First Draught Hangover

It's been a week since I've written anything of substance for the blog. It really feels like a hangover. Whenever I get the thought to write again, my stomach clenches and I think of some mindless other thing to do. But I've become disgusted enough with myself to put a plan together. As painful as it might be, I will get back to writing daily. Even if it's just two or three sentences, something productive will happen. It may be garbage, but it will be output. I can edit later.

So musician Tracy Walton suggested that since most of the 30 first drafts I wrote ended with cliffhangers that I could write serials. Every post would be "continued next time". I like the idea of that so I started outlining some ideas. Ironically my favorite ones have nothing to do with any of the thirty story ideas I had for the project.

There's something to be said for working every day. You just don't get as attached to the old ideas and stories if you're constantly brewing up new ones. I've always wanted to write stuff that fit between the tried and true genres. Maybe the right label is stuff that will fall through the cracks and never be widely read. Either way, it will get written.

I'm thinking of a dark/fantasy/horror combo. The settings could be fantastic or real-life. Making them dark gives them the creepy twist that makes you think the author is writing from the padded cell. And horror is just so much fun to write!

More to come. I'll announce the first serial soon and then it's off to the races! Til next time!

#30 The Rope Bridge

"Two months? That's impressive! The last thing I did that took two months to finish was pulling the stumps out of my front yard," Hanley said.

I shook my head at his comparison. "Do you really think pulling stumps and making a rope bridge out of native grasses are comparable?" I asked. "That bridge is over 100 feet long and can hold up to twelve people."

"Hey, if you ever tried to get a project done around my house, you'd call it even. It's like a Twilight Zone circus on speed. It's full of surprise laced with terror followed by regular intermissions of Tourette syndrome and manic depression."

"Hey, no one ordered you to have six kids," I said. "You produced your own freak show!"
We both laughed. Our guide, Coatl looked nervously back and forth between us. I don't think he had any idea what we were laughing about but he did his part to look amused.

We found Coatl, (pronounced Kwa tl) in the village at the base of the mountain. After a long boat ride upriver and a three hour trek inland, we rested our bones in Coatl's village. We drank some local fruit beverage and tried to cool off. A foolish hope during daylight hours in the tropics.

A man trying to sell us trinkets spoke a fragment of English. We got him to understand we needed a guide to see the old temple on the mountain. That's when he left and returned in seconds with Coatl.
"This guide, he Coatl. Coatl mean serpent. He find right paths, true paths even during night with no moon. Good jungle man. A bargain, too."

Coatl smiled wide. His dark face framed a gaping mouth with more empty space than teeth. Straight, ebony hair bordered his bony jaw and forehead. He spoke some words in the local dialect and motioned for us to follow him. We paid the merchant and fell in for our march.

I had to agree with the merchant. The price was right and Coatl got us moving at a brisk pace on a sound trail. Around mid-afternoon we rested at a long, narrow rope bridge.

"I see the temple from here," Hanley said, pointing to a stone structure erupting from a sea of trees. Only the uppermost portion of the ancient building rose above the trees. It still projected an impression of great mass. Thousands of jungle tribesman sweat, bled and died to build this temple.

"Hey, Coatl. How long before we reach the temple?" Hanley said.
"No much. No much," Coatl said, looking eager and excited.

"He understood you perfectly, Han. I thought he didn't speak a lick."
"So what? He knows the meaning of time. Big deal."
"I wonder what else he knows," I said.
"Forget it. The way he moves we'll be back at it soon. Save your energy."

Hanley was right. Sort of. In about five minutes Coatl disappeared. We called for him. Nothing. We started talking about heading back though it would be very difficult in a few places without him. The sun was already slipping toward the horizon.

"There! Look at that!" I shouted. The tail of a huge snake slithered into the undergrowth. We didn't see the whole snake but it was huge. Our minds both raced to the same conclusion. "Coatl!"

We shouted his name over and again only to see him calmly walk out of the bush, his less-than-toothy grin right where he left it. Only this time, I noticed a pair of long, curved fangs hanging down from Coatl's gums. My eyes widened in shock. And as though he sensed my awareness, the fangs receded, becoming shorter and shorter until they disappeared completely! Coatl closed his lips but the smile persisted.

I looked at Hanley. He missed it. I panicked.

Our guide looked back over his shoulder and began to laugh. Rustlings sounds came from the jungle where the snake disappeared and Coatl re-appeared.

I thought about trying to get back to the village. Instead, I did the opposite. I gently wrapped an arm around Hanley's shoulder. "When I say so, run across the rope bridge, follow me across. Whatever you do, don't stop. You follow me?"

Oddly, Hanley didn't protest. He said "OK, whatever you say." A very un-Hanley response.

A cone of silence descended on us for an awkward moment. So then I yelled, "Run". And we ran across the rope bridge for the first and the last time in our lives.

#29 Board Room

I preferred the the tables being set up in a "U". The only problem is that no one ever stood in the middle. Instead we all sat around staring at each other. After the first hour my co-workers would loosen up and the inevitable jokes would begin.

Even when it began with others the instigators would get to me. And once they started in on me they never let up. Jokes about my height, my hobbies, my personality, stuff that happened years in the past. It was all fair game.

I put it up with it every time. I learned that when I fought back their insults got sharper and more frequent. None of the bosses we had in all those years ever stood up to them. That made it twice as bad. I wanted to fit in and every time I thought that it might be different, it wasn't.

That's when I decided to kill all of them. It violated my orders. But I rationalized that my orders hadn't been updated in six years. All my communiques to the mothership went unanswered. On the weekends I would access my hidden dropship and send additional coded messages. I thought the ship's transmitter might be stronger than my portable unit. Still no replies. No contact in six long years.

I decided some things. I decided I would let them know who I really was before I killed each of them. I decided Michael would be first. I wouldn't describe him as the ringleader but when the mockery started to get under my skin I always found Michael enjoyed it more than the others.

I decided I would leave clues as to who murdered each of them. They weren't coming back for me so I had nothing to lose. I decided if the police or FBI or any other agency tracked me down, I'd kill us all. I had the hardware to do it.

Michael looked surprised to see me on his front steps when he opened the door. Michael looked scared when examined the bindings that kept him strapped to his kitchen chair. Michael looked downright horrified when I opened my case of cutting instruments and laid it open on the counter. All the tools were rusted and dull. Just the way I liked them.

Before he lost too much blood or slipped into a shock-induced stupor, I decided to show Michael who I was. I ripped the human-flesh mask from my face. My natural face peered at him, framed by the human neck flesh and fluttering black hair. All six of my eyes locked on his two, terror-filled ones. He tried to scream through the dishrag soaked in oil.

Screw the orders. This was going to be great fun.

#28 Take A Chance

Pierce turned his glass counter-clockwise on the bar. He stared mindlessly at the scotch, trying not to think of anything in particular. Being focused and specific, that's what got him in trouble. So he resigned himself to be empty.

That sounded good on paper, but when the door to the bar burst open and smashed against the wall, his mind was anything but still. A policeman who knew where to find him took three steps in and shouted.

"Pierce! We need you! Get up you sorry son of a bitch!"

Pierce turned his head in disdain. "Haven't I caused enough trouble for one day?"

"Get your ass downtown, now! You of all people know you need a short memory in the people-savin business. Some of 'em are just gonna die on ya! Now move!"

"Sargent Walsh, you sure know how to motivate a guy." Pierce threw back his drink and shuffled toward the door. He cinched up his tights and adjusted his cape. Made sure his mask was on just right.

"Where's the trouble, Walsh?" he asked.

"Vine and 7th. Domestic turned hostage situation. Husband shot the wife and took one of our boys as leverage. We don't have much time."

Pierce stiffened like he had a bucket of ice-water dumped over his head. "This was no joke," he thought. Was three drinks too many? On an empty stomach too."

Walsh drove like a maniac but they arrived in one piece. Some of the cops protested when they saw him. One of the surly veterans shouted, "Haven't you screwed up enough for one day?"

Walsh shouted back and the cop said no more. Pierce could see the movement in the second floor window, just as Walsh had briefed him. He turned to him one last time.

"Remember the code word. If I shout it, send in SWAT. Got it?"

"Crystal, Pierce. Now go bring him out. We don't care if the thug buys it. Just get Rodriguez out."

Without answering Pierce rushed across the street and into the door. He made for the stairs, not wanting anything to do with the elevator. He tried again to empty his mind. He only had this one shot and he had to come through. He banished the morning from his mind, again.

On the second floor landing, Pierce followed the voices to an open apartment door. "This is it," he thought, and walked right in without waiting. He stepped over a corpse in a pool of blood. The gunman entered the room from the kitchen.

"Shit. Random Man," he whispered.

"Chance!" Pierce yelled, summoning his super power. Pierce's clear mind held. A random super-power filled Pierce's being, called forth by his one word command. Random Man assumed the ability to subdivide his body into two equal halves. Those halves would then become whole and operate independent of one another.

The gunman froze in shock as Pierce's body split like a spirtual axe clove downward, head to pelvis. The halves folded over and suddenly Random Man existed times two. It was over before the killer could even fire a shot.

The next day, Pierce arrived at Doherty's Pub as Patrick Jr. was opening the door. He didn't act suprised to see Pierce because, well, he wasn't.

#27 The Telescope

I couldn't operate the controls with my gloves on. But I knew if I took them off, the pain would be excruciating. I had no choice. I took them off and loaded the shells into the magazine as fast as my shaking hands would allow. Several dropped into the snow. I wasn't foolish enough to try and pick them up.

A cruel gust of wind stole the breath from my lungs. I crumpled to my knees. Blotches of bright red and yellow flashed in my vision. I clutched the pistol to my chest trying to keep from toppling over. I knew if I fell forward into the snow I wouldn't get up.

I got my gloves back on but I couldn't feel my fingers. I didn't know if they were even in the right finger slots so I bent them against my chest to be sure. They seemed to be in right. My head stopped spinning, my vision returned. It took me a couple minutes to stand without collapsing. I walked to the telescope structure.

I walked like a marathoner about to experience the helplessness of body shutdown. It took me fifteen minutes to walk the thirty feet from the station hut to the telescope. But I made it inside. I closed and locked the steel door. I rounded the massive telescope. Miraculously, the heater was where I left it and it still worked!

But then the door to the telescope building opened and my heart began pounding. The telescope obscured that side of the space so I couldn't see the door. I knew what came in all the same.

I slid off my right glove and all but touched the heating element coils. A slight tingle but not enough to allow me to fire my weapon with accuracy. I maneuvered it into my hand anyway

I tried to face the barrel where I thought it would come for me. It was patient. Terror gripped my brain anew. I scanned the walls and ceiling forgetting it could climb. The shadows made it impossible to tell.

The heater made a loud click-clack sound and the coils faded from glowing red to black. I thought about putting the gun barrel in my mouth. I knew my tongue and flesh inside my mouth would stick to the barrel. There would be no changing my mind.

#26 Reunion

Ted looked around the train station. People walked briskly in every trajectory. He stood still like a pillar in the middle of all the hustling travelers. Striding forward he picked a twisting ribbon of people and joined the flow heading toward 42nd Street.

On the sidewalk he stood in line for a cab. In less than five minutes he lounged in the back seat as the car zipped in and out of traffic. He wondered about people who got uptight in taxis because of most cabbies' aggressive driving style. He had complete confidence in, he leaned forward to read the displayed hack license, Li Chang. Pictures of his wife and children were taped to the visor.

"Family man," Ted thought. "He wouldn't risk his livelihood by being reckless." He settled back into the seat and admired the sights. He wouldn't be in mid-town for long. Might as well enjoy it.

Ted needed a rest. His feet ached and sweat soaked his undershirt. He found a set of steps leading to a dark building that teemed with people Monday through Friday. On Saturday you'd find the doors locked and the lobby dark. Ted gathered himself. He knew he didn't have far to go from here.

He removed a piece of paper from his jeans pocket and checked the address again. He had done this same exercise so many times during the trip the ink smudged a little. He read the words for the thousandth time and shoved it back in his pocket.

Taking a deep breath, he bounced up off the steps. He raised both arms up in a V and exhaled.

"It's time," he said. Ted walked up the block and made a right turn at the corner. He followed the sidewalk for a two more blocks. He checked the paper again.

"This is it," he said. He threw the paper into a grate in the concrete. Narrow alleys separated the brick buildings on this block. Ted selected the alley on the west side of the building. He strode confidently into the shadowed space.

The scraping of a door opening on old hinges got his attention. He withdrew the pistol from the waistband of his pants. An outline of a man emerged from a doorway about a hundred feet away. He positioned himself in the middle of the alley holding something long.

Ted figured it out and shouted, " A shotgun, Dad? Really?"

The man raised the barrel toward Ted. "Really, kid." The man pumped a shell into the chamber so Ted clicked off his safety.

#25 Vines that Bind

Being a member of the famous Swanson family has many advantages. Even though my uncle, Paul Swanson was the man to bring acclaim to our family, we all benefit from it.

If I go out to eat and pay by credit card or am recognized, the server or restaurant owner would come directly to the table. With wide eyes, they ask, "Sir, are you the Paul Swanson of Swanson Vineyards?"

When I say 'yes' to their inquiries all kinds of good things happen. I've had my check torn up. Bottles of wine and champagne magically arrive at the table. Humble requests for tours of the vineyards and wine cellars are common.

At first, I looked forward to the attention and freebies. That is, until I went to work for my Uncle Paul. My dad passed away while I was taking classes at our community college and working as an office person for a large greenhouse and sod farm. Dad and his brother built the winery from nothing. While Paul was the face of the brand and did all the publicity stuff, my dad devoted himself to the grape.

He never forced working at the vineyard on me. But when he passed I had this compulsion to take his place. Mom would've been proud of my choice, I think.

So I left school and the office job and joined with Uncle Paul. He was thrilled.

"Your dad's blood is in the ground, kid," he said. "His soul is out there with the vines. I know it. I can't tell you how pleased I am to have you here."

Uncle Paul set me up with my Dad's right-hand man, Vernon. Vern knew as much about wine-making as my Dad. For some reason he didn't get along with Uncle Paul. He pulled me aside on my first day with him.

"We're going into that barn." He pointed to a large red barn set back from the other buildings. "After today, you'll never go in there again. Understand?"

"I guess so. But why not."

Vernon looked around like he was afraid of something. Then he said in a low voice, "That's the fertilizer barn. The secret behind this vineyard's award winning grapes and wines. You never, ever want your Uncle Paul to know you've been inside that barn. Got it?

"What's the big secret? Is it something illegal?" I asked.

Vern looked around, rubbing his gray beard. He shook his head. "No. Nope. Can't now."

Then he put his arm across my back and turned me away from the barn. "Tonight. Meet me here at midnight and you'll learn everything."

#24 Hate Mail

Vincent didn't spend much time socializing with his peers. Their constant complaining about work conditions created so much negativity it made him physically ill. Headaches. Stomach pain. He avoided their little circles in the parking lot or huddled around a delivery vehicle.

Of course, there were some points that were true but Vincent imagined every vocation had a negative aspect or two. What his colleagues spent zero time discussing were the benefits!

Vincent became a letter carrier at a young age. He never had any desire to leave the town he grew up in or all the familiar places where he felt most comfortable. His closest friends didn't stay. They off to college or the military and left him all alone.

He thought about their lives as he delivered the mail or drove his around town. Nearly every street, business or ball field held memories. Especially the baseball field but not for any athletic achievements.

The 1st base dugout was and still is a special place for Vincent. Yes, he played baseball there as a youth. He also drank alcohol there as a teenager. A stolen bottle of rum from a friend's house. He and his three closest buddies passed the bottle around until they all got sick. Of course the boy that stole the bottle was caught by his parents and the missing bottle discovered. But that didn't stop them from doing it again and again.

Their stomachs got stronger and their circle got bigger. Girls. Vincent lost his virginity in that dugout. Many times over he and his friends hosted parties that never got raided, never crashed by unwelcome guests.

He thought fondly of those days as he sat in the dugout this morning. He sifted through the mail belonging to people wanted to know more about. Mrs. Young on Crescent Street. Ms Wilson on High Meadow Drive. Mrs. Witteford on Ridge Road. He regularly came here and went through their mail learning all about their lives, their attachments, their desires.

Then he would drive by their homes, peer in their windows and deliver the mail. Sometimes at night he would go back out with his binoculars and night-vision equipment. He would watch and take it all in.

He slipped open a letter for Mrs. Young. "What do we have here?" he asked himself.

"I told you, fellas," announced a deep voice. "A tiger don't change his stripes."

Three men stood in the rain at the top of the dugout steps. Vincent's mouth moved but no sounds escaped. The opened mail lay in his lap. The husbands, Mr. Young and Mr. Witteford stood on either side of Ms. Wilson's father.

Mr. Wilson spoke in a tight voice, controlling a seething anger. "What are we waiting for?"

The other two men didn't respond. All three descended the steps.

#23 Swing Thing

Edward loved this spot. From atop the ridge he could follow the line of mountains until they disappeared into the horizon. Living and working in the rugged conditions didn't suit all men. Men like Edward were rare, indeed.

When he was young, Edward had to be dragged from the deep woods by his family. Parents, grandparents and siblings lived all under on roof in the forest village. Edward preferred talking to the trees and animals to anyone in the house.

So when he turned eighteen, his father held up his promise and brought him to the lumber mill. There they gave him the names of three different timber men that Edward could apprentice under and later become a lumberjack.

A man named Hendelsen hired Edward. He thought he might be a little thick but he was strong enough and half as young as the rest of his men..

"You know he'll sign waivers about injuries and death and such?" He said to Edward's father. He's responsible for his own medical aside from whatever first aid I can manage."
Edward thanked God that his mother hadn't come along. She'd never have let him go.

Twelve years passed. Edward enjoyed working with timber.The saws. The men who preferred solitude and some element of danger. The scenic vistas where they worked provided the most joy for him. Edward couldn't be happy anywhere than in these mountains unless he was in some other mountains that reminded him of these.

Then came the day it all changed. It started quietly at first. Edward thought he heard a ringing in his ears. The longer it persisted the louder it became. Until suddenly it was deafening. He tried to drown it out by starting his chainsaw and went to work on a fallen tree. He hoped to drown out the screaming in his head.

It didn't help. The wailing only intensified.

He silenced his chainsaw, lowering it to the ground. "Maybe that will clear it now," he thought while rubbing his temples. He stopped moving about and rubbed his temples.

The words. He could make them out now.It was the trees! They were rebelling against the cutting. Screaming out in their moment of grief. How come he never heard them before now? Behind him, the sound of grinding and crashing through the forest forced him to turn.

What he faced was impossible. A hallucination. Trees didn't walk! Or carry their own axes!

#22 Roll-O

Bill turned his pockets inside out. He checked again under the floor mats, the seats and in the center console. No more quarters. The clock on the wall read 8:10pm. The laundromat closed at 9pm. He needed quarters but the change machine in Fast Wash Fast Dry was broken and any humans that did work there were long gone.
Bill asked the other two people doing laundry to change his ten. One man didn't have enough quarters. Even when Bill said he could keep the change, the man eyed him warily and said he "didn't like feelin' indebted to no man".
"What is this, a cowboy flick?" he thought to himself.
The woman working four dryers at once, obviously a guest in America didn't speak a lick of English.
Bill went outside. All the other businesses in sight had closed for the night. Sweat broke out on his brow and his heart began racing.
"I need my lucky shirt. I need my lucky shirt."
All Bill could think about was tomorrow's job interview. It was the promotion he had been wanting for three years and he finally got noticed! The last project he led caught the right VP's eye and now this.
But it would all be for nothing if he didn't have his lucky shirt on. He needed that shirt.
Bill decided to drive the quarter mile to the nearest gas station. Hopefully he would have enough time to get back and dry his clothes a little. He could hang his shirt to dry overnight.

"This ain't a bank, man," the man behind the bulletproof glass said.
"I know, but if you would just give me some quarters..."
"Yeah?" he interrupted. "If I just give you some quarters, then what?"
"You'll never seen me again. I promise."
"No one might ever see you again, anyway," the attendant said. He raised a handgun from below the counter and aimed it at me.
"Whoah!" Bill put both hands, palms outward toward the man.
"I have an idea," the attendant said. "I have a roll of quarters right here." He slapped it down on the counter. "It's your for fifty bucks."
What?" Bill asked.
"You heard me."
"Twenty."
"Forty-five because you seem like a nice guy."
"Twenty-five," Bill offered.
"Ok, ok. Forty."
"Thirty. That's my last offer. Take it or leave it."
"Sorry. Forty dollars and I'm not budging."
Bill turned and walked away. "I'll look elsewhere then.
As Bill opened his car door and prepared to slip inside, the man called out to him to come back. "Your offer is fair. Thirty is a fine amount. Sold!"

Bill fumed all the way back to laundromat. It was 8:30pm by the time he pulled in. Hands buried in his sweatshirt pockets, hood pulled up over his head he walked toward the building.
A door opened from a car he hadn't noticed before and a powerful looking man got out. Not in a strong way but a commanding, in-charge kind of way. Bill half-expected the man to issue him some orders. And then he did.
"Your keys and wallet, please."
"What?" Bill stammered.
"You heard me. Valuables. Put them in this bag." He handed Bill a thin plastic grocery store style bag.
Bill took the bag. He reached into his pants pocket and wrapped his fingers around the roll of quarters. It worked in the movies. Then he pulled it out and back and socked Mr. Important will all his might.
Mr I. hit the asphalt pretty hard. He tried to rise but fell back with a thud. Bill looked at the rolled coin in his hand. Smiling he said, "Best thirty bucks I ever spent."

#22 Turnover

"Man, this couldn't be any more inconvenient," Leon said to himself. He waited in a line of cars attempting to get into a parking garage. Since the garage around the corner had been closed for demolition, mornings became hell for Leon and every other commuter trying to get to work.

Not that Leon didn't have options; he lived within walking distance of a spot to grab a bus or train.

"The hell I will," Leon told his wife. "I'm not paying $450 a month to keep a brand new car in the garage!"

"So you'd rather be miserable five days a week?" Tina asked. "You should try living with yourself. I can't imagine how your employees deal with you."

"There as pissed off and ornery as me! And I think we've gotta right to be!"

"Would you rather have the old garage collapse and kill hundreds of people?"

"If I didn't have my commute all f'd up every morning? Hell yes!"

Leon finally got his turn to swipe his garage pass. The gate lifted so he rolled forward only to stop two car-lengths inside. The procession heading to the upper levels of the garage looked like a still life painting. Except for all the exhaust plumes. To his right was a ramp leading down. On impulse he turned right and drove into the dim tunnel.

The dashboard lights automatically adjusted to the reduced level of light. Leon never parked below street level. He descended one level. Then two. On the third level down he was ready to turn around and go back up. To his surprise and glee, there it was. An open spot right beside a door that had to be the stairs. He pulled in and shut the engine down.

He checked his watch. "Already fifteen minutes late." he grumbled. Leon grabbed his work bag and hat. Stopping before the door he looked around. Seeing no other doors or signs with useful information, he grabbed the handle and pulled.

Leon hesitated as he stepped inside. The stairs led down, not up. A jaundiced yellow bulb throbbed inside a shatter-proof birdcage kind of shell. He turned back to the door.

"Maybe I'll just walk up the ramps instead," he said.

The door wouldn't budge. Leon put his bag down and put his shoulder into the door. Nothing. He realized he was breathing hard, heart pounding.

"Alright. Think. Maybe the stairs lead to another corridor or ramp or something."

He picked up his bag. Taking a few calming breaths he started down the stairs. The light bulb blinked a final time and went out.

#21 Story in a Box

Myrna experienced desperation before, but that was over two years ago. With the deadline fast approaching she needed a story. And it had to be something she could sew up quickly. The time to research and conduct opposing viewpoint interviews just didn't exist.

She decided to go back down to the docks and snoop around. She'd done a story on dangerous working conditions in the city a while back. Maybe someone would remember her and give her some quick information.

The wind coming off the water bit into her cheeks. It stung like a cold slap, the kind the nuns used to give her when she misbehaved in school. Though the wind turned her face bright red, Myrna had overdressed. Too many layers, but she was too far from her car to run back now.

She walked awkwardly along the pier .The planks were slick with seawater. She struggled to keep from falling but her foot shot backwards and she pitched forward toward the deck. She winced expecting impact. Instead, strong arms hoisted her upright and guided her into the wide doorway of a shabby office.

"Nearly had a rough go of it there, wouldn't ya say?" asked a man who looked as weathered as the pier she slipped on.

"Almost," nervousness obvious in that one word. "Who are you?"

"I'm nobody. But I know who you be. Things be much safer since you last come round."

"Glad I could help."

"It's no help, miss. Too many eyes that needn't be, are spyin' around here. Always casting about since your reportin'."

"I didn't know," Myrna said. She had her first thoughts about her safety.

"How could ya? Anyways, I'd bet a month's pay you're back here for another story."

"I don't actually have one yet," she said in all honesty. "I was hoping to find something new."

The longshoreman went to the door and looked around on the pier. He came back and opened a chest behind a desk. He put a box on the desk. It looked battered and filthy. A single keyhole on one side was the only clue.

"Your story's in that there box, miss."

Myrna looked up at him. He wasn't going to tell her anything, she knew that. She needed to open it herself. She reached out and took a key from the man's gloved hand. She held it a moment studying the box. Then with a deep breath she pushed the key in and turned. Click!

#20 Rest Stop

"Is anyone sitting here?"

I looked up from my sandwich. A woman stood holding a tray with a salad and a bowl of soup. She had a bottle of water in the crook of her arm. I scanned the other tables of the rest area food court and didn't see an open seat.

"No. Go ahead," I said.

"Would you really have sent me away if you saw an open table," she asked, smiling.

I smiled back. "No. I guess it was just reflex. I didn't know it was that crowded in here."

"So long as that's true, then I'll sit here," she batted eye lashes that protected green eyes. I finally noticed how attractive she was. She settled in at the table meant for four travelers.

"I hate long road trips. Especially driving someone else's car."

"I know what you mean," I said. "Nothing is adjusted just for you. It's like wearing someone else's clothes."

"That's too funny," she laughed. "Is your car comfortable at least?" She took a long drag from her water bottle.

"Yeah. It's a BMW and I've had it for a year. It fits like an old pair of jeans."

"Wow. Good for you. I'm driving to Ohio. How about you?"

"Not that far. Just New York."

"Is that home?" She drank more water.

"No. Maine is where I lived the last twelve years. I did grow up in NY, though."

"You know what? I really need to use the ladies room. Guess I shoulda done that before getting all this, huh? Would you watch my stuff for just a minute?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem," I said.

When she didn't come back I knew I just got scammed. I went to my car. The door was partially open. All my valuables gone. In the manager's office , the state trooper and I watched a video. Our table was visible from a security camera angled over the cash registers of Sbarro.

"There," the trooper said. "She's texting under the table. Told her accomplice what car and what state license plate to look for." He looked at me and said, "Hope you learned something today, buddy."

Three years later at the same rest stop, a woman asked the guy at the table next to me if the seat was taken. She held a tray with salad, soup and a bottle of water balanced in her arm.

#19 American Idol

Alice lowered the passenger side window to toss their coffee cups into the parking lot trash can.

"Pull ahead a smidge, Liz. I can't reach."

"I can't. Just toss it in," Liz said.

With a grunt, Alice tossed the cups. They separated in mid-air, moving apart. They struck opposite edges of the trash can's rim. One cup bounced up and fell inside. The other cup spun and then tumbled to the pavement.

Without looking over at Liz, Alice let out a sigh. She opened the door and the bottom edge scraped against the curb.

"Hey!" shouted Liz.

Alice turned her head to smirk. Just for a second. When she got out, the car raised up just enough to lift off the curb. She stepped up on the sidewalk and around the trash can to grab her coffee cup. Beside it lay an object that caught her attention.

She scooped up the cup and dropped it in the can without even looking, her whole attention now fixed on the object on the sidewalk.

Liz couldn't see Alice. The car door and trash can combined to obscure her view. "Alice! Let's go. We're gonna be late again!" Liz said.

Alice stood. Her hands cupped in front of her belly, she held the object. She searched her mind to find some familiar thing so she could describe it. Attach meaning to it. But this thing, a carving of some kind both confused and intrigued her at the same time.

Liz's patience ended. "Alice. Get your ass in the car. What are you doing?"

Alice turned her head smoothly. Locking eyes with Liz, she said, "Go on without me."

Furious, Liz unbuckled her seatbelt, slid across the seat and pulled the door shut. Once behind the wheel she threw the car in gear and shouted, "Fine. Good luck finding another job!"

Liz sped along the parking lot until she reached the entrance to the street. She looked back at Alice in the rearview mirror. Alice still held her hands in front of her belly. Whatever she was holding glowed and ghostly green. It cast a green tint over Alice's yellow shirt and white pants. Liz put the car in reverse.

Alice heard the gear drop and the whine of a car moving quickly in reverse. She smiled as she stroked the image carved into the idol. The octopus-like head with tentacle feelers in place of a mouth. Wings folded against the back. Webbed, clawed hands. It was, just, beautiful.

#18 Excuse Me?

"Just give her a break, Dylan," I said.

"A break? That had to be the most disgusting display of table manners I've ever seen!"

Dylan quickened his pace as we crossed the parking lot. I hurried to stay even with him.
"Look, I know people who talk with food in their mouth is kind of a pet peeve for you..."

Dylan turned and grabbed my coat stopping us both on the spot. He had 5 inches and 25 pounds on me. He knew how to use his size to intimidate when he wanted.

"Her little display in there was rude and obnoxious. Go ahead and tell me she wasn't acting like a pig!"
"Dylan, I..."

"No, you can't. And you know I'm paranoid about choking on food and dying." Dylan paused and leaned in close. "Why am I paranoid about choking, Michael? Why?"

I took a shaky breath before answering. Dylan was getting pretty scary. "Because of the way your mom died."

"That's right. I watched her choke on a simple bite of food. And since they don't teach five-year olds the Heimlich maneuver and sometimes adults pretend stuff like sleeping and dying, I didn't do anything to save her."

He finally let go of me. I rubbed the feeling back into to my right triceps muscle. He started walking toward the car again. The final 30 seconds passed in silence.

"OK. I understand your little sister is only nine. But someone has to teach them about these things. No one in your family deems it important."

"Don't you think covering her mouth with a napkin and shouting, 'Breathe, bitch, breathe!' was over the top? I mean it was a birthday party and she was trying to sing during the cake cutting."

#17 Dog Walks

The dog knows when it's time for the humans to turn out the lights and go to sleep. She makes her way to the front door and patiently waits for the leash. Most nights I take her out. The darkness is complete on the front yard. The porch light and whatever leaks out the picture window is consumed by the night.

Groups of tall trees border all the homes at the end of the road. No streetlights. Even if every home had their exterior lights on it wouldn't be much help. The houses are too far back from the road and there aren't many of them.

I think about these things when I walk the dog. I never bring a flashlight despite my concerns. Even after I saw him that one October night, standing in the break in the fence at the end of the cul de sac. I always carried a pocketknife, because that should scare any deranged lunatic off. But no lantern.

The first night I saw him I chalked it up to a person waiting for someone. The gap in the fence leads to a path that connects our neighborhood with another one a hundred yards through the woods. The streets don't connect because of some wetlands.

But that was the only night I thought he was waiting for a friend. Every other time I saw him he stood in a different spot. His head always lay canted to one side like he yearned to hear a distant conversation. The closest I ever really got to him was about fifty yards. I waved but he didn't wave back. I even questioned if it was a man because he had what looked like smeared, red lipstick around his open mouth.

The dog acts weird, too. At first she wags her tail and is kinda playful. Then she whimpers a little and gets real close to my leg. She does her business and she pulls me back toward the house. She usually jumps all over people, familiar or otherwise.

I called the police to report him, but that didn't get them much too excited. I guess it was because the guy hadn't butchered anyone yet.

I'm writing this now in the basement. I have the dog and my shotgun at my side. My wife and children happened to be at my in-laws for a couple days. Glad they weren't here when I flipped the light on and saw him on the back deck. I nearly lost it when I saw all the small details. The police didn't sound that interested even when I held out the phone so they could hear him banging on the glass and moaning.

Glass just broke upstairs. Probably the sliding glass door leading in from the sun-room. I just clicked off the safety. Be back.

#16 The Right Seat

I don't enjoy air travel. Especially long flights. I get these cramps in my legs and I just want to jump up and run around. It can become such a distraction that I can't think about anything else. It probably looks crazy to anyone watching me.
I once talked to a shrink about it. He thought I might be claustrophobic or agoraphobic or something but I don't have that same anxiety in any other tight spaces. And I'm not afraid to fly. I'm perfectly OK with it. It's the lack of freedom. Just knowing that we can't pull over so I can take a quick walk. And walking to the john and back to my seat doesn't qualify. I tried that but after five trips they think you're a terrorist no matter what you look like.
So I was in the middle of a long transatlantic flight home and I start to fidget. It got so bad, the woman across the aisle asked me if I needed help.
"No. I'm OK, really. I just get these leg cramps and, uh, I don't know." I winced in discomfort.
"I think it's probably more than that," she said. "I have the same problem, you know?"
She described how she felt on long flights. Even short ones. I forgot all about my problems while I intently listened to her.
"I have my medication right here with me. As you can see I'm as calm as a cucumber. I have plenty of these. Want a couple?"
She offered the bottle across the aisle. I accepted it and read the label carefully. I had never heard of the drug, but I didn't have any of the conditions that the warning label mentioned.
"Go ahead," she said, "I won't tell anybody."
"Oh, alright," I said, and popped a couple of the pills. I handed the bottle back to her.
When I next awoke, I found myself sitting on the dirt floor of a small building. Shackles connected my wrists and ankles to the walls. The anxiety returned and I felt the need to jump up and run.