*****

Debra walked gingerly across the linoleum tile late on this Sunday night in the midst of July’s summer heat. This month was the hottest in Chicago in years. Lake Michigan was fighting hard to bring a cool, watery breeze to downtown’s hospital district. Her face held an expression of hidden sorrow; she was never a person who showed a full range of emotions.

She worked nights, so, being awake late was not bothersome to her much. Besides, when visiting someone in the hospital who has no one else there, that person tends to withhold complaints. Debra turned on the lights in the patient’s room, sat down in the chair beside the bed, and crossed her legs. One turn of her head allowed her to see the plain white walls, the window with the curtain and blinds closed, and the man there in the bed completely unconscious.

He was breathing, but doctor’s declared him comatose. He was a regular at the bar Debra worked. She would converse with him often and smiled when he cracked a joke. She never began to notice that her shift was a little easier to withstand when he showed up to be her company. Needless to say, these past two weeks were unbearable without him. Her mood quickly changed upon noticing a strange smile upon this man’s face. Debra placed her head in her hands and chuckled.

“You did always find a way to make me laugh,” she began. “Who would’ve figured I would’ve helped put you in here – alcohol poisoning. Ha! Still mostly your fault though. How do you feel?” She felt strange conversing with someone who was unable to reply. “You look so happy. How can you be so happy like this?” she asked with water accumulating in her eyes, but her mouth remained straight.

She spent a significant time in silence with the only noise being the breaths both of them took. Then, as if from natural build-up in her lungs, Deb began to sing in a soft, sweet, angelic tone. Be my friend/Hold me/Wrap me up/Unfold me/I am small/And needy/Warm me up/And breathe me… With a calm crescendo she grabbed her bag and walked out the door. Her eyes were still full of water. “Good night, Michael.”

Another War Story

2008-01-06T07:14:00.000-05:00

Okay, so with a new year I'm going to try a few resolutions. They seem pretty simple and I feel they will make me happy. My three resolutions are: 1.) Read more 2.) Travel more & 3.) Write more. That third one means I'm going to actually set a goal to have a new blog up every week.

So far, this seems feasible because I have a great new idea for a short story. I really want to give a hint but I feel it would ruin the surprise of the story. Also, I've got a lot on my mind and writing would be very therapeutic.

However, as promised I transcribed and edited a short story creative piece from my junior year of high school. Reading it over I really do think I did a good job. In fact, I may have become a worse writer since my junior year of high school... anyways I hope you all enjoy.

Another War Story (based on The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien)

By Chris Walker

Whenever someone talks to a war veteran from any war, that person hears the same response from that veteran. The quote is always, “War is hell kid.” Not until after the experience of war do I believe this is true. My name is John Bell. My name has a nice ring to it, or at least that’s the response I get after I introduce myself. Humor isn’t much on the battlefield except it’s everything that keeps a person sane. My life wasn’t always this traumatic. Heck, my life was fine.

After three years of ROTC back in high school I took the advantage of enlisting early and reaping the benefits of entering the army as a Private 1^st class. My commanding officers said that I showed tremendous skill with a rifle and the always-needed leadership skill. So, after boot camp, basic training, and some very small non-violent missions out in the middle of nowhere I became a Corporal. Finally, I had an officer ranking. All those after-school special life experiences were but a small prelude to a rated R terror on the approach.

The year 1965 lives now in infamy. The Vietnam War begins its “Operation Rolling Thunder” and America begins a nationwide slaughter of its young men. My views can be expressed against it because –as someone can easily guess- I was sent in to the battle. Being as I am that of a slightly more than mediocre soldier, the base waits a while to send me in but not too long. The time was a little over three years to be precise. I spent some time at home saying goodbye to my girlfriend and packing up some gear before I went.

On my way to the bus I almost left behind my rabbit’s foot. Luck may or may not be true but I would rather have luck on my side than not. Little time passes and I am shipped across the globe to lead a small company of small soldiers. I immediately noticed I had mostly lower class, poor kids from small towns out in Nebraska or whatever. I also noticed most of those poor kids were colored, but there wasn’t many. A little group led by a little man.

We manage to survive for quite some time without any combat. If we should have any trouble we should be close to Alpha Company led by Jimmy “Jesus” Cross. My company called him that because of how harsh he takes his mistakes. He did that almost to avoid his soldiers from carrying the burden themselves. The average soldier has enough to carry already.

The down time doesn’t seem like much now, but I wish I could’ve had more. The peace couldn’t have lasted long because I did find myself depending on Alpha Company.

One night outside the city of Than Khe my company was ambushed. A person couldn’t see a better light show at a planetarium. The cool grass chilled my ankles and the trees spoke in long whistles, but neither the trees nor the crunch of the grass could muffle the clank of guns over a small hill off a few meters away. My company armed itself and prepared for the worst. The Vietcong charged. Immediately two privates beside me, who were the best of friends, let out a hellacious war cry and jiggled to the vibrations of their M-16’s, but the numbers were against them. As great as they were, these soldiers are no more than statistics now. That fact checks for the rest of my group too, excluding me.

Before anyone can think harshly or criticize me, anyone should know this one fact: Shooting is different than killing. Paper targets don’t fight back, and paper targets don’t have families and kids.

No more than ten seconds after shouting the two kids – just kids – fall as a bloody pile to the foggy, dew covered grass. The water on the ground ran red with blood. Sparks and bullets streaked the sky like a violent fireworks show but wasn’t pretty at all. Frightening was a more accurate description. Soldiers on both sides fell like dominoes. I only know because I heard the crash. I don’t know why, but I ran. Ran for cover, ran for luck, or just ran away from the war. I didn’t want this. I wanted the salary. I wanted a home for my future wife and maybe some kids of my own. A boy named John Bell Jr. and a little brother that would look up to him.

The bugs and stark conditions were unpleasant enough in Vietnam. I could carry the aches and pains. I could carry a few soldiers struck down from a snake’s venom across a mucky river but know that weight can tire a man quickly and callously. I was too tired to lift my gun against another human. I guess someone else should’ve led the platoon. Cowardice and all, I sprinted behind the trees. The dark sky roofed the roads and kept out the light and attacking band of Vietcong. No one chased me, but I kept running.

There’s a sense of freedom when running. So, I kept at it until my legs felt detached from my body, until I could no longer feel aches, until I was no longer in Vietnam but somewhere where death didn’t take innocent people, and it was safe for a child to run like I could. However, I couldn’t escape the grasp of war. Gravity held me tightly. I stopped. I hunched over and tried to regain my breath. I kept gasping for air. I was choked with suffocation. Back and forth my lungs expanded and collapsed. Then, then I passed out face down in the ground.

I awoke with mud sloshed over my cheek. The sunlight could barely permeate the space between the trees. Beside the trees were a range of green mountains. I suppose I could’ve appreciated the sight more if I didn’t have my mind wasn’t boiling. The whole night I dreamt the nightmare of the prior night. Only in my dream, I was the only one in my company on the battlefield. The Vietcong wanted to kill me, just me. The sounds of screaming bodies echoed around me as if an entire flock of geese were shocked in one strike of lightning. That’s where the dream ends – with screaming. I finally rose to my weary feet and pressed onward.

I ambled slowly in one direction. I couldn’t tell if my direction was North, South, or even forward or right-side-up. I suppose what attracted me to that direction was the smoke between the trees. I could hear popping sounds and small drops of liquid somewhere beyond the forest. The smell of moss clogged my nostrils and left a small headache to my right frontal lobe. I was still drowsy and sore all over, but all the physical pain and my heavy eyelids would pass shortly.

Like cannons were fired two inches to the left of me I heard a vociferous boom. Darker smoke blanketed the air while red liquid mushroomed in a small circumference as the sun spotlighted tossed pieces of human flesh that levitated into giant vines and vegetation. I turned away, looked back, and turned away again. Death was in the air now and anyone could smell it. Death smells like cooked flesh and rotten eggs tossed into a pot filled with urine. Death isn’t a bundle of roses but the average man sure as hell can recognize it. I paused in my strolling and held my collapsed jaw.

A fair sum of time would pass with no sound or movements in the distance. The smoke would clear but the horrid smell would stay. I didn’t want to rush in and die on that land mine’s twin, but a metaphorical bell rang in my head to tell me that Alpha Company must be basing operations here in the forest enclosed in the mountains. I’d have to approach slowly in case I was mistaken. My rabbit’s foot made sure I wasn’t. Using some binoculars in my pack, I saw two men talking and another weeping over a letter as well as many other men. My vision caught onto Jimmy “Jesus” Cross who was still staring at the same picture of his sweetheart Martha. I learned of here when I first met the guy. My gut told me it was safe, and any soldier knows to trust his gut feeling.

I approached Lieutenant Cross, saluted, and explained my situation. He reacted calmly and made me a temporary part of his company. I learned that the two men talking were Mitch Sanders and Tim O’Brien. They were telling each other different war stories. Mitch was a smart guy. Some of his stories and logic were quite profound. Mitch was quite the intellectual. I could also hear Bob Kiley sobbing. No one could blame him for being upset; apparently the dead soldier and Bob were best friends. Reminded me of the two soldiers with which I was I traveling. I was forced to remind myself of the ruthless truth that people die in wars. About that time nausea sank in and I had to hurl. I felt a little better afterwards.

The squadron of guys camped for the rest of the night. Ironically, I could sleep fine when drowning in mud, but with the security of surrounding soldiers I stayed awake wandering in my memories. There is never any peace in war. If there is we call it down time and recognize that we are only in the eye of a gruesome storm. Death is hard to witness I suppose. The smell it leaves causes nausea and the sight is a dark poetry. We tell the family of a soldier that their son or brother is in a better place, but no one knows. War is hell and so much more. Anywhere has got to be better than here in Vietnam. I wondered if the Vietcong send letters home. I come to find out that Bob Kiley never got a letter back. I’d end up writing a lot of letters myself.

When a landing zone was cleared I finally got taken out of Alpha Company and taken to somewhere safe. I would be known as the only soldier in the whole war not to kill somebody. Where would I be now if I did? Would I be here? I don’t think I could kill a man; just like I don’t think I’ll ever truly leave Vietnam. Forty years later and in the new millennium, I don’t think anyone can ever leave the past behind him or herself. I saw so much in Vietnam but couldn’t see everything. I read somewhere that 1.6 percent of the veterans who survived Vietnam committed suicide. I heard we suffered over 50,000 casualties and the Vietcong suffered even more. Statistics are amazing. Statistics sum up everything in an event, but no one wants to be a statistic. Nobody wants to disappear, but soldiers in Vietnam would disappear while only a few reappeared. Even those that returned had nowhere to go. Soldiers would become faceless names on a wall.

I read somewhere that a “true war story never ends.” How can someone close a story that involves something as startling as war? I read in that same place that “War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love.” I’ll carry this story until the end of time.

PS The statistics in the story are dated but I do recall looking them up. Also, the quote at the end is from Tim O'Brien's work as well as every character from Alpha Company. I highly recommend picking this book up if you didn't read it in high school... and if you did, fuck, read it again!

Part 4

2007-12-10T22:14:00.000-05:00

This is the final part, it's been a long time coming. I still don't have a title and very likely never will. I 'm just happy to have an end to this project but expect to start up something new very soon. Currently I'm considering re-writing my short story based as a side story to Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried which was a project for my junior English class back in high school. A lot of my fellow students told me they enjoyed it and I enjoyed writing it. Tim O'Brien's novel is a really good read and I recommend it to anyone in order to see a good literary work on the Vietnam war.

Either way, this is the conclusion to my untitled short story. In my mind I went through multiple endings based on my emotions at the time of writing this but when I had a clear night I knew how I wanted this to end. Also to clarify these are definitely my thoughts and I had to pick a rational ending. Ask and I'll tell you some of my other takes on the ending. This is the shortest but most important part. I just hope you enjoy.

Part 3 of "Untitled Short Story"
By Chris Walker

Abby’s breaths seemed to become light panting. Her eyes were now looking at his lips then her eyes closed. Her head leaned in, cocked to the left. Matt made no resistance. This forever became the moment they first kissed. Both of their fantasies were coming true and their chemistry mixed with explosive efficiency. Their lust burned when kissing becoming something more passionate. Matt’s mind was frying. A few days ago this was a student in his class, now she was a lover. Abby’s mind however was frozen. She was finally with her older, manlier, gentleman. Her happiness was to begin. Kissing wasn’t enough. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to make love. Abby took off her sweater and shirt. Matt’s mind opened as well as his eyes.

His ears opened to the sound of Abby requesting, “Tell me you love me.” A moment of clarity struck Matt with the force of a sledgehammer. Matt’s breathing was accelerated, but his tongue was frozen stiff. A thousand or more thoughts raced through his head. He now knew the truth. When life begins to focus, nothing but clarity can be achieved. With his heart sunken deep into his stomach Matt said, “I… can’t.” Matt knew this was the right action to do although it was a lie. Of course Matt loved Abby but he didn’t want her to love him – not in this way. This love couldn’t be pure. A new perspective gave Matt the realization that Abby was a crutch. She was a metaphorical crutch that helped him deal with an inability to handle this world. He had only one question now. Was this truly the right thing to do? The answer came back the same as before.

Abby was taken back by Matt’s response. The hypnotic lust fogged her mind. His refusal to say the finishing key words broke the spell but only partially. Remembering Matt’s kindness made Abby lunge into his arms crying repeatedly, “Why, why, why, I love you; I love you. Why don’t you love me?” Matt was cornered and his only way out was the truth. If he told her the truth though, and the whole truth, he would leave himself more vulnerable than he ever had before in his life. If he truly loved Abby this wouldn’t be a problem.

“Let me apologize to begin with,” Matt stated. “I have just had an epiphany, a hell of an epiphany.” Matt laughed in disbelief of himself before continuing, “Abby, I care for you immensely. If my love were a river, the water of my feelings for you would flood until my river became an ocean. Life just sets rules. I can’t love you because you can’t love me. I’m your teacher and you’re my student. I’m thirty and you’re seventeen.” Abby’s red face gained a blue hue as she wanted to scream out all of her dreams of how age won’t matter when they’re older, but she remembers that now was the time for her to listen. Matt’s speech went on, “I don’t want you to think that I never thought about us, because I did. Only when I thought harder and deeper did I realized I was using you. I wasn’t trying to use you for something sexual but emotional purposes. Abby, I’m fucked up in the head! I’m neurotic, depressed, lonely, and fearful. When I am with you, all my flaws disappear. You make me forget about anything bad in the world… except for this. Then when I find you have your own troubles I actually felt good because you needed me. I didn’t think of myself as ugly or stupid or even as a depressed person. I felt like a hero, but now if I tell you what you want to hear will it really last? Were we really not just using each other? Abby you are a great person, truly. This romance just needs to stop, so we can finally stand.” Matt bowed his head and fell silent. He felt an immense pain in his chest. Through the stress he gave all of his effort to not appear weak.

Abby was still full of tears. Tiny creaks of eye water trailed down to her chin, but her sobbing was becoming quieter. In just one night she gained her heart’s desire and lost it. She wanted to scream but felt comfortable knowing that Matt was telling the truth. This whole relationship wasn’t a question of ethics or morals. This wasn’t a question of love or hate. This relationship was a question – a basis- of necessity. The “necessity” was a double entendre of people needing other people. Matt and Abby both needed each other in coping with insecurities and pressures of merely being. However, human beings also delight in being needed. This fact carried Matt and Abby’s love to an unrecognized level. Maybe that’s indeed all love is. Now enlightened, Abby couldn’t find the proper words she needed to speak. Her mind was engulfed in a whirlwind of thoughts and questions. She asked herself, “Did age play a role? Was this really even love? Is this the end?” No answers came.

Abby turned her head. The clock read two o’clock a.m. She mentioned the time and went to lie down in the guest room. Matt had just now lifted his head. A surrealistic sensation covered all of his actions, and he just wanted to escape all thought. He turned on the television. Regardless of how much he tried, his attention was locked on to the memories of this past week. He recalled his invitation to the party, meeting Abby’s mother, sitting on the bench, and the kiss. All the pieces made a holistic perspective on life. Abby was lying down, but Matt was awake. The television set was on CNN. Some news story broke out about fire. Matt decided against television and went to his table to catch up on the newspaper. The front page had a story about soldiers dying in the Middle East. Matt was in no mood for politics after this week. So, his last option was to turn on the radio. His ears caught a talk show about police brutality. Matt quickly turned off the whispering radio then bowed his head in thought.

His mind flew off from his room. The time for clarity had passed. His neurotic nature now left him questioning the essence of life itself. Was Abby a crutch for his personal disorders or for tragedies found in everyday living? In a world constantly devastated with famine, disease, disaster, crime, and nameless atrocities mustn’t everyone need a crutch bracing his or her soul with love and all of love’s magic. An earth shattering thought such as this was enough to comfort Matt into a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow he would face the day with or without Abby.

Part 3

2007-12-02T09:19:00.000-05:00

This part is where it heats up. If you come across this make sure to share with others. This is the second to last part. Anyways, hope you enjoy and be sure to leave comments as always. Now, I just need to figure out what to do after the last part.

Part 3 of "Untitled Short Story"
By Chris Walker

The majority of the party goers being underage and Matt not being much of a drinker, he passed the time sipping Sprite and watching the event from the sidelines. Occasionally, Matt was approached by one of his students. He or she would strike up a conversation. The student would ask what Matt (Mr. Whelchel) was doing at the party or what the feeling was like to be partying with stupid teenagers again. Matt kept the discussion light-hearted and humorous. He never gave any true details of his intentions.

After ten or so discussion- and absolutely no dancing or much movement for that matter- Matt began to notice a peculiarity. Whenever he did notice Abby, she was on the floor no longer than ten minutes before disappearing only to re-emerge a few minutes later temporarily flustered. No one else took notice because of the obvious atmosphere of a party and Abby quickly altered her essence to a pleasant, welcoming aura as she typically had. However, Matt had never seen Abby become repeatedly agitated or even once agitated. He didn’t know how to address the situation so he remained stationary, being a wallflower through most of the party.

His unmoving position was eventually interrupted. A woman several years Matt’s senior surprised him at his table. The woman was only dressed in a short black dress with spaghetti straps and the skirt portion ended soon around the upper part of her thigh. The woman’s hair was dyed blonde, easily noticeable because her brunette roots were showing her parting middle. She was very attractive for her age, although older than Matt by a length she elderly at all. She leaned over his shoulder with a glass of red wine in her hand and she whispered in a sultry voice, “You must be Mr. Whelchel.”

Matt wasn’t surprised by the fact that she knew his name, but he curious to who this lady was. He placed his Sprite on the table and slowly turned to his new acquaintance. He was a little taken back by her surprising beauty but felt strangely more comfortable after noticing a dull look in her eyes. He nodded to answer her question and adjusted his face to look as attentive as possible.

Her sultry voice now sounded inebriated yet still comprehensible. “Abby is so glad you came o this party. She says you’re her favorite sub she’s ever had. She even said, ‘I wish he taught English all year.’ I think she has a little crush on you, Mr. Whelchel,” she slurred followed by a chuckle. Her fingers patted Matt on the shoulder, and the other hand raised her glass to her mouth. After a sip she continued, “Now that I see you, I can see why.” Her expression matched her voice: sultry and intoxicated. Matt could see other men enjoying this woman’s company but not himself. Her aura was fun and even familiar.

He had his guess towards this woman’s relationship to Abby but could not confirm his thoughts. At that moment, sitting blankly observing the detail of the lady standing before him, he received one more clue. Her eyes were the exact same shade of green as Abby’s. The likelihood of an aunt having the same shade were slim but a –

“Mom, what are you doing?” Abby shouted strutting towards the other two.

“Merely admiring the teacher you flatter so greatly,” Mrs. Woolridge replied.

Abby’s face faintly blushed. She mumbled a few words under her breath before saying, “I’m sure he doesn’t want your kind of admiration. I’m going totake him outside to see the rest of the decorations.”

Matt’s eyes bulged after hearing Abby criticize her own mother in such a manner. This tiff did solve a few mysteries to a certain percentage. Without hesitation Abby grasped Matt’s wrist and nearly drug him away from everything. Matt didn’t understand what he bore witness to, but he was beginning to already draw his own conclusions. The two found themselves outside on a stone bench under a tall oak tree. A few leaves clung to branches fighting to chill of late autumn. The red and yellow leaves mixed the appearance of the grass below the feet of the two humans surrounded in the seclusion of the outdoors.

Abby sat quiet staring at her feet. Matt turned his head to the left. Now, more than ever, he noticed how beautiful his student was. Her inner beauty was magnificent, but her outer beauty was amazingly equal. Abby’s skin was flawless. Her cheeks became rosy colored in cold and her lips were entirely kissable. Matt dreamt in that moment over twenty different approaches to a kiss. His dreams left a real taste in his mouth. When her eyes met his, he lost his breath and dropped his eyes.

“I’m sorry about my mom,” she said looking nervous and playing with her fingers. Abby had a flustered expression again. In school she never seemed to be easily embarrassed, but now her appearance matched the feeling of awkwardness she felt inside herself. To Matt all she appeared to be was human. Somehow faults attracted Matt and since Abby initially appeared perfect, he now knew the whole reason as to why he foolishly and entirely loved Abby. The only feelings more foolish than those were Abby’s enhanced love for Matt.

Abby’s most vulnerable side had been exposed. When Matt didn’t laugh or stay away in fear she felt comfortable and a great deal of overwhelming acceptance. She felt safe. In life people seem to only need to hear one sentence… everything will be fine. Matt was a walking example of that very sentence, at least in Abby’s eye. The two leaned into each other for a warm embrace. With her head bowed Abby whispered, “Thanks Matt.”

The day was still young. Abby went back inside and Matt followed. Now the party was more alive. Abby dragged Matt to every part of the festivities and introduced him to every person with which he was unfamiliar. All new acquaintances welcome Matt with a warm smile. Although a good party may seem mundane to some, Matt took solace in the comforting notion that he was somewhere he belonged. The best time came when Abby was allowed to open her gifts. Abby’s friends brought her cards, money, inexpensive jewelry, and even goofy socks (which Abby loved), but her favorite gift was indeed the one given to her by Matt. Reminiscent of the day he was invited to this event, Matt purchased an identical sweet to the one Abby’s friend Rose gave Abby before Rose left town. The only difference between the two sweaters was the new sweater was the exact same shade of green as Abby’s eyes. Everyone took notice and Abby’s face lit up almost taken back by the beauty of her gift. Abby adorned the sweater immediately and modeled it for the masses. Compliments rained down like star light. Abby ran to Matt to bestow a friendly hug and kiss upon his cheek. From there the night continued in that same joyous fashion.

Everyone felt high and had a genuinely great time. As day became dusk, dusk became night, and people began to leave, but Matt and a few others stayed. Abby’s mother made little appearance until the late hours of night. Her presence quickly became known. With a strut that physically matched her drunkenly slurred vocabulary, Ms. Woolridge approached Abby and Matt shouting, “It’s a real shame that I am envious of you two because what you two have is sick! You, Mr. Whelchel, with your perverted eyes, I should report you to the authorities and restrain you from ever going near my daughter!” Those lashing words were followed by a splash of red wine staining Matt’s shirt and wetting his face. Matt was so flabbergasted that he was rendered completely immobile.

Luckily, he didn’t have to take any action because Abby intervened. In a quiet storm Abby’s eyes struck Ms. Woolridge like lightning. “This party’s over,” Abby growled. With the same simplistic force she grabbed Matt’s hand and they trolled out together. All the witnesses stood paralyzed in awe. When the door closed behind Abby and Matt, the only movement was Abby’s remaining friends throwing away their cups and ambling to the exit.

Matt directed Abby back to his place as merely an attempt to escape what had just happened and to change clothes. Man’s nature did make sure he noticed the girl of his dream sitting before him on his couch. This wasn’t his fantasy though. In his imagination Abby would have been happy. In reality she looked melancholy. Matt tried to think of something to say, but his mind couldn’t muster one syllable. So, he remembered earlier when the two sat outside and how comfortable and natural the world was. The only logical approach to take was to sit down next to her. The two stood perfectly still matching breaths and sight of the carpet, but then their hands laced into one another’s. This moment was the epitome of their relationship.

Abby spoke, “Matt, I’m so happy to be here right now.” That statement left her tearful. Her emotions flooded out into a rambling, “I just can’t stand my mom; I want nothing to do with her. I don’t want to look at her or look like her. That’s why I spend so much time at school and work. The only reason for that party was because she ruined my sweet sixteen.. Oh Matt, if you didn’t come I don’t know what I would have done.” She buried her head into Matt’s chest letting out sobs and continued, “This wasn’t even the worst day, but I just couldn’t handle it. The way she treated you, looked at you, and – Matt please don’t make me go back.”

Matt just sat there. His mind was trying to make sense of all the events that lead up to this moment. Somehow he thought that he had all of the psychological issues. Abby was supposed to come along and save him from years of loneliness and depression. “Uhm, you can’t stay here as long as need be. Where is your father? Inform him so a guardian knows,” Matt told her in a calming coo. Abby nodded and dialed the phone before handing it to Matt. Abby’s father wasn’t surprised, and he didn’t know the tension of desire between Abby and Matt. Nothing was said to worry Mr. Woolridge, so there were no worries. Matt sat back down, turned to Abby and sighed out loud. Abby heard him and looked at his eyes. Her eyes caught a glimpse of his soul. She discovered all the personal details that made Matt’s life. She deduced his awkward nervousness, his insecurities, his good nature, and his loving heart. Somewhere in his eyes was a young high school boy that never left. Abby’s childish crush became a romantic love.

Part 2

2007-11-25T06:06:00.000-05:00

Decided to give some time in between parts... well let's get right into it.

Part two of "Untitled Short Story"
By Chris Walker

Matt took his planning period to get a snack. The teachers’ lounge was down two halls. Matt has had a nervous walk his whole life. The thought of others watching him made him feel nauseous so he kept his head down. When he walked he counted his steps and tried to avoid stepping on the larger than normal spaces between tiles. In forty steps Matt entered the teachers’ lounge. He approached the vending machine and watched the dull metallic coil unwind to release his potato chips. He dropped down to pick up the bag then arise, turn about, and leave, but he found in front of him the principal Mrs. Erin Miller.

“How are you this fine afternoon, Mr. Whelchel?” asked Mrs. Miller with the most professional tone she could conjure.

“Oh, I can’t complain,” said Matt as he was straining to meet her eyes.

Mrs. Miller strayed past Matt to the coffee-maker to pour a cup. With a provocative voice she then stated, “I’m very happy you agreed to substitute for a second week at our academy. The faculty has had no complains; usually a few of our more snobbish faculty always find something to complain about. All I have heard about you was that you’re a ‘good listener’. I suppose I should then inform you of a position opening next year in our English department. It would seem that Dr. Kendall is retiring. Say this next week could be a good opportunity to prove your worth.”

Matt stood amazed. His expression showed interest, but his eyes didn’t show much. He was fixated on the pantsuit that Mrs. Miller wore. Her clothes turned her into a powerful figure that seemed more than human. Matt remained speechless as Mrs. Miller walked out the door with mug in hand. Matt left as well. Back at his classroom he sat behind the desk and drew up plans for the quiz he would hand-out tomorrow.

To himself he tried to estimate the scores of his students. The two football players in the corner of his first class would both get eighty percent; they were both smart but not smart enough. In his second class, Emily, a smart girl who reads excessively, will lead the pack with a ninety-five percent. Abby will get a perfect.

Matt’s day was mundane throughout the rest of his classes. He led discussions that got off topic regardless of his efforts. He could be blamed for a portion of movie debates, but he still was able to lecture and give notes about Hemingway’s life. Ah, Hemingway’s life was simple poetry, similar to his writing. Matt stayed after class for only a few minutes before driving back to his apartment. He made himself some soup and sat in front of his television. His apartment was minimally decorated, only his own bedroom had any posters. His living room had an enormous entertainment center with ten separate video game systems. The television set was an impressive liquid crystal display high definition screen that stood above forty inches. Matt could spend days sitting in his recliner escaping into the digital world video games created for him. He unlocked the gate to a new universe with the press of a few buttons. Sometimes he merely opened good book though.

Today the world was inescapable. When he went to wash out his bowl his cell phone rang. The caller was an unfamiliar number. He didn’t mind answering because of the possibility of an emergency. When he answered his face exploded with a look of shock but not dread. He knew the voice immediately. Abby was on the other line. Matt cleared his throat and began pacing. He felt light and unbalanced but the footsteps kept him grounded.

“Hey Mr. Whelchel,” Abby greeted Matt with perky sound.

“Hey Abby, you are welcome to call me Matt now. School is done for the day and I get tired of formalities,” Matt mumbled into the receiver end of his phone.

“Oh, okay then, well, I just wanted to know if you were really coming to my party Saturday and if so, then you should know that we’re having it at the recreation center at my church, St. Michael’s off of Third Street. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes, I will be coming and yes I know where that is. Quick question though, where are you calling me from?”

“This is my cell phone; I know it must sound noisy because I’m at work. I work as a hostess at the new Applebee’s they opened up last month.”

“Wow, all those extracurricular activities and a job. I’m very impressed.”

“Whatever keeps me away from home. Anyways, Matt, my break is over, try and show up around three on Saturday. I’ll see you in class tomorrow, bye!” Abby made sure to add extra emphasis to his name before hanging up in a rush. Her last sentence made Matt feel young again but not in a good way. He opened and closed his flip phone a few times before saving Abby’s number with a few button presses. The only words that deeply shook Matt to his core were Abby’s statement about avoiding her house, but the thought didn’t dwell on his mind too long. His inner high school student was telling him to prepare for a date on Saturday. Sure it was only a party dragging him out on Saturday, although Abby personally invited him. That was the key.

Only a few highlights of any importance occurred between that day and Saturday. Matt woke up every day to drive to the academy badly drumming on his steering wheel, waiting for a warm greeting from Abby. He did receive one every day, some warmer than others, His walks through the halls still forced him to keep his head down. One day he mistakenly wore pants that were too short and taught the class sitting down. That day was particularly appalling because as he was exiting the building he spied Abby talking to an equally impressive student to herself named Jeffrey Bennington. The situation wasn’t aided by the fact that Jeffrey was quite a handsome young man. So, no surprise should arise when Matt spent several hours trying to find the perfect gift to give to Abby the next day.

Matt’s gift made him feel prepared. Saturday was his day to bask in the glow of Abby’s welcoming presence. She would want to spend every second of her birthday with him. Matt’s driving was hurried; he was extremely anxious to arrive at St. Michael’s and see Abby. When he did arrive he parked far out in the more remote regions of the parking lot so as to not fight for a close space. Much like his driving, Mat’s walk was hurried. He looked up to see the banner and balloons: Abby Is 17! Celebrate!

He immediately noticed the color of the balloons. All of them were green and brown like Abby’s eyes and hair. Matt could hear the festivities from several yards away, and if there were a particular scent for fun he could have smelled that too. As Matt approached the door he felt a tremble shudder down his spine. His newly familiarized uneasiness was making reappearances. Matt wanted to turn back, but more of him wanted to see Abby.

He reached the point of no return. His hand clenched the door handle, and he entered. Matt immediately took notice of all the people at Abby’s party. He knew she was a likeable person but did not truly know what to expect. More signs of nervousness ripped through Matt’s body. His right leg began to shake, and he was forced uncontrollably to place his right hand in his pocket. Matt shouldered Abby’s present and marched through the building with a bowed head. Although few noticed him, Matt saw quite a number of his students. Matt mostly had trouble finding adults, even when he did, the adults he found were well past his age. Matt felt further and further out of his element. He went straight to the gift table, he set his gift with the others, and he went straight to an empty chair at an empty table to sit.

Be sure to leave comments or find any typos or just leave questions or predictions.

Preview of the short story

2007-11-16T22:50:00.000-05:00

So, I kept talking about posting my short story on here. Well, truth is my addiction has gotten the better of me and I have yet to actually type the entirely handwritten story. Ideally, I wanted to type the entire story and proofread the piece when I was done. I may still but I wanted to keep the blog somewhat updated every now and again so I had to put something. So now, is the first part of my short story. This is the first two pages. It is a work in progress as anyone can tell because I haven't bestowed a title for this work. Please be sure to leave lots of comments and expect the next part in some time. Enjoy...

"Untitled Short Story”

By Chris Walker

Matt couldn’t carry a beat. Well, for the first two seconds the sound resonated mirroring a simple tune, but shortly thereafter the minute song would fall to shambles. This did not deter Matt from drumming aggressively on his steering wheel while awaiting his coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit in the drive-thru. Matt was always a late sleeper and never much of a morning person. He couldn’t even be described as remotely awake until the engine of his royal blue 2002 Subaru was on and his Radiohead CD streamed out of the speakers.

Matt dressed appropriately for his job, a long-sleeved button-up shirt with matching tie. Khakis adorned his legs covering dress socks inside of dress shoes. This was professional attire for a substitute teacher. He loved his job – well enjoyed would be more accurate. In fact, whenever someone asked Matt about his career-choice he replied every time by saying, “I can’t complain.” Matt thought he received more joy from his job than most, and he would be correct. However, the monotonous feeling of sitting at someone else’s desk seemed to increasingly make his time as a teacher feel hollow.

For now, the drive-thru didn’t stir much emotion until he realized his car had been idling through three songs on his CD, not moving a foot. Matt reclined. He tended to think more than he spoke. People have complimented him more than once on his ability to listen. Maybe teaching attracted him because a great teacher can both speak well and listen equally well.

While reclining Matt could observe the morning scene. The sun had yet to rise on this cold November day. No trees were around to share their different autumnal colors. All Matt could witness was his own face in the side-view mirror of his car. Matt could neither be described as ugly nor sexy; he’s somewhere in between. He has been clean-cut ever since his sophomore year in college. Since turning thirty years old though he could barely keep from having a five o’clock shadow. His thick eyebrows made him look menacing but his eyeglasses gave him an intellectual appeal. All-in-all, he was complacent with his look.

Students weren’t agreeing. Today was Matt’s third day teaching junior English at a privileged private academy on the east end of town. The tuition and standards of the institution were ludicrous. Matt could’ve cared less because his pay for this week was going to be more than he had ever received in the past, and the teacher he was covering for was expected to be out for next week as well. His real complaints came from the students’ inability to hide their snide remarks about his appearance.

Matt gave up on his hopes of getting his breakfast in order to make the trip to work on time. Teachers had to be in the classroom much earlier than students in order to prepare schedules, read mail (both print and electronic), and make handouts. Matt was excited because his classes were almost through with Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. One of the more appealing aspects of his job was the opportunity to see a glimpse into the mind of tomorrow’s America by being in the front row of literary discussions in his class. Ernest Hemingway was Matt’s favorite writer, so he felt more than average excitement, but he also knew that he need to ask questions that Sparknotes couldn’t answer.

The first class of the day was nothing spectacular. Too many kids in high school stayed awake too late and, like him, seldom eat breakfast. This, of course, leaves the mind too weak to discuss Hemingway’s simplistic story-telling or how A Farewell to Arms is more autobiographical than the average reader may know, unless the student researched more than necessary on Sparknotes, or if the student is Abby Wooldridge.

Abby Wooldridge was Matt’s favorite student. She was the smartest, brightest student Matt had the pleasure of teaching. She was involved in Beta Club, National Honors Society, Spanish Club, Book Club, Quick Recall, and a few others. Through all of that, she could maintain a four point zero grade point average and walk into class with a great figure and smile. Matt had only wish he was in high school still so his boundaries were a little more open to her. She never made rude remarks about; Abby just greeted him with a warm smile and a pleasant, “Good afternoon, Mr. Whelchel.”

Matt appreciated Abby’s presence in class and recognized her for her delightful poise after class. “Hey Abby, I would just like to say thank you for keeping the class discussion on track today,” he said standing up from behind his desk. She turned around, her books in her arms. Matt immediately noticed her exquisite brunette bangs overlaying one eye, complementing her emerald irises. Matt felt a little uneasy, almost as if choking on air. Flashbacks beat his brain like a drumming recalling his less than gloried days in high school. Nervousness had never left him, but now was different because he was now cooler, older, and vaguely powerful – mysterious even. “Hey, that’s a nice sweater,” he expressed reclaiming his calm.

Abby beamed a bright smile. She gave a microscopic curtsy and replied, “Oh, thanks for noticing Mr. Whelchel, it’s an early birthday present from my friend Rose. She can’t make it to my party on Saturday because she’s going to be out of town all week starting today.”

“I see,” Matt said surprisingly. “Your birthday is coming up… seventeenth?”

“Yes sir,” she confirmed followed by a giggle. Suddenly her tone became much deeper with a hint enticement. “Ya know,” she began while swaying with girlish charm. “You can come to my party on Saturday.”

Being polite and maybe a little flattered mixed with just a touch of excitement Matt thoughtfully said, “I would be honored to attend the party of my favorite student.” Abby was overjoyed; to hear not only an acceptance but to be called Matt’s favorite student was worth more to her than any amount of money could be appraised. Nearly skipping out the door, Abby walked away with a piece of paper on which seven numbers were written – Matt’s cell number. Maybe Matt could’ve waited until their next class together to get the specifics of the party, but he may have wanted to know sooner or he may have thought of Abby as “special” enough to call his phone and the two of them could talk. Matt did know that if his reason was the latter, he should reevaluate his thoughts. The only problem was that each time he considered the situation his mind was trapped on Abby’s beauty. Her emerald green eyes, her brunette hair, her ruby red lips, her womanly figure were all seductive to his mind. Age or professional problems didn’t even cognate. Matt was left sitting behind his desk with his mind aflame. Obviously, he knew what he had just done and how his appreciation of a simple invitation was receiving too much recognition. Somehow the awkwardness of a high school boy flooded back in a rushed haze. He felt unbalanced, paranoid, and skittish. Everything was unfamiliar, so he focused his thoughts. His mind summoned up images of Abby. Quickly he found himself at ease knowing that someone wanted him. The awkwardness faded. Abby became a double-edged sword.

Updates to My Views

2007-10-21T22:07:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I just got back from Red River Gorge. I love this place, it's merely a large system of forests along a canyon carved out by Red River out in eastern Kentucky. If you live in the area, you should definitely go out that way. The gorge is located about an hour east of Lexington in Pine Ridge. This little paradise of nature is well worth the drive for anyone.

So, why do I like this place so much? I have just built this history with it. About two years ago my grandfather passed away in the middle of July. July is full of birthdays in my family. The ninth is my brother's, the twenty-third is mine, and the sixteenth was my grandfather's. So, his passing was quite an upset for everyone, including myself. My birthday wasn't exactly the past day for me, but my brother attempted to make it somewhat happy for me by taking me on a road-trip at 2:30 in the morning. Although, I tried my hardest to stay awake on the ride down there I did not succeed. Maybe Beck wasn't the best artist to choose as our soundtrack on the drive - at least for staying awake. I believe waking up as we approached the rough incline added to the adventure - maybe.

My brother and I arrived and made the small hike just in time to catch the sun rise. I've shared pictures of my own adventures to Red River Gorge always taken at sun rise. Catching this wondrous scene is repeatedly my goal for every trip I've taken to this untouched serenity. Upon finishing my latest trip under the piloting capabilities of my friend Caleb (I didn't have to drive!), I can no longer saying that Red River Gorge is untouched.

I wouldn't label myself as an environmentalist or even much of a nature lover based upon my lifestyle at home, but I the observation of litter scattered throughout the campsite I used was unavoidable and frankly disgusting. I found bottle caps, plastic cups, and even a pillow in the limbs of a tree! Three friends and I were able to camp, start a fire, drink, make pancakes, and hike all without littering. As corny as it sounds, "We took only pictures, and left only footprints." Where did appreciation for nature go?

The question I am posing is layered. Initially, I would like to discuss littering. Remember the public service announcement for Keep America Beautiful- the one with the Native American crying at the end (it's linked here)? The image of being the society that destroyed the beauty nature just strikes me as a slap in the face to my ancestors and as we being jokes to our descendants.

I have the hardest time understanding what is so hard about picking up your trash or throwing the trash away when you are done. For nature enthusiasts who are most likely out for a hike, a walk to the dumpster is surprisingly too far. The lesson, and frankly my opinion, is PUT AWAY THE TRASH. A simple step, the same step to preserve the cleanliness of a room, could help preserve the illusion of nature we desire every once in a while.

The second layer that I believe plays a role in enacting my first grievance is that the appreciation of the simplistic beauty of nature is just lacking. I enjoyed approximately ninety percent of my trip this weekend. The ten percent was ruined between small bickering, rough sleep, and leaving early cutting out a trip to hike up the natural land bridge. One scene I can distinctly remember was when all the tents were broken down and the group was taking its second trip back to the car. Caleb was not willing to gather the rest of the supplies and the other two members of our party was in an equal rush to return home. The clock was only on eleven or twelve.

I knew no one was going to want to hike to the natural land bridge because I kept suggesting one last experience. In that one brief moment I tried to breathe in everything I was going to leave behind for several more weeks or longer (no one wants to camp in the winter and hiking is a pain with ice involved). When I found myself alone and knew that even the other campers around us were killing the experience with radios and super-sized camp sites I felt like no one was appreciating the beauty of a dieing planet.

Maybe I'm not the best advocate for appreciating nature seeing as how the life I live is fairly artificial, but maybe my words being honest and humble will make somebody take a hike. When that person does, I hope he or she takes a pause to breathe.

And pick-up his or her goddamn trash!

Chris

PS My short story is coming along nicely but my pacing has slowed down. The story is not a novel but a longer story than I've written in a while. I will post it here, but in parts. I hope everyone reads it though, the content is mature but I expect the themes to come across nicely.

The First Blog of a New Service

2007-10-17T21:02:00.000-04:00

Well, I really just wanted to fill in this space. So, in the sense of journaling I'm just going to try and type for a significant number of minutes or until my hands start cramping. I think now is a great time to try and blog again because I am transitioning back into the real world after a long weekend. Today is a Wednesday, hump day, and I'm actually feeling good.

This weekend was great for several reasons. Most importantly, I got to fix my laptop which is my tool for typing all of these long-winded words. I had a virus on my computer that was generating spyware-type advertisements and completely corrupted my internet explorer. Fortunately, I use Firefox, which I highly recommend, and was able to do basic functions until I had the money to fix my laptop. The best part though was that my dear friend Steven and his brother offered to fix my laptop for free as a token of gratitude for helping Steven through a tough part in his life. Thanks Steven!

Another great event from this weekend was that after fixing my laptop I spent the entire night goofing around at the waterfront with my friends Steven, Damien, and Mary but also with Steven's "cousins" (family friends). That time was great but Steven is kind of a jerk towards fish. Regardless, I had a great time and ended the morning with some Krispy Kreme donuts! As anyone knows, I have problem pacing myself when Krispy Kreme is involved. Finally, I went to sleep at about nine in the morning. I woke up only three hours later but I got to hang out with my brother which is always great. We shopped at Target, talked about life, and health. I had fun before going to Beef O'Brady's to watch some NFL game with two undefeated teams. (Go Tom Brady... ehh I don't care.)

My next eventful day on my Fall Break had me going to my doctor to clean out my ear so I can hear again. Basically, I paid twenty dollars to have a super soaker stuck in my ear. In a messed up sort of way, I can of liked it. I spent the rest of the day watching Outlaw Star on DVD - awesome animé. Tuesday was just homework. So, everything trailed off on Tuesday...

Until I went to work. I haven't really appreciated by Gnarls Barkley (St. Elsewhere)album until recently. I can safely say that I haven't been the happiest I have ever been in my life and my thoughts have been a little bit less than depressing recently. These are just thoughts, so I fitting listened to "Just A Thought". I immediately started coming up with some short story. I'm not quite finished but maybe I can wrap it up tonight. That's when I knew I had to start blogging again so I can remember how much I like writing.

Regardless, I need to get ready for work now. Thanks for reading and expect a lot more in the future.

Chris