"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."
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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.
---
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