Alan angrily wadded up the letter, and flung it into the night sky. It arced outward towards the moon until it caught in the salty night breeze, quickly veered right, finally coming to rest on the surface of the water; far, far below. Alan carefully placed the pictures back in his shirt pocket, and began climbing the railing; ready to follow the letter to the waves below.
"I can get you another copy of that letter if you want back it that bad, son," the Captain’s voice came from behind him, "I’d really rather you didn’t go in after it."
Alan paused, leaning his shins against the top of the railing. "How’d you know where to find me, sir?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Wasn’t too hard. After you stormed out of my office, you punched the hell out of that bulkhead. The trail of blood was hard to miss."
Alan looked down at his hands again. He had obviously broken a couple bones in his right hand; it was swelling up rapidly. The knuckles on his left hand continued to slowly bleed. The blood had pooled and started to clot around his wedding ring, and ran down the length of his fingers. Physical pain was the farthest thing from his mind.
"I’ve got nothing left, Sir. My parents… My wife… My sweet… little girl…" he said, the tears once again beginning to flow.
"Son, I don’t know what’s going through your head right now, but what you’re getting ready to do out here right now doesn’t change anything…."
Alan moved his left foot to the top rail.
"Davis," Wallace said more sternly, "runnin’ away like this is just as cowardly as what those bastards did to your family."
Rage overtook Alan. He spun down from the railing, and shot like a bolt of lightning towards the Captain, outstretched hands reaching for his throat as he unleashed a primal scream.
Alan never ever saw Wallace’s right jab before it connected, crumpling him to the deck.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Week 12 Journal 1 : What do you want?
"Sir," Vic peeped meekly from behind him as he began to get up from his chair.
"What’s up, Vicky?" Alan replied.
"I was wondering... Commander Novikova mentioned that you used to be stationed at the shipyards."
"Vic, I really need to get some bunk time," Alan replied, rubbing at the migraine threatening to grab hold of him. Walk with me."
Vic quickly fell into step alongside the Captain as they walked off the command deck, down the hall towards the Captain’s quarters.
"Yes, Vicky. I worked in the yard itself for a few years when I first got there. My specialty was artificial gravity equipment. I worked on grav plating and hover systems in probably half of the ships in the reserve fleet right now, including the Powell."
"Oh," Vic replied, a little disappointed.
"What? Grav plating isn't exciting enough for you, Vicky?"
"N-no, sir!" Vic stammered, turning beet red. "I mean…"
Alan laughed. "Oh… Thanks Vic, I needed that. That’s the first time I've laughed all week. Novikova told me you were going to ask me about the shipyards sooner or later, once you'd plucked up the courage. You want to know about hyperdrive, right?"
"I have to know. Everyone just tells me to stop poking around. It's classified. The only people with the answers work in the shipyards. I don't think I can ever let it go."
"Even if that means a court martial, Vic? Hyperdrive is a major military secret..."
"That every space-faring nation out here already has!" Vic cried, exasperated. "What's the point in protecting a military secret that's not a secret anymore??... Sir."
Alan stopped walking, and turned to face Vic. "That is a good question, Vic. The answer is classified."
Vic tried to hide his incredulity, but was less than successful. "The reason why hyperdrive is classified... is classified. Great."
"It's even more confusing than that, Vic, I promise. Most military secrets are. Look, I've got to get some sleep. Tell you what; meet me tomorrow at 1900 on the hangar deck. I need an extra pair of hands to help me with a couple things on the Isis. I'll tell you what little I can then without clearances."
"Yes sir, Thank-you sir! G-goodnight Sir!" Vic said as he hurried down the hall to the junior officer's quarters.
Alan chuckled to himself as he walked into his quarters. Vic reminded him of himself. Many, many years ago.
"What’s up, Vicky?" Alan replied.
"I was wondering... Commander Novikova mentioned that you used to be stationed at the shipyards."
"Vic, I really need to get some bunk time," Alan replied, rubbing at the migraine threatening to grab hold of him. Walk with me."
Vic quickly fell into step alongside the Captain as they walked off the command deck, down the hall towards the Captain’s quarters.
"Yes, Vicky. I worked in the yard itself for a few years when I first got there. My specialty was artificial gravity equipment. I worked on grav plating and hover systems in probably half of the ships in the reserve fleet right now, including the Powell."
"Oh," Vic replied, a little disappointed.
"What? Grav plating isn't exciting enough for you, Vicky?"
"N-no, sir!" Vic stammered, turning beet red. "I mean…"
Alan laughed. "Oh… Thanks Vic, I needed that. That’s the first time I've laughed all week. Novikova told me you were going to ask me about the shipyards sooner or later, once you'd plucked up the courage. You want to know about hyperdrive, right?"
"I have to know. Everyone just tells me to stop poking around. It's classified. The only people with the answers work in the shipyards. I don't think I can ever let it go."
"Even if that means a court martial, Vic? Hyperdrive is a major military secret..."
"That every space-faring nation out here already has!" Vic cried, exasperated. "What's the point in protecting a military secret that's not a secret anymore??... Sir."
Alan stopped walking, and turned to face Vic. "That is a good question, Vic. The answer is classified."
Vic tried to hide his incredulity, but was less than successful. "The reason why hyperdrive is classified... is classified. Great."
"It's even more confusing than that, Vic, I promise. Most military secrets are. Look, I've got to get some sleep. Tell you what; meet me tomorrow at 1900 on the hangar deck. I need an extra pair of hands to help me with a couple things on the Isis. I'll tell you what little I can then without clearances."
"Yes sir, Thank-you sir! G-goodnight Sir!" Vic said as he hurried down the hall to the junior officer's quarters.
Alan chuckled to himself as he walked into his quarters. Vic reminded him of himself. Many, many years ago.
Week 11 Journal 2 : Seven things I know about Alan Davis.
Caught Cheating
During eighth grade, Many, many students were stuffing the ballot box for the homecoming king and queen. Alan was the only student caught doing it. He was made to stand up in front of the entire student body, take responsibility for his cheating, and as a result, the election was invalidated and there would be no King or Queen that year.
Pack-Rat
Alan’s mother was always very thrifty; saving anything that could be reused, fixing clothes and toys that were not beyond repair, looking for bargains, and buying things on sale years before they would ever be needed. This was mostly out of necessity, as his family did not have much money growing up. Even after the kids were all grown and gone, Alan’s mother continued storing things in her basement for posterity, and for eventual grandchildren. Alan’s father hates having to store "all this junk".
Perfect Pitch
Alan has perfect pitch; he can tell you specifically which musical note he hears at any time. He can even tell you which musical chord is being played.
Surprise Gender
Alan’s parents had been told he was a girl in the womb. They were quite surprised when he was otherwise-equipped when he arrived. His name was supposed to be Amy.
Pent up Emotion
Alan has a very high tolerance for controlling his emotions, but if he does reach his breaking point, he becomes almost maniacal in his rage, suicidal in despair, giddy with happiness, etc.
Nickname
"Do not call me Al."
Drinking
Beer and wine both give Alan horrible headaches. His drink of choice is vodka or rum mixed with fruit juice.
During eighth grade, Many, many students were stuffing the ballot box for the homecoming king and queen. Alan was the only student caught doing it. He was made to stand up in front of the entire student body, take responsibility for his cheating, and as a result, the election was invalidated and there would be no King or Queen that year.
Pack-Rat
Alan’s mother was always very thrifty; saving anything that could be reused, fixing clothes and toys that were not beyond repair, looking for bargains, and buying things on sale years before they would ever be needed. This was mostly out of necessity, as his family did not have much money growing up. Even after the kids were all grown and gone, Alan’s mother continued storing things in her basement for posterity, and for eventual grandchildren. Alan’s father hates having to store "all this junk".
Perfect Pitch
Alan has perfect pitch; he can tell you specifically which musical note he hears at any time. He can even tell you which musical chord is being played.
Surprise Gender
Alan’s parents had been told he was a girl in the womb. They were quite surprised when he was otherwise-equipped when he arrived. His name was supposed to be Amy.
Pent up Emotion
Alan has a very high tolerance for controlling his emotions, but if he does reach his breaking point, he becomes almost maniacal in his rage, suicidal in despair, giddy with happiness, etc.
Nickname
"Do not call me Al."
Drinking
Beer and wine both give Alan horrible headaches. His drink of choice is vodka or rum mixed with fruit juice.
Week 11 Journal #1
Elena walked onto the hangar deck, squinting as she was overwhelmed by the deluge of echoing rock music and welding equipment. As the door slid shut behind her, she grabbed a set of sound-suppression earphones off the wall, and began walking to the last berth on the port-side of the hangar, passing non-descript shuttlecraft, and short-range patrol ships.
There, she found the same sight she had found every time she had made this trip. A lair of legs jutted out from an access panel to the engine bay of the Isis, intermittently accompanied by a shower of sparks from the welding going on inside. The cabin access door stood open, belching an overpowering guitar riff from the audio equipment inside.
Elena sighed, and keyed a control alongside the cabin door. It slid shut, bottling the music inside. The legs inside tensed for a moment at the unexpected silence.
"What is it, Elena?" the Captain’s voice came from inside the engine bay.
"Jerry’s been trying to reach you for fifteen minutes. We got the go-order for the rendezvous."
The welder fired up one more time, finishing off the task it was on. Alan gently wriggled out from the compartment. "Jerry got you out of bed to tell me that?" he said as he reached for the tattered old T-shirt draped over the open access panel to wipe his hands and face.
"It’s 0400, sir. You’ve been in here all night."
"Couldn’t sleep. Besides, with everything else going on, I don’t exactly get much down time anymore to work on her," he said, patting the Isis like a favorite pet.
"I still can’t believe you can afford all of this. I mean, gravity plating in there is better than anything I’ve seen on any Alliance cruiser."
Alan finishing resealing the engine compartment. He arched his back, crackling several vertebrae back into alignment.
"I made a lot of money when I was an engineer on mining ships in the field," he said, as he reached into a cooler stashed behind one of the landing pylons. He threw one bottle of water to Elena, and opened another for himself as he walked around his creation. "Mining crews get paid by the kilo; equal shares for the whole crew, except the Captain, who usually gets double. We were out on some rock in the middle of the field. We’d found a concentration of platinum."
"Platinum?" Elena questioned. "Pretty rare in the field, most of it has to come from Earth or Mars, and in pretty small quantities."
"Mm-hmm," Alan replied, "it was way above what should happen naturally. It was like someone had dropped a transport full of the stuff there eons ago. It was more than we could ever hope to haul in a single trip. The ore holds were all full, and the crews had started filling any open space they could find with as much loose ore as they could carry."
Alan paused as he took another swig of water. "I refused to let them put any ore in the engine room. I sealed the hatch to the compartment, and called up to the Captain and told him the ship would not take this amount of load. None of them would listen. All they saw were the dollar signs in their heads. Stupid…"
Alan stopped for a moment, remembering his friends among that mining crew.
"We got away from the asteroid okay, but as soon as they tried to change course for the trip back to Mars, the gravity plating failed. The whole ship went zero-gee, "he recalled painfully. "You could hear all that ore bouncing around in the halls. The emergency bulkheads couldn’t seal because of all the junk in there, tearing the ship apart from the inside out. Section after section depressurized. I managed to get a pressure suit on a couple minutes before the hatch to the engine room was compromised. By the time I was able to get the gravity plating back at minimal power, the entire ship decompressed. Out of sixteen crew members, I was the only survivor."
"Oh my god," Elena said.
"I managed to get enough power online to limp the ship back to the mining station from the engine room. I was happy to get out of there alive. My share of the profit was more than enough to quietly retire on Mars. I got contacted a month or two later by a lawyer for the miner’s union. They had sued the mining company on my behalf."
"Why?"
"The mining contract has a negligence clause… If a crew member knowingly, through action or inaction, contributed to the disaster, they lost eligibility for their share. The Union had it included in all contracts to make sure the mining company didn’t make crews take more risks than they already did. Since the entire crew was negligent, none of their shares were valid. As a result, I was entitled to the entire profit from the haul, not the mining company. After the Union took their cut of the settlement, I ended up with ten times more than I would have taken otherwise."
Elena shook her head in amazement. "Why didn’t you retire then?"
"There’s not exactly a lot to do out here, you know? If you’re not mining, and not in the military, you’re pretty much just sitting around. Most retired miners blow their money on booze, drugs, and whatever else they can find on Mars. I started buying spare parts from all over the Solar system to build myself a little pleasure boat. I got audited a few times; the Alliance got a little worried with my purchasing supplied from the EU and SAC. In fact, this little ship is what got me back into the military. They put me in the shipyards to keep a closer eye on what I was up to until they were sure I wasn’t going to lead a revolution or something."
There, she found the same sight she had found every time she had made this trip. A lair of legs jutted out from an access panel to the engine bay of the Isis, intermittently accompanied by a shower of sparks from the welding going on inside. The cabin access door stood open, belching an overpowering guitar riff from the audio equipment inside.
Elena sighed, and keyed a control alongside the cabin door. It slid shut, bottling the music inside. The legs inside tensed for a moment at the unexpected silence.
"What is it, Elena?" the Captain’s voice came from inside the engine bay.
"Jerry’s been trying to reach you for fifteen minutes. We got the go-order for the rendezvous."
The welder fired up one more time, finishing off the task it was on. Alan gently wriggled out from the compartment. "Jerry got you out of bed to tell me that?" he said as he reached for the tattered old T-shirt draped over the open access panel to wipe his hands and face.
"It’s 0400, sir. You’ve been in here all night."
"Couldn’t sleep. Besides, with everything else going on, I don’t exactly get much down time anymore to work on her," he said, patting the Isis like a favorite pet.
"I still can’t believe you can afford all of this. I mean, gravity plating in there is better than anything I’ve seen on any Alliance cruiser."
Alan finishing resealing the engine compartment. He arched his back, crackling several vertebrae back into alignment.
"I made a lot of money when I was an engineer on mining ships in the field," he said, as he reached into a cooler stashed behind one of the landing pylons. He threw one bottle of water to Elena, and opened another for himself as he walked around his creation. "Mining crews get paid by the kilo; equal shares for the whole crew, except the Captain, who usually gets double. We were out on some rock in the middle of the field. We’d found a concentration of platinum."
"Platinum?" Elena questioned. "Pretty rare in the field, most of it has to come from Earth or Mars, and in pretty small quantities."
"Mm-hmm," Alan replied, "it was way above what should happen naturally. It was like someone had dropped a transport full of the stuff there eons ago. It was more than we could ever hope to haul in a single trip. The ore holds were all full, and the crews had started filling any open space they could find with as much loose ore as they could carry."
Alan paused as he took another swig of water. "I refused to let them put any ore in the engine room. I sealed the hatch to the compartment, and called up to the Captain and told him the ship would not take this amount of load. None of them would listen. All they saw were the dollar signs in their heads. Stupid…"
Alan stopped for a moment, remembering his friends among that mining crew.
"We got away from the asteroid okay, but as soon as they tried to change course for the trip back to Mars, the gravity plating failed. The whole ship went zero-gee, "he recalled painfully. "You could hear all that ore bouncing around in the halls. The emergency bulkheads couldn’t seal because of all the junk in there, tearing the ship apart from the inside out. Section after section depressurized. I managed to get a pressure suit on a couple minutes before the hatch to the engine room was compromised. By the time I was able to get the gravity plating back at minimal power, the entire ship decompressed. Out of sixteen crew members, I was the only survivor."
"Oh my god," Elena said.
"I managed to get enough power online to limp the ship back to the mining station from the engine room. I was happy to get out of there alive. My share of the profit was more than enough to quietly retire on Mars. I got contacted a month or two later by a lawyer for the miner’s union. They had sued the mining company on my behalf."
"Why?"
"The mining contract has a negligence clause… If a crew member knowingly, through action or inaction, contributed to the disaster, they lost eligibility for their share. The Union had it included in all contracts to make sure the mining company didn’t make crews take more risks than they already did. Since the entire crew was negligent, none of their shares were valid. As a result, I was entitled to the entire profit from the haul, not the mining company. After the Union took their cut of the settlement, I ended up with ten times more than I would have taken otherwise."
Elena shook her head in amazement. "Why didn’t you retire then?"
"There’s not exactly a lot to do out here, you know? If you’re not mining, and not in the military, you’re pretty much just sitting around. Most retired miners blow their money on booze, drugs, and whatever else they can find on Mars. I started buying spare parts from all over the Solar system to build myself a little pleasure boat. I got audited a few times; the Alliance got a little worried with my purchasing supplied from the EU and SAC. In fact, this little ship is what got me back into the military. They put me in the shipyards to keep a closer eye on what I was up to until they were sure I wasn’t going to lead a revolution or something."
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Week 10 Journal 2 : Room 101: Acrophobia
“Let’s stay in tonight and watch a movie,” Alice said as she showly unbuttoned her sweater, revealing a black silk camisole underneath. Tonight was going to be the night!
She nuzzled into my side as I sat; the warmth of her breath on my neck. She slowly flipped the channel, finally stopping on one of those Lifetime channels… I would have complained any other night.
A man and a woman walked arm in arm through a lobby, both giggling with the intoxication of each other’s company… and the drinks from the hotel bar they had just left behind.
“Your room or mine?” the woman said, as Alice unbuttoned a few buttons on my shirt.
“Mine’s the Penthouse,” he answered, nibbling at the woman’s ear.
“Sounds good to me,” the woman replied, fumbling through the alcoholic haze to find the elevator control. The elevator bell rang obediently, and the doors slid open silently to reveal the elevator car.
The glass-walled elevator car.
My heart had already quickened from Alice’s proximity, but now the beats shifted again. The couple stumbled into the elevator, and the man reached over to press “75” key, the top floor. The woman leaned back against the glass wall of the elevator, as the doors slid shut; a prison cell door slamming home in my mind.
I could feel the blood draining from my face as the elevator rocketed into the sky. The man stepped over to the woman in the elevator, pressing her up against the glass wall. She lifted her feet off the floor; wrapping them around his waist as he pulled open her blouse.
Alice slid her hand inside my open shirt to stroke my chest, unaware of the personal hell playing out in front of us. As the couple on the television disrobed, the elevator continued to climb with my blood pressure.
“Don’t get too excited now,” Alice said, noticing how hard my heart was beating. She took her eyes off the screen to look at me. “Paul, are you okay, you’re white as a ghost!”
Then, the man reached behind him to pull the elevator stop control. With a gut-wrenching thud, the elevator lurched to a stop; bouncing like a ragdoll on its cables.
The room spun. Everything went white. I was falling.
The next thing I remember, I was lying on the couch with a wet washcloth on my forehead. Alice looked down at me as if I was about to die.
She nuzzled into my side as I sat; the warmth of her breath on my neck. She slowly flipped the channel, finally stopping on one of those Lifetime channels… I would have complained any other night.
A man and a woman walked arm in arm through a lobby, both giggling with the intoxication of each other’s company… and the drinks from the hotel bar they had just left behind.
“Your room or mine?” the woman said, as Alice unbuttoned a few buttons on my shirt.
“Mine’s the Penthouse,” he answered, nibbling at the woman’s ear.
“Sounds good to me,” the woman replied, fumbling through the alcoholic haze to find the elevator control. The elevator bell rang obediently, and the doors slid open silently to reveal the elevator car.
The glass-walled elevator car.
My heart had already quickened from Alice’s proximity, but now the beats shifted again. The couple stumbled into the elevator, and the man reached over to press “75” key, the top floor. The woman leaned back against the glass wall of the elevator, as the doors slid shut; a prison cell door slamming home in my mind.
I could feel the blood draining from my face as the elevator rocketed into the sky. The man stepped over to the woman in the elevator, pressing her up against the glass wall. She lifted her feet off the floor; wrapping them around his waist as he pulled open her blouse.
Alice slid her hand inside my open shirt to stroke my chest, unaware of the personal hell playing out in front of us. As the couple on the television disrobed, the elevator continued to climb with my blood pressure.
“Don’t get too excited now,” Alice said, noticing how hard my heart was beating. She took her eyes off the screen to look at me. “Paul, are you okay, you’re white as a ghost!”
Then, the man reached behind him to pull the elevator stop control. With a gut-wrenching thud, the elevator lurched to a stop; bouncing like a ragdoll on its cables.
The room spun. Everything went white. I was falling.
The next thing I remember, I was lying on the couch with a wet washcloth on my forehead. Alice looked down at me as if I was about to die.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Week 9 Journal 2
"Come on."
"Don't start with me."
"We have to make a decision."
"I'm not ready yet."
"Fine, then I'll just decide for you."
"No, you'll just wait until I'm ready."
"I swear we go through this every time."
"Would you stop complaining? I just need time to think."
"The menu here hasn't changed once in the ten years we've been coming here."
"So?"
"'So?!' You order the same thing every time!"
"I do not. Besides I'm ready now."
"Great."
"I'll have the chicken sandwich..."
"What? You said you didn't order the same thing..."
"I wasn't done yet... I'll have the chicken sandwich, but can I get a cup of soup instead of the salad this time? Thanks."
"Don't start with me."
"We have to make a decision."
"I'm not ready yet."
"Fine, then I'll just decide for you."
"No, you'll just wait until I'm ready."
"I swear we go through this every time."
"Would you stop complaining? I just need time to think."
"The menu here hasn't changed once in the ten years we've been coming here."
"So?"
"'So?!' You order the same thing every time!"
"I do not. Besides I'm ready now."
"Great."
"I'll have the chicken sandwich..."
"What? You said you didn't order the same thing..."
"I wasn't done yet... I'll have the chicken sandwich, but can I get a cup of soup instead of the salad this time? Thanks."
Week 9 Journal 1
"We're lost."
"For the third time, we're not lost, Amanda," Eddie replied.
"Are you sure? I think we passed that cow before."
Eddie took his eyes off the road just long enough to shoot an icy stare at his kid sister.
They continued down the two lane highway, passing rolling hills and pastures, cows and horses. Amanda sat up as straight as she could to see out the window from her booster seat. Each time they would see a bale of hay, she perked up. "Is that it, Eddie?"
"Amanda, how many times do I have to tell you? Aunt Lucy lives in a town called Hayfield, not in an actual hay field."
"Oh yeah."
Eddie had to admit, it might as well be an actual hay field. Mom and Dad usually made the drive down to drop off Amanda for the weekend, but Eddie had had his driver's license for almost a year now. It sure seemed a lot longer driving the trip from Minneapolis to the middle-of-nowhere himself. The Hannah Montana CD playing in the stereo might have had something to do with that.
Eddie was old enough to stay home now while his parents were both out of town, but Amanda was only five, and between school and work couldn't take care of her during the day.
Finally, the right street name appeared on the horizon, and they turned off the highway into the little town of Hayfield.
"Here it is, Amanda."
Amanda popped her head out of her book and looked out out at the little town. Everywhere she looked, she saw people standing on the street corners.
"Why is everyone just standing around, Eddie?"
"It's a small town. Just about everybody knows everybody else. You stop and talk to Mrs. B. every time you see her in the alley at home, don't you?"
"Oh. Where's Aunt Lucy's house?"
"I'm going to drop you off at Aunt Lucy's salon, remember? It's just past the bank over there."
As the car turned the corner into the parking lot, Amanda looked puzzled. "Where's the bank?"
"It's right here."
"Nuh-uh. There no zoomy tubes."
"It's a little bank, Amanda," Eddie replied, rubbing at the dull headache in his forehead as he got out of the car. "You have to go inside. they don't have a drive-up."
Eddie walked around the car, unstrapped Amanda, and held her hand as they walked down the sidewalk and into the salon.
Amanda surveyed the salon. It was a small room, with just enough room for one hair station, complete with sink. In the front of the store were a small cluster of chairs around a small magazine rack, and a plastic bin with some beat up old board books and toys. Along the other wall sat three older ladies, reading magazines with their heads in funny-shaped buckets attached to the wall. Aunt Lucy stood next to the hair station, leaning over the sink to wash someone's hair.
"Aunt Lucy!"
"Hi, Mandy! I'll be over in just a sec, okay?"
After seating Mrs. Kreuger under the fourth and final hood drier along the wall, Aunt Lucy came over and gave Amanda a big hug.
"Hi sweetie. Ready to help me do some hair today?"
"Yeah!"
"Eddie, you want to stay for lunch?"
"No thanks, Aunt Lucy. I've got a long drive back, and I have get to work this afternoon, still."
"Okay, well at least grab a pop out of the cooler in back for the drive home."
Eddie smiled, and went into the back to find a soda. Amanda sat down and began rifling through the toy bin, "Hey, this is mine!"
"Mommy gave me some of your old toys, hon. You can play with them while you're here. Did you have a good trip down?"
"Uh-huh. But I think Eddie went the wrong way."
"Why?"
"There's no hay here."
"For the third time, we're not lost, Amanda," Eddie replied.
"Are you sure? I think we passed that cow before."
Eddie took his eyes off the road just long enough to shoot an icy stare at his kid sister.
They continued down the two lane highway, passing rolling hills and pastures, cows and horses. Amanda sat up as straight as she could to see out the window from her booster seat. Each time they would see a bale of hay, she perked up. "Is that it, Eddie?"
"Amanda, how many times do I have to tell you? Aunt Lucy lives in a town called Hayfield, not in an actual hay field."
"Oh yeah."
Eddie had to admit, it might as well be an actual hay field. Mom and Dad usually made the drive down to drop off Amanda for the weekend, but Eddie had had his driver's license for almost a year now. It sure seemed a lot longer driving the trip from Minneapolis to the middle-of-nowhere himself. The Hannah Montana CD playing in the stereo might have had something to do with that.
Eddie was old enough to stay home now while his parents were both out of town, but Amanda was only five, and between school and work couldn't take care of her during the day.
Finally, the right street name appeared on the horizon, and they turned off the highway into the little town of Hayfield.
"Here it is, Amanda."
Amanda popped her head out of her book and looked out out at the little town. Everywhere she looked, she saw people standing on the street corners.
"Why is everyone just standing around, Eddie?"
"It's a small town. Just about everybody knows everybody else. You stop and talk to Mrs. B. every time you see her in the alley at home, don't you?"
"Oh. Where's Aunt Lucy's house?"
"I'm going to drop you off at Aunt Lucy's salon, remember? It's just past the bank over there."
As the car turned the corner into the parking lot, Amanda looked puzzled. "Where's the bank?"
"It's right here."
"Nuh-uh. There no zoomy tubes."
"It's a little bank, Amanda," Eddie replied, rubbing at the dull headache in his forehead as he got out of the car. "You have to go inside. they don't have a drive-up."
Eddie walked around the car, unstrapped Amanda, and held her hand as they walked down the sidewalk and into the salon.
Amanda surveyed the salon. It was a small room, with just enough room for one hair station, complete with sink. In the front of the store were a small cluster of chairs around a small magazine rack, and a plastic bin with some beat up old board books and toys. Along the other wall sat three older ladies, reading magazines with their heads in funny-shaped buckets attached to the wall. Aunt Lucy stood next to the hair station, leaning over the sink to wash someone's hair.
"Aunt Lucy!"
"Hi, Mandy! I'll be over in just a sec, okay?"
After seating Mrs. Kreuger under the fourth and final hood drier along the wall, Aunt Lucy came over and gave Amanda a big hug.
"Hi sweetie. Ready to help me do some hair today?"
"Yeah!"
"Eddie, you want to stay for lunch?"
"No thanks, Aunt Lucy. I've got a long drive back, and I have get to work this afternoon, still."
"Okay, well at least grab a pop out of the cooler in back for the drive home."
Eddie smiled, and went into the back to find a soda. Amanda sat down and began rifling through the toy bin, "Hey, this is mine!"
"Mommy gave me some of your old toys, hon. You can play with them while you're here. Did you have a good trip down?"
"Uh-huh. But I think Eddie went the wrong way."
"Why?"
"There's no hay here."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Week 7 - Blind Date
“Don’t think I’m weird or anything,” the man’s voice said on the phone.
Oh, geez. This ought to be good.
“Are you single?”, the voice continued.
"Who is this guy," I thought to myself. He had been in the office for the first time yesterday for a presentation on our new benefits package. He wasn’t unattractive, but I seemed to remember he had a wedding ring on.
“Uhh, I guess so,” I responded.
“Well, I have this brother-in-law, and I think the two of you would really hit it off.”
Great, a setup. I hate blind dates.
When we met at the restaurant, I was immediately struck by how far from a match this guy was. He was a complete prep. Judging by his hair, he probably spent more time in his bathroom getting ready for this date than I did at work today. He was probably 25 or so, a few years younger than me. That certainly wasn’t a disqualifier, unless like most 25-year old guys, he was still mentally 17.
I reminded myself to never again accept a blind date from someone I’d only met in the last twenty-four hours.
“So,” he asked, interrupting my attempts to block out the rest of the evening, “where did you grow up?”
“Outside of Pittsburgh, mostly. We moved to Chaska when I was in high school, and then I went to the U.”
“Oh, you went to the U? Me too, what years were you there?”
I rattled off the years I was at college, glancing over his shoulder out the window; toward the clock on the bank sign across the street. Strangely enough, the time hadn’t changed since the last time I’d looked.
“Oh, I was there from ’94 to ’97,” he replied. I was right, he was about 6 years younger.
“Mm,” I said, paying more attention to the last bite of my food than the conversation, “you were there the same time as my brother.”
“Your brother,” he said, deep in thought. “Wait, Sorensen… Rick Sorensen?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” I replied, looking at the last piece of chicken on the end of my fork, trying to decide how long choking to death on it might take.
“Really? Wow, small world. I used to party with him.”
Oh. My. God.
“You know,” I said, reaching for my car keys, “I meant to tell you before dinner, my boss scheduled a meeting early tomorrow morning with one of our suppliers. I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind if I take a raincheck on the movie?”
Oh, geez. This ought to be good.
“Are you single?”, the voice continued.
"Who is this guy," I thought to myself. He had been in the office for the first time yesterday for a presentation on our new benefits package. He wasn’t unattractive, but I seemed to remember he had a wedding ring on.
“Uhh, I guess so,” I responded.
“Well, I have this brother-in-law, and I think the two of you would really hit it off.”
Great, a setup. I hate blind dates.
When we met at the restaurant, I was immediately struck by how far from a match this guy was. He was a complete prep. Judging by his hair, he probably spent more time in his bathroom getting ready for this date than I did at work today. He was probably 25 or so, a few years younger than me. That certainly wasn’t a disqualifier, unless like most 25-year old guys, he was still mentally 17.
I reminded myself to never again accept a blind date from someone I’d only met in the last twenty-four hours.
“So,” he asked, interrupting my attempts to block out the rest of the evening, “where did you grow up?”
“Outside of Pittsburgh, mostly. We moved to Chaska when I was in high school, and then I went to the U.”
“Oh, you went to the U? Me too, what years were you there?”
I rattled off the years I was at college, glancing over his shoulder out the window; toward the clock on the bank sign across the street. Strangely enough, the time hadn’t changed since the last time I’d looked.
“Oh, I was there from ’94 to ’97,” he replied. I was right, he was about 6 years younger.
“Mm,” I said, paying more attention to the last bite of my food than the conversation, “you were there the same time as my brother.”
“Your brother,” he said, deep in thought. “Wait, Sorensen… Rick Sorensen?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” I replied, looking at the last piece of chicken on the end of my fork, trying to decide how long choking to death on it might take.
“Really? Wow, small world. I used to party with him.”
Oh. My. God.
“You know,” I said, reaching for my car keys, “I meant to tell you before dinner, my boss scheduled a meeting early tomorrow morning with one of our suppliers. I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind if I take a raincheck on the movie?”
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Week 7 Ex. 2: 1st and 3rd Person
I was driving along; the same route I always took home from work. I left early from work this day; it was Friday, and Mother’s Day was this weekend. I had bought my wife a GPS as a gift, and was excited to get home and give it to her.
My cell phone sat dead in the seat beside me. As usual, I’d forgotten to charge it the night before.
I got on I-694, heading west. Traffic was moving quickly, but the ramp was afforded its own lane, on the left side of the flow. I had received a speeding ticket earlier in the week, my first in over five years, so I was paying much more attention to my speed than I usually would. I accelerated to match the speed of the cars around me, following behind the big white van that had merged in ahead of me as well.
I had taken the new GPS out of the packaging before leaving, and placed it upon the dashboard. I would have to explain how to use it this weekend, so I’d better start figuring it out. It merrily provided directions in a polite female voice, quite loudly as the speed of traffic increased.
We passed the interchange with I-35W. Traffic was always hectic here. I always tries to to stay in the far left lane until getting past all of these people merging.
We passed under the next bridge. Clear of the hectic merging behind, I flipped on my signal to move into the next lane over.
The rearview mirror was clear.
Right right-side mirror was clear.
As my eyes returned to the road ahead of me, perhaps only a second after they had left, it became clear that the van ahead of me had nosed down under the sudden application of brakes, locking up his rear wheels.
My foot instinctively stood on the brake.
Too close; can’t stay in this lane.
I yanked the wheel hard to the right. The sound of rubber dragging across concrete filled the car, as I neatly shot around the side of the van into the center lane, quickly moving alongside.
The rear of the car fishtailed into the right lane.
Overcorrected.
I realized my foot was still on the brake, dragging the rear end of the car along the road like a great pendulum. The car traveled straight down the freeway, but pointed almost 90 degrees in the wrong direction; straight at the van.
I spun the steering wheel back to the right, but there was far to little room to correct again in time. The front wheels caught their grip, and as the back wheels came back into alignment, the car careened towards the van. I spun the wheel violently back to the left to prevent the next fishtail, as the nose of the car stabbed into the front-right wheel well of the van at a 45 degree angle. The impact with the van straightened my travel in the lane, briefly lifting all four wheels off the ground.
Unfortunately, my brain had neglected to account for the impact straightening the car out as quickly as it did; the wheel now pointing left, with the car traveling straight ahead in the left lane. As the car settled back to the road surface, the tires caught, and the car turned hard into the center median, slapping the side of the car wildly against the concrete barrier.
Grinding along the wall, with my foot still on the brake, the car finally rolled to a stop in the emergency shoulder.
I put the car in park, and sat for just a moment. I screamed an expletive or two at the top of my lungs, and looked around, as my mind kicked back out of fight-or-flight mode.
Traffic behind us has stopped. Traffic ahead of us roared on; oblivious. The van was also pressed up against the center median.
The other driver.
Why did that sunuvabitch hit the brakes like that? He seemed to be moving around okay, and was already dialing a cell phone.
The cell phone.
Everything in my car had been tossed from it’s location. The cell phone, still completely useless without a charge, was now underneath the passenger seat, next to the packaging from the GPS.
The GPS.
No! Did that one new distraction make me miss something? How fast was I going? How close was I following the van?
A moment of stupid adolescent panic swept over me. Not wanting to explain whether or not a brand-new GPS was possibly involved in the accident or not, I popped open the glove box and crammed it in. The packaging was unceremoniously shoved underneath the passenger seat.
I rolled down the driver-side window, and crawled out of the car, sitting on the center median wall. The driver of the van stepped out of the passenger side door, and started walking towards me, holding his left arm.
“Man, that fucking motorcycle cut in front of me just as the car ahead of him hit the brakes. I almost went right over him. There was no way you were gonna avoid hitting me. You all right?”
Just make sure you tell the troopers that story when they get here.
“Hit my shoulder on the side window when I went into the wall, I’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow,” I responded, looking at his arm. “You okay?”
He turned his arm to show the inside of his forearm, covered with bloody cuts and scratches. “Air bag,” he said.
A third driver, who witnessed the accident, ran up to the two of us after parking his truck in the shoulder behind us. “I already called 911, there’s a trooper on the way.”
Then he turned to me.
“You almost saved that, man. I thought you were gonna flip when you hit; you were airborne for a while there.”
“Well, I’ll take all of this,” I replied, gesturing towards at the wrecked front axle of the van; the ghastly twisted angle the rear wheels of my car jutted out from the undercarraige; the cuts on the van driver’s arm, the throbbing bruise starting on my shoulder, “rather than see what would have happened to that guy on the motorcycle ahead of him.”
---
Mike left work early that day; it was the Friday before Mother’s Day. He had picked up a new GPS for his wife as a present, and was excited to get it home to give to her.
He lobbed the cell phone into the passenger seat as he sat down in the car. He’d forgotten to charge it the night before, and it had died during the day. Never able to leave a new gadget alone, he pulled the GPS out of the packaging, stuck it to the windshield, and programmed it to guide him home.
Following the polite female voice’s guidance, he got onto the freeway. Traffic was moving quickly, but the ramp was afforded its own lane, on the left side of the flow.
Mike noticed that the GPS indicated how fast he was going, as well as the speed limit on the road. He’d gotten his first speeding ticket in over five years earlier in the week, and was paying extra attention to how fast he was going.
Traffic was always hectic at the interchange between I-694 and I-35W. Mike always stayed in the left lane until he was past the merging traffic. Passing under the next bridge, he decided it was time to get out of the fast lane.
The same instant he turned on his signal and began to check his mirrors to move into the right lane, a motorcycle darted into traffic just ahead of the large, white work van that Mike was following. The van slammed on his brakes to avoid running down the cyclist.
By the time Mike’s attention returned to the road in front of him, it was too late.
Mike yanked the wheel hard to the right. The sound of rubber dragging across concrete filled the car, as the Pontiac Vibe shot neatly around the side of the van into the center lane, quickly moving alongside.
The rear of the car fishtailed into the right lane.
“Overcorrected,” Mike thought, as he realized his foot was still on the brake, dragging the rear end of the car along the road like a great pendulum.
The car traveled straight down the freeway, but pointed almost 90 degrees in the wrong direction; straight at the van.
Mike spun the steering wheel back to the right, but there was far to little room to correct again in time. The front wheels caught their grip, and as the back wheels came back into alignment, the car careened towards the van. Mike spun the wheel violently back to the left to prevent the next fishtail, as the nose of the car collided with the front-right wheel well of the van at a 45 degree angle.
The impact sent the van careening into the center median wall. As it collided with the unforgiving concrete, the airbag deployed, softening the impact, yet tearing bloody gashes into the driver’s left arm.
The Pontiac was briefly lifted into the air by the impact with the van. Overcorrecting again due to the impact, the wheels pointed left as they settled back to the road surface. The tires caught, and turned the car hard into the center median, slapping the side of the car wildly against the concrete barrier.
Grinding along the wall, with his foot still on the brake, the car finally rolled to a stop in the emergency shoulder.
Mike put the car in park, and sat for just a moment. He screamed an expletive or two at the top of his lungs, then looked around.
Traffic behind had stopped; ahead roared on; oblivious to the chaos in their wake.
Everything in the car had been tossed from it’s location. The cell phone, still completely useless without a charge, was now underneath the passenger seat, next to the packaging from the GPS.
Mike cursed himself; had the new distraction from the GPS affected his reaction? Had he been following too close? Was he going too fast?
A moment of stupid, adolescent panic swept over him. Not wanting to explain whether or not a brand-new GPS was possibly involved in the accident or not, Mike popped open the glove box and crammed it in. The packaging was unceremoniously shoved underneath the passenger seat.
He rolled down the driver-side window, and crawled out of the car, sitting on the center median wall. The driver of the van stepped out of the passenger side door, and started walking towards the Pontiac, cradling his injured arm.
“Man, that fucking motorcycle cut in front of me just as the car ahead of him hit the brakes. I almost went right over him. There was no way you were gonna avoid hitting me. You all right?”
“Just make sure you tell the troopers that story when they get here.”, Mike thought to himself.
“Hit my shoulder on the side window when I went into the wall, I’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow,” Mike responded.
A third driver, who witnessed the accident, ran up after parking his truck in the shoulder behind us.
“I already called 911, there’s a trooper on the way. You almost saved that, man. I thought you were gonna flip when you hit; you were airborne for a while there.”
“Well, I’ll take all of this,” Mike replied, gesturing towards at the wrecked front axle of the van; the ghastly twisted angle the rear wheels of my car jutted out from the undercarraige; the cuts on the van driver’s arm, the throbbing bruise starting on his shoulder, “rather than see what would have happened to that guy on the motorcycle ahead of him.
My cell phone sat dead in the seat beside me. As usual, I’d forgotten to charge it the night before.
I got on I-694, heading west. Traffic was moving quickly, but the ramp was afforded its own lane, on the left side of the flow. I had received a speeding ticket earlier in the week, my first in over five years, so I was paying much more attention to my speed than I usually would. I accelerated to match the speed of the cars around me, following behind the big white van that had merged in ahead of me as well.
I had taken the new GPS out of the packaging before leaving, and placed it upon the dashboard. I would have to explain how to use it this weekend, so I’d better start figuring it out. It merrily provided directions in a polite female voice, quite loudly as the speed of traffic increased.
We passed the interchange with I-35W. Traffic was always hectic here. I always tries to to stay in the far left lane until getting past all of these people merging.
We passed under the next bridge. Clear of the hectic merging behind, I flipped on my signal to move into the next lane over.
The rearview mirror was clear.
Right right-side mirror was clear.
As my eyes returned to the road ahead of me, perhaps only a second after they had left, it became clear that the van ahead of me had nosed down under the sudden application of brakes, locking up his rear wheels.
My foot instinctively stood on the brake.
Too close; can’t stay in this lane.
I yanked the wheel hard to the right. The sound of rubber dragging across concrete filled the car, as I neatly shot around the side of the van into the center lane, quickly moving alongside.
The rear of the car fishtailed into the right lane.
Overcorrected.
I realized my foot was still on the brake, dragging the rear end of the car along the road like a great pendulum. The car traveled straight down the freeway, but pointed almost 90 degrees in the wrong direction; straight at the van.
I spun the steering wheel back to the right, but there was far to little room to correct again in time. The front wheels caught their grip, and as the back wheels came back into alignment, the car careened towards the van. I spun the wheel violently back to the left to prevent the next fishtail, as the nose of the car stabbed into the front-right wheel well of the van at a 45 degree angle. The impact with the van straightened my travel in the lane, briefly lifting all four wheels off the ground.
Unfortunately, my brain had neglected to account for the impact straightening the car out as quickly as it did; the wheel now pointing left, with the car traveling straight ahead in the left lane. As the car settled back to the road surface, the tires caught, and the car turned hard into the center median, slapping the side of the car wildly against the concrete barrier.
Grinding along the wall, with my foot still on the brake, the car finally rolled to a stop in the emergency shoulder.
I put the car in park, and sat for just a moment. I screamed an expletive or two at the top of my lungs, and looked around, as my mind kicked back out of fight-or-flight mode.
Traffic behind us has stopped. Traffic ahead of us roared on; oblivious. The van was also pressed up against the center median.
The other driver.
Why did that sunuvabitch hit the brakes like that? He seemed to be moving around okay, and was already dialing a cell phone.
The cell phone.
Everything in my car had been tossed from it’s location. The cell phone, still completely useless without a charge, was now underneath the passenger seat, next to the packaging from the GPS.
The GPS.
No! Did that one new distraction make me miss something? How fast was I going? How close was I following the van?
A moment of stupid adolescent panic swept over me. Not wanting to explain whether or not a brand-new GPS was possibly involved in the accident or not, I popped open the glove box and crammed it in. The packaging was unceremoniously shoved underneath the passenger seat.
I rolled down the driver-side window, and crawled out of the car, sitting on the center median wall. The driver of the van stepped out of the passenger side door, and started walking towards me, holding his left arm.
“Man, that fucking motorcycle cut in front of me just as the car ahead of him hit the brakes. I almost went right over him. There was no way you were gonna avoid hitting me. You all right?”
Just make sure you tell the troopers that story when they get here.
“Hit my shoulder on the side window when I went into the wall, I’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow,” I responded, looking at his arm. “You okay?”
He turned his arm to show the inside of his forearm, covered with bloody cuts and scratches. “Air bag,” he said.
A third driver, who witnessed the accident, ran up to the two of us after parking his truck in the shoulder behind us. “I already called 911, there’s a trooper on the way.”
Then he turned to me.
“You almost saved that, man. I thought you were gonna flip when you hit; you were airborne for a while there.”
“Well, I’ll take all of this,” I replied, gesturing towards at the wrecked front axle of the van; the ghastly twisted angle the rear wheels of my car jutted out from the undercarraige; the cuts on the van driver’s arm, the throbbing bruise starting on my shoulder, “rather than see what would have happened to that guy on the motorcycle ahead of him.”
---
Mike left work early that day; it was the Friday before Mother’s Day. He had picked up a new GPS for his wife as a present, and was excited to get it home to give to her.
He lobbed the cell phone into the passenger seat as he sat down in the car. He’d forgotten to charge it the night before, and it had died during the day. Never able to leave a new gadget alone, he pulled the GPS out of the packaging, stuck it to the windshield, and programmed it to guide him home.
Following the polite female voice’s guidance, he got onto the freeway. Traffic was moving quickly, but the ramp was afforded its own lane, on the left side of the flow.
Mike noticed that the GPS indicated how fast he was going, as well as the speed limit on the road. He’d gotten his first speeding ticket in over five years earlier in the week, and was paying extra attention to how fast he was going.
Traffic was always hectic at the interchange between I-694 and I-35W. Mike always stayed in the left lane until he was past the merging traffic. Passing under the next bridge, he decided it was time to get out of the fast lane.
The same instant he turned on his signal and began to check his mirrors to move into the right lane, a motorcycle darted into traffic just ahead of the large, white work van that Mike was following. The van slammed on his brakes to avoid running down the cyclist.
By the time Mike’s attention returned to the road in front of him, it was too late.
Mike yanked the wheel hard to the right. The sound of rubber dragging across concrete filled the car, as the Pontiac Vibe shot neatly around the side of the van into the center lane, quickly moving alongside.
The rear of the car fishtailed into the right lane.
“Overcorrected,” Mike thought, as he realized his foot was still on the brake, dragging the rear end of the car along the road like a great pendulum.
The car traveled straight down the freeway, but pointed almost 90 degrees in the wrong direction; straight at the van.
Mike spun the steering wheel back to the right, but there was far to little room to correct again in time. The front wheels caught their grip, and as the back wheels came back into alignment, the car careened towards the van. Mike spun the wheel violently back to the left to prevent the next fishtail, as the nose of the car collided with the front-right wheel well of the van at a 45 degree angle.
The impact sent the van careening into the center median wall. As it collided with the unforgiving concrete, the airbag deployed, softening the impact, yet tearing bloody gashes into the driver’s left arm.
The Pontiac was briefly lifted into the air by the impact with the van. Overcorrecting again due to the impact, the wheels pointed left as they settled back to the road surface. The tires caught, and turned the car hard into the center median, slapping the side of the car wildly against the concrete barrier.
Grinding along the wall, with his foot still on the brake, the car finally rolled to a stop in the emergency shoulder.
Mike put the car in park, and sat for just a moment. He screamed an expletive or two at the top of his lungs, then looked around.
Traffic behind had stopped; ahead roared on; oblivious to the chaos in their wake.
Everything in the car had been tossed from it’s location. The cell phone, still completely useless without a charge, was now underneath the passenger seat, next to the packaging from the GPS.
Mike cursed himself; had the new distraction from the GPS affected his reaction? Had he been following too close? Was he going too fast?
A moment of stupid, adolescent panic swept over him. Not wanting to explain whether or not a brand-new GPS was possibly involved in the accident or not, Mike popped open the glove box and crammed it in. The packaging was unceremoniously shoved underneath the passenger seat.
He rolled down the driver-side window, and crawled out of the car, sitting on the center median wall. The driver of the van stepped out of the passenger side door, and started walking towards the Pontiac, cradling his injured arm.
“Man, that fucking motorcycle cut in front of me just as the car ahead of him hit the brakes. I almost went right over him. There was no way you were gonna avoid hitting me. You all right?”
“Just make sure you tell the troopers that story when they get here.”, Mike thought to himself.
“Hit my shoulder on the side window when I went into the wall, I’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow,” Mike responded.
A third driver, who witnessed the accident, ran up after parking his truck in the shoulder behind us.
“I already called 911, there’s a trooper on the way. You almost saved that, man. I thought you were gonna flip when you hit; you were airborne for a while there.”
“Well, I’ll take all of this,” Mike replied, gesturing towards at the wrecked front axle of the van; the ghastly twisted angle the rear wheels of my car jutted out from the undercarraige; the cuts on the van driver’s arm, the throbbing bruise starting on his shoulder, “rather than see what would have happened to that guy on the motorcycle ahead of him.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Week 6 - Raising the Stakes
"Sir!", Jerry yelled over the warning alarm, "active scan from a hyperspace buoy off our starboard quarter! The raider’s opening aft torpedo tubes and preparing to fire!"
"Helm, full dive, Countermeasures ready!"
Vic slammed the hyperdrive control forward just as two torpedos lanced out from the raider, screaming towards them. The Powell’s reactor surged to life, plunging the ship deep into hyperspace. With only limited power, the torpedos couldn’t match the sudden dive, sailing though the space previously occupied by the destroyer and harmlessly off into space.
The hull screamed under the enormous stresses it was suddenly subjected to. An electric sizzle joined the chaos, quickly followed by a choking odor of ozone, as the main lights failed, leaving the command deck soaked in red emergency lighting. The ship heaved to the left with a loud bang, as additional warning sirens began blaring.
"Explosive decompression! C-Deck!", Jerry yelled, as a gale of wind started rushing off the command deck. Alice, on her feet behind Vic’s helm position, was sucked off her feet, flying back through the command deck forwards the deck hatch.
Alan reached for her through the darkness as she flew by, his fingers sliding off the toe of her boot. A rapid succession of thuds echoed through the ship, as emergency bulkheads flew shut.
As the bulkhead sealing the command deck slammed home, the tempest of wind instantly stopped. Alice did not; less than a second after being pulled from her feet, she slammed against the emergency bulkhead. She fell to the floor in agony, grasping the back of her neck.
The Powell careened deep into hyperspace. The raider tried to pursue, but her partially-retracted hypersails kept her from matching the dive.
Vic directed the ship just kilometers from Ganymede, slinging the ship past the moon. The hypersail masts flexed under the sudden surge of gravity as the Powell’s turned toward the Sun, tearing the ship away from Ganymede back, and rocketing them back towards the inner Solar System.
Alice, still trying to climb back to her feet, was again flung into the aft bulkhead by the extreme acceleration. Alan struggled to speak, as he was pressed into his chair. "Ease off Vic! We can’t take the shear this deep for long!"
Vic eased off of the hyperdrive and the ship rose back up to a cruising depth, careening out of the Jovian system and back towards the Belt. The crew let out a collective sigh of relief, and the Powell herself seemed to relax, as the immense forces of deep hyperspace relented.
Alice gingerly pulled herself to her feet. "Damage reports," she called, putting pressure on a fresh gash over her right eye.
Vic reviewed his console. "Mast number four appears to have a stress fracture. It will need replacement."
Alice limped over to her console, and reviewed similar reports from other areas of the ship. "The hangar door buckled, Captain. The emergency door failed to seal. Sections C-12 through C-15 are decompressed."
"The Marines…"
"They had already suited up for EV combat, thank god. They’re moving to the airlock at C-11 for a headcount."
"All right. Once they’re all accounted for, see if they can manually deploy the emergency door so we can repressurize those sections. Anything else?"
"Some minor hull buckling… and a few bumps and bruises, Cap. The hangar and the mast look like the worst of it."
"Jettison the mast, and set a course for Phobos station. If we can get the hangar repressurized, I doubt we’ll have time to replace the mast before we lead a battle group back to Ganymede."
Vic pressed a control, and the damaged hypersail sprang free from the ship. It fluttered briefly alongside the ship in hyperspace, then, without an energy source to hold it down, was ripped back into normalspace in a billion pieces.
Alan looked over at Alice. She was facing her console silently, still holding the cut on her forehead, her eyes closed.
"Commander, sit down."
"I’m fine, Captain… Three Marines are unaccounted for. We’ve got a visual of the C-12 now."
Alan punched a few keys on his console and pulled up cameras in the hangar deck. The Marine team was making their way back across the deck towards the emergency doors.
Zooming in, Alan realized why the hangar door failed to seal. The door stood attempted to slam shut, but was held open about 8 inches. A Marine combat armor helmet sat between the two doors, the faceshield shattered.
He watched as the commander of the Marine squad knelt briefly by the helmet. He grabbed the helmet and gave it a swift yank. The door completed it’s movement, and the Powell quickly started repressurizing the hangar deck.
Alan slammed his fist down on his armrest.
The crew did what repairs they could during the two hour transit back to the Martian system. If Captain Davis was right, they would likely have more repairs to do after their next trip to Jupiter.
"Helm, full dive, Countermeasures ready!"
Vic slammed the hyperdrive control forward just as two torpedos lanced out from the raider, screaming towards them. The Powell’s reactor surged to life, plunging the ship deep into hyperspace. With only limited power, the torpedos couldn’t match the sudden dive, sailing though the space previously occupied by the destroyer and harmlessly off into space.
The hull screamed under the enormous stresses it was suddenly subjected to. An electric sizzle joined the chaos, quickly followed by a choking odor of ozone, as the main lights failed, leaving the command deck soaked in red emergency lighting. The ship heaved to the left with a loud bang, as additional warning sirens began blaring.
"Explosive decompression! C-Deck!", Jerry yelled, as a gale of wind started rushing off the command deck. Alice, on her feet behind Vic’s helm position, was sucked off her feet, flying back through the command deck forwards the deck hatch.
Alan reached for her through the darkness as she flew by, his fingers sliding off the toe of her boot. A rapid succession of thuds echoed through the ship, as emergency bulkheads flew shut.
As the bulkhead sealing the command deck slammed home, the tempest of wind instantly stopped. Alice did not; less than a second after being pulled from her feet, she slammed against the emergency bulkhead. She fell to the floor in agony, grasping the back of her neck.
The Powell careened deep into hyperspace. The raider tried to pursue, but her partially-retracted hypersails kept her from matching the dive.
Vic directed the ship just kilometers from Ganymede, slinging the ship past the moon. The hypersail masts flexed under the sudden surge of gravity as the Powell’s turned toward the Sun, tearing the ship away from Ganymede back, and rocketing them back towards the inner Solar System.
Alice, still trying to climb back to her feet, was again flung into the aft bulkhead by the extreme acceleration. Alan struggled to speak, as he was pressed into his chair. "Ease off Vic! We can’t take the shear this deep for long!"
Vic eased off of the hyperdrive and the ship rose back up to a cruising depth, careening out of the Jovian system and back towards the Belt. The crew let out a collective sigh of relief, and the Powell herself seemed to relax, as the immense forces of deep hyperspace relented.
Alice gingerly pulled herself to her feet. "Damage reports," she called, putting pressure on a fresh gash over her right eye.
Vic reviewed his console. "Mast number four appears to have a stress fracture. It will need replacement."
Alice limped over to her console, and reviewed similar reports from other areas of the ship. "The hangar door buckled, Captain. The emergency door failed to seal. Sections C-12 through C-15 are decompressed."
"The Marines…"
"They had already suited up for EV combat, thank god. They’re moving to the airlock at C-11 for a headcount."
"All right. Once they’re all accounted for, see if they can manually deploy the emergency door so we can repressurize those sections. Anything else?"
"Some minor hull buckling… and a few bumps and bruises, Cap. The hangar and the mast look like the worst of it."
"Jettison the mast, and set a course for Phobos station. If we can get the hangar repressurized, I doubt we’ll have time to replace the mast before we lead a battle group back to Ganymede."
Vic pressed a control, and the damaged hypersail sprang free from the ship. It fluttered briefly alongside the ship in hyperspace, then, without an energy source to hold it down, was ripped back into normalspace in a billion pieces.
Alan looked over at Alice. She was facing her console silently, still holding the cut on her forehead, her eyes closed.
"Commander, sit down."
"I’m fine, Captain… Three Marines are unaccounted for. We’ve got a visual of the C-12 now."
Alan punched a few keys on his console and pulled up cameras in the hangar deck. The Marine team was making their way back across the deck towards the emergency doors.
Zooming in, Alan realized why the hangar door failed to seal. The door stood attempted to slam shut, but was held open about 8 inches. A Marine combat armor helmet sat between the two doors, the faceshield shattered.
He watched as the commander of the Marine squad knelt briefly by the helmet. He grabbed the helmet and gave it a swift yank. The door completed it’s movement, and the Powell quickly started repressurizing the hangar deck.
Alan slammed his fist down on his armrest.
The crew did what repairs they could during the two hour transit back to the Martian system. If Captain Davis was right, they would likely have more repairs to do after their next trip to Jupiter.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Week Five: Mythic Scene
I chose to write a scene from The Matrix that falls into the “Supreme Ordeal” portion of the mythic adventure; the scene where Neo falls, fighting Agent Smith. I thought this was a good scene to write as it was a very fast moving, action-filled scene that would be hard to translate into text well, and I like a challenge…
---
“You’re close to an old exit, 4th and Wabasha, Room 303!”
Neo bolted down the street, trying to put as much space as possible between him and the Agent. He moved with such speed that those on the street around him recoiled as he passed, as if a semi truck had just barreled by at high speed.
He blazed through the front door of the hotel, two Agents right behind him. Smith stopped on the street outside, remembering his building-top pursuit of Trinity that began on this very fire escape.
Agent Smith smiled.
---
Neo raced up the stairs. He sound of the Agents behind him pushed him ever faster.
303, he thought, 303.
As he reached the 3rd floor, he could hear the bullets cutting through the air behind him. He sidestepped through the door, as the bullets lazily arced past. He glanced at the first door as he rocketed by. He could hear the phone ringing somewhere down the hall.
301. Neo ran faster.
The old, cracked linoleum in the hotel hallway splintered and flew behind him with every footstep.
302. Neo ran faster.
The walls in the hallway reverberated as he careened past. Old, dusty artwork leapt off the wall and fluttered through the air in his wake.
303. Neo grabbed the door and flung it open.
He stopped for less than a nanosecond to notice Agent Smith standing on the other side of the threshold, pulling the trigger on his gun.
The bullet ripped through Neo’s chest, burying itself in the wall behind him.
“Hello, Mr. Anderson.”
Neo looked behind Agent Smith. The room was rather small; the window on the other side of the room stood open, leading to the fire escape outside. The phone sat on a small table on the other side of the room, continuing to plaintively ring.
Smith fired again. Another bullet tore through Neo, this time carrying him back out into the hallway. Blood poured freely from the wounds.
The phone rang again. Neo leaned forward again.
Smith’s nostrils flared as he rapidly pulled the trigger, emptying his clip into Neo’s chest. Neo was flung against the wall like a ragdoll with each shot.
He slowly slid down the wall, trailing a wide swath of blood behind him.
Neo died.
---
---
“You’re close to an old exit, 4th and Wabasha, Room 303!”
Neo bolted down the street, trying to put as much space as possible between him and the Agent. He moved with such speed that those on the street around him recoiled as he passed, as if a semi truck had just barreled by at high speed.
He blazed through the front door of the hotel, two Agents right behind him. Smith stopped on the street outside, remembering his building-top pursuit of Trinity that began on this very fire escape.
Agent Smith smiled.
---
Neo raced up the stairs. He sound of the Agents behind him pushed him ever faster.
303, he thought, 303.
As he reached the 3rd floor, he could hear the bullets cutting through the air behind him. He sidestepped through the door, as the bullets lazily arced past. He glanced at the first door as he rocketed by. He could hear the phone ringing somewhere down the hall.
301. Neo ran faster.
The old, cracked linoleum in the hotel hallway splintered and flew behind him with every footstep.
302. Neo ran faster.
The walls in the hallway reverberated as he careened past. Old, dusty artwork leapt off the wall and fluttered through the air in his wake.
303. Neo grabbed the door and flung it open.
He stopped for less than a nanosecond to notice Agent Smith standing on the other side of the threshold, pulling the trigger on his gun.
The bullet ripped through Neo’s chest, burying itself in the wall behind him.
“Hello, Mr. Anderson.”
Neo looked behind Agent Smith. The room was rather small; the window on the other side of the room stood open, leading to the fire escape outside. The phone sat on a small table on the other side of the room, continuing to plaintively ring.
Smith fired again. Another bullet tore through Neo, this time carrying him back out into the hallway. Blood poured freely from the wounds.
The phone rang again. Neo leaned forward again.
Smith’s nostrils flared as he rapidly pulled the trigger, emptying his clip into Neo’s chest. Neo was flung against the wall like a ragdoll with each shot.
He slowly slid down the wall, trailing a wide swath of blood behind him.
Neo died.
---
Friday, September 19, 2008
Week 4 Jorunal 2
Week 4 Journal 1
Being laid off changed me.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Derek chuckled to myself quietly as he pulled his jeep up to the guardhouse. An 18-foot electric fence stood across the roadway. The weathered sign on the guardhouse read “Wilkerson Farm. Authorized Entry Only. No Foods, Liquids, or Uncontrolled Animal Matter Past This Point”.
“Wow. These guys really are crazy. I can’t believe Lou talked me into this assignment.”
It took almost a full hour to get the guard to let him in. The 6-hour drive from the news office had resulted in a pretty deep pile of empty soda cans, newspapers, and fast food wrappers. The guard stood and watched with a satisfied grin on his face as Derek shoveled out everything other than his camera out of the car and into the dumpster behind the guardhouse.
Once the guard and dumpster had had their fill, he was allowed to proceed. About a hundred yards beyond, an earthen berm blocked the view to the rest of the complex inside. The jeep lumbered over the berm to find yet another checkpoint with another electric fence.
Finally inside, two men greeted Derek. One carried a cattle prod. The other had a large rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Welcome to my farm. I’m Alan Wilkerson,” said the man with the cattle prod, motioning me towards the first of a series of barns.
“Derek McIntosh, Kansas City Chronicle. Most farmers don’t have lab coats, or armed guards.”
“True. Most reporters have don’t have to play cameraman too. Let me guess… First assignment? It took me five years just to get a newspaper to send someone out here. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised they sent me the cub reporter.”
“Right, right,” Derek said, waving his hand dismissively, “So why couldn’t this ‘amazing breakthrough’ be discussed on the phone? What exactly are you doing here?”
Wilkerson stopped at the door of the first barn. He looked over his shoulder at Derek for a moment, with a sly grin on his face, and then slid open the large door.
Without warning, Derek was forced to the ground by a tidal wave of feathers rushing from the barn. Dazed, he rolled onto his back and looked up in terror as the head of a rooster stood almost five feet above him, eclipsing the sun.
Larger than an ostrich, the rooster looked down quizzically at the man on the ground before him, and bent down for an inquisitive nibble with its giant beak, removing his shoe. Two other large hens also moved in to investigate.
“Hey!” Wilkerson shouted, jabbing the cattle prod into the side of the rooster. The rooster let out an unworldly squawk and dashed over to the other side of the complex, where a large grain elevator stood. The hens quickly followed, milling around the base of the elevator expectantly.
Wilkerson offered his hand to Derek and helped him to his feet. “Sorry about that. They get a little jumpy around feeding time.”
Derek had no words. He just watched, transfixed. Another “farmer” emerged from behind the grain elevator, driving a front-end loader full of corn. The tractor hadn’t even stopped before being mobbed by the giant birds.
Finally, he remembered his camera, and began snapping pictures. Wilkerson picked up a foot-long tail feather that had fallen on the ground during the altercation, and held it out to Derek.
“So, was it worth the trip?”
Derek took the feather. “Mr. Wilkerson, I believe you just made this cub reporter’s career.”
I don't know why I remember...
I don’t know why I remember skipping classes in the theater during high school. Most of the kids who had activities in the theater had keys to get in there whenever they wanted. The keys were copies of copies of copies; handed down from each class of students before them.
The theater administrator turned a blind eye, as the previous administrator did when he was a student. He sat in his office in the far back of the auditorium all day, while we remained in the areas backstage. I honestly don’t know if he ever really did any work aside from granting excuses for absences at the end of the quarter for “theater activity work” for missed classes, in exchange for the free labor we provided.
Meanwhile, we would use the backstage as our private locker room and clubhouse. Many simply hung out in the Green Room and relaxed or wasted away the day. Homework was done, gossip was traded, and relationships ended as quickly as they began.
Some, like I, did a little work for the theater to justify skipping that last class. We would spend time organizing stacks of stage lighting gels, adding a coat of paint to an incomplete backdrop for the next production.
Lovers would sneak off into the dark corners of the storage areas; where remnants of past plays and sets were stored; stealing moments of intimacy on an assortment of ancient mattress or couches.
From the theater, we would descend into the catacombs of the school. Filthy, unlit crawlways of pipes passed beneath the halls that the rest of the students walked. Yet we passed beneath their feet; unseen.
When the theater was used, we watched the audience like hawks, keeping their gum and feet off of the seats and walls; student, parent, and teacher alike. We guarded that theater like it was holy ground, because it was. To us.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Ron Carlson Writes a Story
Having never made a concerted effort to write a short story before, I found this book very enlightening. Whenever I’ve tried to make up a story, I’d always get to “that place” where, as the writer puts it, I needed to get some coffee. I’m not a coffee drinker, but the metaphor still holds.
“Staying in the room” is continuing to write when you are at that point where you are not sure where the story should go next. By keeping track of the “inventory” of the environment and characters you are creating, you can keep searching for the story through those creations and let it lead you to where you are trying to get the story to go (or maybe even somewhere you had no plans of going).
When we did our first freewriting exercise for this course, I found myself quickly needing lots of coffee. I knew the premise of what I wanted to write, but I couldn’t get myself there. I had a couple false starts where I did go “get coffee”, and finally forced myself to stay in the room and get it done. Without realizing it, I had used my inventory to get me through the exercise… The “paper” in the first sentence I had decided to use. I used it to get myself from the first sentence to the story I wanted to tell.
The three biggest things I think I pulled from reading this exercise were:
1. Build up your inventory from the beginning of the story, and use it to get you through from “scene” to “scene”.
2. Don’t stop just because you are stuck! Fight! Look for that next sentence. Walking away to distract yourself from it for a while will just break your concentration.
3. Don’t get hung up on proper names of characters, locations, streets, etc. when you are pounding out your first draft. If the name doesn’t come to you immediately, just grab a suitable placeholder out of the ether (a “Mickey” or “Doris”), and run with it. You can always search-and-replace a better name into your story later.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Closer to Memory
My first memory in life is my fourth birthday party. My friends and I were all seated around the kitchen table, freshly gorged on cake and ice cream. I don’t remember most of the presents… in fact, I only remember the last one.
The sun shone brightly through the patio door on that brisk autumn day, and we were anxious to get outside and play. “But wait, there’s one more present,” my mother called, as my father brought in a large decorated box, larger than I was.
Giddy with excitement, I raced over to the box. “Don’t shake it!” my mother cautioned! Curious, I laid my ear against the box. A gentle, persistent scratching sound came from the box.
“A puppy!!!” I screeched, searching for the opening to the box. The top popped open, and inside, among a pile of shredded newspaper, a tiny grey-and-white puffball appeared, looking up towards the light in the opening.
“Mew!”
“Oh. It’s a cat,” I muttered.
After all my friends had gone home, it was time to introduce the kitten to the rest of the family; Fido, the 180-pound St. Bernard. The kitten sat quietly on the floor as my parents stood nearby for the introduction.
As Fido approached, the kitten looked up and asked, “Mew?”
Towering overhead, the St. Bernard sniffed the kitten. He pondered for just a moment, and then quickly scooped up the kitten in his mouth, with only a grey fuzzy tail left dangling out.
“No!” my mother yelled, with a sharp swat to the back of the dog’s head. The kitten tumbled back out onto the floor, soaked in slobber.
The cat never forgave the dog for that moment, regularly chasing the huge dog around the house, slashing and biting at it’s ankles for the rest of their time together.101 Word Story
Fourth grade baseball. The first, and last, year of my storied career.
“Ball,” the umpire called, as the first pitch sailed past the batters box, far from its intended target. The next two pitches were even farther outside.
“Well, I know where this one’s going”, I thought to himself, as the pitcher scowled towards the plate. Before the ball even left his hand, I turned my back to the mound.
I looked right at the umpire’s face as the baseball landed squarely between my shoulder blades.
You never have to learn how to hit the ball… if it always hits you.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Of Beginnings and Audiences
I read about it in the papers, in the subway, on my way to work, I read it and I couldn’t believe it, and I read it again. There it was, the second-biggest secret in the history of mankind, in black-and-white on every newspaper headline on Earth.
"Sources: Secret Moon Base Listens For Signs of Alien Civilization"
With the newspaper folded neatly under my arm with my other papers, I walked quickly into General Murphy’s office. "General, I…"
The General’s shot an even sterner look at me than usual, and pointed angrily at his speakerphone. I silently moved to stand by the chair near his desk as the voice at the other end of the call continued, "so you are absolutely certain that this leak did not come from your command?"
"Yes sir", the General responded, "there is no way this could have been communicated from here without being detected."
"Very well. Jackson out."
The General keyed the receiver on the phone. He reached for the bottom drawer of his desk, and produced a bottle of whiskey, capped with glass. He began pouring a glassful as he looked up at me and said, "Well, Doctor? Tell me I didn’t just lie to the President."
"You know as well as I do how tightly communication is controlled here."
"Yeah? What about that makeshift radio confiscated from one of your scientists last month?"
"That radio had no transmit capability. I could barely pick up a signal from a kilometer away, let alone send one over three hundred thousand."
The General swallowed his glass of whiskey, and roughly grabbed the newspaper and documents under my arm.
"What of this then? You’ve read it by now I hope. You saw the level of detail?"
"Yes. Obviously someone with knowledge of the site…"
"Some knowledge!? There might as well have been a picture of the two of us at the ribbon-cutting ceremony four years ago!"
He crumpled up the papers and fired it across the room. It made a quiet thud as it hit the wall, and we watch as it rebounded slowly back into the center of the room, settling gently back onto the General’s desk.
We looked at each other for just a moment. The General cracked a wry smile. "Damn it. You’d think I’d be used to the gravity here by now."
Tirade over, the General finally motioned for me to sit. "I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m not accustomed to intelligence leaks from my command. Especially when it’s the biggest secret the world’s ever known."
"Actually, sir, I’d say it’s the second biggest."
He stopped momentarily, and stared at me as if to open my soul. "Second biggest?"
"Well, the newspaper article said we were listening for signs of alien civilization," I said, as I uncrumpled the newspaper on the desk to remove my other documents from the wad. "It didn’t say what we found last night."
The General sat back in his chair. "Oh hell," he said, as he reached into his desk for another glass. "You and I are going to need at least one more of these before we call the President back."
"Sources: Secret Moon Base Listens For Signs of Alien Civilization"
With the newspaper folded neatly under my arm with my other papers, I walked quickly into General Murphy’s office. "General, I…"
The General’s shot an even sterner look at me than usual, and pointed angrily at his speakerphone. I silently moved to stand by the chair near his desk as the voice at the other end of the call continued, "so you are absolutely certain that this leak did not come from your command?"
"Yes sir", the General responded, "there is no way this could have been communicated from here without being detected."
"Very well. Jackson out."
The General keyed the receiver on the phone. He reached for the bottom drawer of his desk, and produced a bottle of whiskey, capped with glass. He began pouring a glassful as he looked up at me and said, "Well, Doctor? Tell me I didn’t just lie to the President."
"You know as well as I do how tightly communication is controlled here."
"Yeah? What about that makeshift radio confiscated from one of your scientists last month?"
"That radio had no transmit capability. I could barely pick up a signal from a kilometer away, let alone send one over three hundred thousand."
The General swallowed his glass of whiskey, and roughly grabbed the newspaper and documents under my arm.
"What of this then? You’ve read it by now I hope. You saw the level of detail?"
"Yes. Obviously someone with knowledge of the site…"
"Some knowledge!? There might as well have been a picture of the two of us at the ribbon-cutting ceremony four years ago!"
He crumpled up the papers and fired it across the room. It made a quiet thud as it hit the wall, and we watch as it rebounded slowly back into the center of the room, settling gently back onto the General’s desk.
We looked at each other for just a moment. The General cracked a wry smile. "Damn it. You’d think I’d be used to the gravity here by now."
Tirade over, the General finally motioned for me to sit. "I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m not accustomed to intelligence leaks from my command. Especially when it’s the biggest secret the world’s ever known."
"Actually, sir, I’d say it’s the second biggest."
He stopped momentarily, and stared at me as if to open my soul. "Second biggest?"
"Well, the newspaper article said we were listening for signs of alien civilization," I said, as I uncrumpled the newspaper on the desk to remove my other documents from the wad. "It didn’t say what we found last night."
The General sat back in his chair. "Oh hell," he said, as he reached into his desk for another glass. "You and I are going to need at least one more of these before we call the President back."
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