My Country

This was my country, was the ground from which my rockets flew to burst in God-forsaken skies. These were my pictures, views of older days with tree swings swaying above that creek, the one in the backyard, our one escape from relatives drunk on American Nationalism, on 4 of July. This was my backyard, my hometown, the bright-eyed crucible of dreams forthcoming. Fuses lit, we huddled close and waited for ignition.

*written while listening to Our Song by Joe Henry

Golden Gardens

Their cries echoing agains the hillside, bursting forth from nature's megaphone, washed over the pair of eyes as they set about for their God-given task--to give light to the facets of the world, categorize them by name and likeness. To document and report on the state of the world, and most of all, to write it down.

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter"

He pressed the side of his gun's barrel to his head, letting the cool metal relieve the throbbing in his head.

"You gonna come out of there, or make us come in?" Durell shouted. His voice echoed as it passed through the windows and into the concrete room.

"Can I get back to you on that?" Rooter called out in response. He twised the gun against his sull, where it took on a new firmness.

Durell shifted his feet. "Fraid that won't do. See, some of the boys here want to make it home for dinner, you see." The "boys" participated in their henchman's chuckle, the one they used for dramatic effect even if what was said had no humor to it. Especially when there was no humor to it.

Rooter took a deep breath. "I'm gonna have to insist," he said. "Either I get my time to think things over, or you come in here anyway." He paused, trying to buy some time. "And the boys out there die slowly. One by one."

"I think that's rather unlikely. What've you got in there, a nine-millimeter with six bullets? Seven? There's fifteen men out here, Rooter. What are your seven bullets going to do against fifteen men?"

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter," Rooter responed, rapid fire. This provoked a hesitation from Durell's end, and Rooter smiled in spite of the bleakness of his situation. Let them wonder what he might have in the bunker--it certainly didn't hurt Rooter at all to have them nervous about it.

Durell chuckled, too late to hide his concern at Rooter's confidence, but with time enough to salvage what morale there was to be spread around in such desperate times.

Lannisford

First thirty, and then thirty-one kilometers passed and we were in diving range of the Lannisford. Kreel reared back the engines to a soft purr and Johan, who had been "monitoring" the sonar equipment began to actually pay attention. Lars and I had been engaged in a game of chess--magnets at the bottoms of the pieces held them down against the pitch and yaw of the ship, whose small size caused it to be easily tossed about by the crosswinds. That same size allowed the four of us to share the same cabin space. The company had been nice up until we reached the wreckage spot, at which point the atmosphere took a significant turn for what seemed to be the worse.

They were feeding off of me, I knew, and cursed myself for bringing them out there at all. We stood to lose so much in the expedition. Aside from sailing into demilitarized waters--without sanction or warrant--we had taken liberties even in our use of the vessel. Suffice to say we had put ourselves--I had put us--in a very dangerous situation.

"Your move," Lars said, bringing me back to the chess game.

"Sorry," I said, appologizing for my distance.

"Just relax," Johan said, still pouring over the sonar readings. "I'll let you konw when we see anything. Kreel, can you take me up another hundred meters?"

We continued on in this way, Lars and I with the chess (which, I must admit, I was losing horribly at), Johan and Kreel bouncing coordinates off of one another. There seemed to be a neverending pool from which suspense could be drawn.

Lars took my queen just before Johan got a hit. I tensed up. Lars leaned back, eyes on me. "False alarm," Johan said appologetically. It was killing all of us, and I think he wanted to do anything but increase the tension.

(to be continued...?)

Story Idea 2: Mind Wipe

Okay, so I've been reading The Devil's Eye by Jack McDevitt, and one of the devices he uses in this particular universe is the mind wipe, which is a socially instituted way for criminals and others who want a new stab at life to move on. They're housed in a facility for a few weeks until they relearn how to read, walk, communicate, be a person etc, and are given a fake history and family, then sent off to a distant part of the known worlds as a completely new person. No record exists to correlate between the old persona and the new--the person has effectively died. Memorial services are held, yadda yadda. In many ways, this notion is similar to suicide (which McDevitt always manages to touch on).

That's all McDevitt, and it's a relatively minor part of his universe structure.

Now, here's my spin and where a story comes out of it; what if someone who wanted a mind wipe to escape some past was so famous that other people knew who he used to be? But he doesn't know who he used to be, because... he's a completely different person. He notices that people follow him around and ask him strange questions. The key to tying this story together would be that the mind wipe procedure would be kept off the page for as long as possible. There can't be some lost lover who surfaces to tell him all of the things he was--that kills suspense, and it takes emphasis away from the main character, who is personality 2 and not personality 1.

The story would be driven by his own attempts to discover who he was, and more importantly, why he chose to undergo the procedure. It has nothing to do with some military amnesia or whatever--I'm not interested in that. That's been done.

Is he maybe still a little himself? (p1)? Or is he just a random guy (p2) looking into the history of some gone and dead celebrity?

It would take a lot of handwaving, but that's why it's showing up in Skeleton Plots.

Story Idea

So a lot of times I come up with skeleton story ideas and they fall to the wayside; I usually don't give them any attention because they're so fleeting and, well, I have a million (3) other stories I'm developing at the moment.

Nevertheless, there is probably some value in cataloging these story ideas. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Even if someone stole the idea, it would be getting more light than I ever intend to shed on it.

Enough with exposition: on with the show.

So a character encounters a meteorite, but it doesn't give him any special powers or anything--he just takes it as a sign that something fantastic is happening in his life and he begins looking for signs everywhere, thinking that his state in life will improve, his relationships with women, whatever.

And basically, it doesn't. The people close to him think he's being crazy and unreasonable, and in the end the message is that you have to do things for yourself, and no meteorite, mystically empowered or otherwise, can change that.





I told you it was skeletal.

In Branches and Leaves

In Branches and Leaves

“You know, when I was your age, I made the greatest tree fort known to man. Mmhm. I’m sure you hear all sorts of folk talking that way, but when I tell you I did it, by God did I do it.” My grandpa was going off on a tangent. Again. I paid as little mind as possible while maintaining the illusion of attentiveness. My parents were, after all, paying me to spend [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa - not to play with my Game Boy (Which they still believed was hidden in the back of the pots and pans drawer. Come on, really? I was going into middle school the very next year, not kindergarten.).

“Nursing homes are a scary place for old people,” my dad would say. “Especially someone with memory problems like Grandpa. How would you like to end up all alone in a strange place? Strangers at breakfast, strangers at lunch, and strangers changing your bedsheets?” So every Saturday from noon to five I would grab my Game Boy, hop in the van, and ride off to Sunset Valley Nursing Homes to meet Grandpa. My parents usually went out for dinner or dancing - what did I care really? It was like being baby-sat, except I got paid instead of Grandpa. He got what he wanted and I got what I wanted. Of course, it all depended on his on his testimony as to the evening’s events. Usually the reports came back well.

“Tommy’s such a nice young man,” he would say when they came to pick me up. The fact that he knew my name at all times sparked a lot of chatter by itself. I mentioned that Grandpa had memory problems, right? Well I was told that he didn’t remember anyone that well any more, but he sure had a handle on me. It got my dad absolutely beaming, like that look a dog gets when you pat him on the head, you know? And every week it was the same reaction, the same shock and surprise, like somehow they thought he was getting better and next week it would be “Hi Mark and Marilyn Kensey. How are things at the Post Office Marilyn? Did you enjoy that card I sent last week?” And maybe the next week he’d get out of his wheelchair and do a dance! Completely unrealistic, of course. The name he remembered was mine, and mine alone. I suppose I should have been glad of it, maybe even proud of the fact that amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, mine was the beacon of light that guided him home, but honestly? I just want my money. At the time there was this nice red sports car in the used papers, and my dad said that if I could save up for half of it... well, you know. Five more weeks of [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa and that ride was mine.

“This was no ordinary tree fort, I can guarantee.” Grandpa may have had memory problems, but he could stick to a story like gum to a school desk. This was unfortunate for me of course, because this week’s story was unusually lame. I grew up in the [i]city[/i], get it? Not only had I never made a tree fort, but I was completely content never to do so. Our backyard (if it could be called that) consisted of 20 square feet and a single poplar tree. Not the best for fort making. Anyway, I had no problem letting Grandpa run his course. He might ask a question every now and then, but other than that I could just shut down, relax, and dream about that sports car... just five weeks until I had it for myself, and a mere four years until I was taking it through hairpin turns, catching air off of giant city hills, just like in the movies, and then bursting through a ring of-

“Have you ever built a tree fort Tommy?” I hated it when he snapped me out of daydreams like that. It was such a delicate operation, and no matter how hard I tried I felt that car sputter and die before it faded away, waiting for the next dream.

“No sir, I haven’t.” I answered. Simple answers were the best. They let me get off without saying much and opened a world of possibilities for him to keep the conversation moving.

“A damn shame,” he said in response. I chuckled and shook my head. Of all the things to miss in the world, tree forts?

“Well anyway, this tree fort was special. The first thing you’ve gotta know about tree forts is what constitutes a good tree, and then you check the branches, see, and you’ve gotta do that step, it’s the most important one...” And I was driving through the countryside, wheat grass waving in the wind… And what better to complete the picture than a dazzling blonde in the passenger seat? She asked me where we were going but I wouldn’t tell her. ‘Just a bit farther,’ I’d say, and she’d get that mysterious smile on her face...

Grandpa was still rambling on. I nodded every now and then, making sure he saw that I was paying attention (I did feel bad from time to time), and after a few more minutes dismissed myself to the bathroom. At least, that’s where I told him I was going every week. I usually waited in the hall and pulled out my Game Boy for a solid half hour. Race Rock 3 - Expert mode. It was hard, but what made it even harder was the fact that no matter which car was best for the track, I always took the red sports car... and there was my dream girl, waving the flag at the finish...
This week was different. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than Grandpa decided to come with me. Horrified, I stammered for a response. You know that feeling you get when you’ve been building something up, something you’ve been waiting on for so long, and then you realize that you won’t be able to do it?
“I can go by myself,” I told him calmly. But I could see he wasn’t going to back down.

“Nonsense. I’ve only gotten to the best part.” I sighed inwardly and agreed. Inside of the bathroom I waited two or three minutes, then ran the water pretending to wash my hands. Then, thinking about the nursing home I washed them anyway. Another week without Race Rock 3... What was Grandpa so excited about that he would follow me to the bathroom to talk for all of the 30 seconds it took to get there?
When I came out of the bathroom, he was down the hall, looking out the back window. Across the patio and the lawn was a small forest, the same one which bordered the river. It wrapped itself along 4th and Sprague and died out near Town Hall. I lived across the river to the North, where city streets and sidewalks left only those trees which served an aesthetic purpose. And Grandpa just sat there at that window, looking out. I remember that something felt different, almost foreign about him when I approached him.

“There.” He pointed, making me squint. His voice was softer than usual. Soft but strong.

“There what?” I asked

“There he is. Trent.” He brought his shaking hand up to cover his mouth and a small sob escaped his lips. It escaped me then, but looking back I should have been more surprised. Whereas his delicate memory sensors could only previously recall “Tommy,” there had been another name in there, another name waiting to come out.

“Trent?” I asked again, not seeing anyone among the trees.

“My best friend. The tree.” And tears rolled from his eyes. “We haven’t talked since I was 13. And I promised him and he remembered.” His sobs grew louder and I remember I was afraid. I thought maybe something was happening to him, or even worse, that a nurse would come by and think that I had done something wrong.

“Do you think we could... do you think we could go out and see him? One last time?” It occurred to me that he wasn’t asking. He was begging.

“Grandpa, I don’t understand.” I whispered close. “Who is Trent?” And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, completely defeated but at the same time valiant. All he said was please.

So I got a nurse and we made our way out the back onto the trails, into the forested area. Grandpa surveyed the area from his wheelchair like a king over his loving subjects. We’d gone maybe fifteen feet when he asked her to stop.

“Tommy,” he said. “That one right there.” He pointed with a shaky hand. “Could you roll me up next to it?” I looked at the nurse and she nodded.

It was difficult placing the wheels among the roots, but I did it well enough so that Grandpa could reach out and touch the bark with his hand.

“Trent...” he said softly. “Trent, I’m back.” The nurse gave Grandpa an odd look. “Remember, I promised and I came back.” He gave a small laugh. “Here’s us at the end then, huh old buddy?” He patted the trunk and looked around. “We were always getting into trouble, weren’t we? Staying up late, skipping dinner.” And then he smiled a deep smile and looked at me.

“Did you hear him?” He asked me. His eyes seemed to look [i]through[/i] me, and I didn’t know what to do. The nurse looked at the sky and saw clouds gathering.

“Mr. Kensey, it looks like it’s going to start raining soon. We should go back inside.” Grandpa ignored her. He went on muttering to the tree and the nurse looked around helplessly.

“Mr. Kensey, we need to go back inside.” She said again, a bit louder.

“No...” Grandpa answered softly. “No...”

“Mr. Kensey, I must insist. It is getting far too cold out here and I will not have it be the death of you, now come along.” She moved forward as to grab the wheelchair.
“NO!” Grandpa shouted. “Tell her Tommy, tell her! You can hear him, can’t you Tommy? You can hear him, listen to him speak!”

“Now Mr. Kensey, this really is too much.” She grabbed the wheelchair and made as to pull it back onto the path, but grabbing the bark my Grandpa lurched forward and fell at the foot of the tree.

“Mr. Kensey!” The nurse yelled in shock.

“Tommy.” Grandpa said softly, beckoning me forward while hugging the tree as a sailor would hold onto a mainmast on a stormy night. “Tommy, can you hear him? He says I’m going to live forever Tommy. He says I’m going to live in him. I’m going to grow in him and... and I’ll be in his branches, and his leaves and...” his voice dropped lower. “And I’ll never be alone again.” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed mine, and I knew that it was the end.

His eyes closed and he saw no more.

The nurse rushed him back into the home but nothing could be done. I cried that day, for the first time in a long while. My parents had never seen me so depressed. The funeral came and went, and that next year I entered middle school. I was afraid and anxious (not to mention five weeks short of my sports car) so I was really put off of the whole idea of school. Grandpa talked me through it though. I talk to him a lot now, as often as I can spare time to sit under the tree in my backyard. And every time I look up at the branches and the leaves I whisper “I’m sorry. I should have listened more.”

“Forget about it,” he says. “Let’s talk about getting you that sports car...”

Meltdown Imminent

Zale walked to the lab every day. He would take the scenic routes along the bay, and through the city. Sometimes he would stop to rest at a cafe, or maybe stay a while with a homeless man. His path always came in from the north, past the old nuclear power plant which was connected to the lab where he worked.

He had to wake early, of course, but it didn’t bother him. He always arrived on time, and he never tired of the exercise. There was transportation available, of course, but he never took it. People speculated that he wanted the exercise. Others said that he had a profound love for all things in life, and didn’t want to pass them by. Beyond that, his coworkers jokingly suggested that Zale was in fact a robot, and that the magnetic rails underneath the trolley would interfere with his internal systems.

They were right.

One would expect that some sort of story detailing the creation and maintenance of such an android would follow, but this story cannot be told, because there is no man living who knows it. Questions of where Zale came from, and indeed [i]why[/i] remain a mystery to this day.

The lab where Zale worked was connected to a nuclear power plant that was thought to have been shut down for years. Had it not been for this plant, nobody would even know that Zale was any different from anyone else.

It was a day like any other. Zale arrived at the lab, perfectly conditioned and without any wear from his three-mile hike. His co-workers snickered behind his back, feeding their insecurities as they called him a loner and a freak. Zale paid them no mind as he walked into his personal lab and locked the door. While there, Zale talked to nobody and nobody talked to him. The only exception was his first day of work, when he tried to make friends with Jonah Cayle in the zygology offices.

Jonah, like Zale, was something of an outcast. He was always looked down on as an engineer in the place of “real scientists,” as they called themselves. “A waste of funding,” he had heard as well, along with other names not pleasant to repeat. Jonah didn’t know what to think about that. At first he had dismissed the reluctance of his coworkers as simple ignorance, a case for the proof of the human condition. Everybody, Jonah felt, needed someone to pick on, someone to feel better than. And in the world of science, where there was no distinction between better or worse, how could he as a simple engineer stand up? [i]Don’t let it bother you,[/i] he always said, but it still got to him. They were right, to a degree. At any given moment, Jonah knew that there were hundreds of “real scientists” out there making a difference in the world: saving lives, finding resources, inventing new ways to simplify life. He made connections.

“Nuts, bolts, screws, rivets, hinges, you name it,” Jonah had said when Zale inquired as to his profession. “We find new ways every day to keep stuff together. Better ways. Next thing you know, we’ll have a world of metal, through and through. Nothing to break, nothing to fix.” That was Jonah’s dream. Zale took a long look around the office and the workrooms, taking in every sight (which he did quite literally) before turning to leave.

“Don’t forget the flowers,” Zale said in a mournful voice.

“What’s that?” Jonah had asked.

“In your world of metal,” Zale said, “don’t forget the flowers.” Everyone was right when they said that Zale had a deep appreciation for the arts. In his private lab there were paintings of flowing rivers and majestic landscapes, sculptures of animals and people, and flowers as well. Some in the corners, in amongst his machines - anywhere and everywhere one could find some small facet of art or expression.

There were, of course, his work materials. Machines, tools, capsules, electronics. Nobody knew what happened in that office, and nobody really cared to find out. They were so engrossed in their own tasks that they gave no heed to the workings of Zale. They did notice, however, that there was an unusual silence in his workspace that day. Whereas before there had been poundings of metal and the hiss of welding equipment, now there was only an eerie silence, the kind which raises hairs and makes skin crawl.

Zale had been there for an hour, no more, when he left again, abruptly. This was another oddity, and more workers began to take notice. Jonah, feeling some connection to Zale from day one, decided to forsake his lunch break and follow him out of the building.

Zale went straight for the power plant. Jonah didn’t know why anyone would go there, and his curiosity deepened when Zale passed the security doors without missing a beat. The plant had been locked down for years, and Jonah knew that it shouldn’t be intruded upon so easily. Thinking that something dangerous was going on, he rushed back into the lab, grabbed a Geiger counter, and was back in front of the plant inside of five minutes.

By then, he saw no sign of Zale. He passed the outer and inner gates and stood with bated breath outside of the heavy doors. [i]Why not just turn back?[/i] he remembered thinking. A million things could be awaiting him inside - a druglord hideout, a murder suicide, a contamination... But then, [i]No. I’ll show them.[/i]. He was, of course, referring to the scientists back at the lab, to whom Jonah thought he had something to prove.

He slowly edged the door outward and was met by a wave of heat, so intense that he stumbled backwards. The Geiger counter began to tick wildly and Jonah knew that something was wrong. He forced the door shut with all of his might and ran back to call for help.


The radiation levels in the power plant were off of the charts. It seemed that there was a section of the facility which had not been properly shut down all those years ago, and a small leak there had allowed a buildup, to dangerous levels.

They found Zale’s body next to one of the generators. His skin had melted away, revealing the wire frame and frayed circuitry inside. On the floor next to him had been scrawled the words “Meltdown imminent. I’m sorry.” Jonah identified him and asked for a proper burial, but they left his body there. His entire workings emitted radiation, and even the workers in the suits could stay in the building for no longer than ten minutes. That meant that even a scientific study of the android would be impossible until the area cooled down, which caused a minor uproar amongst the robotics scientist community.


Everyone stood outside watching the commotion and trying to find their way onto local news, but inside of the laboratory one body still stirred. It opened the capsule wherein it had rested until Zale’s signal had terminated. Outside it found a note and a flower. The note read, quite simply,

[i]Dear Zale2,

They were mean to us, but I saved them.
Don’t give them our secrets.
Tell Jonah.

Zale1[/i]

Zale2 left a note for Jonah and left the building, never to be seen or heard from again.

For Misha

Captain William Braxford:

My dear friend, if you are reading this letter then I am sure you have killed me. I congratulate you. I don’t know what day it is, but I hope it reads well on my gravestone. You always see those people there who have had the bad luck to die on some odd sounding day of the year, like January 23rd, 2507. Too many syllables. Give me a May 1st any day.

Will, I want you to understand that I never once wished any harm to the Confederacy. Truly, I had no choice in the matter, and I spent every waking moment trying to think of a plan to turn things around. I hope you can see that... I will not say that you would have done the same in my place, but know that I leave you not with regret, not with anger - but with joy. Joy because my threat is no more.

All these years we served under the flag. The brown, blue, and green. The Star and the Key. Did we ever figure out what it meant? What we stood for? What we fought for? I never did. But absence of reason, I’ve found, is no cause to abandon belief. I hope that you find the same.

I say [i]served under the flag[/i], but in your case perhaps I should say [i]will continue to serve[/i]. I pray you will. But nevertheless, you will go your way, and I of course, mine. I’m hoping I’ll see you after this life, but if fate has it that we split ways, I hope that it is you who finds an eternity in the presence of God. I know you never bought into that “religious crap,” but humor a dead man.

I am sure that I owe you my account of the past few months. Rather, you owe it to [i]yourself[/i] to read my explanation.

They came in the early days of the year. Black suits and the whole routine. One of them was tall, dark skinned, short black hair and all that. The other was medium height, but solid as a rock. Well, they wore the badges of the Confederacy and asked if I was alone. I said yes and invited them in. Misha was at that dancing convention - you remember, we went clubbing the night after she left. Stupid idea. Was it mine or yours? My God, I do ramble on. Well, I figured that these men were going to give me some sort of special mission. A chance to move up in the ranks, maybe make Captain. I remember thinking how you would react. The both of us, Captains in the Corps...

So I invited the fellows in, thought maybe I’d bring out some drinks or something. My invitation, it seemed, went completely unheeded. They pushed right by me and started checking the entire place out. They asked me, of all things, if my place was wired. That made me wonder. It’s down in our constitution somewhere that we have the right to record whatever we want in our own homes. I know, I looked into it afterwards. Thought maybe I could find a legal loophole.

‘Standard security system is all,’ I answer. And apparently that’s some sort of indication that they need to close all my shades and shut down my power hub. Well, by now I’m a bit upset as I’m sure you can understand. I’ve never been one to be pushed around by anyone, unless clear reason can be shown, and Misha was supposed to return from dance class at any minute.

‘What’s the meaning of all this?’ I say finally losing my temper. I find myself sprawled out on the floor in response, the mark of the raygun still burning in my side. I don’t remember which one did it, but I wanted the bastard dead. But they throw this file next to my face, even as I writhe there, and ask me to open it. The tall one moves off to inspect the rest of my house, and starts fiddling with the trinkets on my mantelpiece. Then he’s off somewhere else, waving a sensor around like a madman and pushing buttons into its display.

I opened the file, expecting some sort of fabricated criminal evidence against me. Why else would Confederate officers assault their own soldiers? But it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t a mission briefing either, as I had thought earlier. They were pictures.

You have to understand, Will. They had Misha. The whole time, they had Misha. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of a way to let HQ know that I was under the thumb, but they put a patch on my system. Anything wired to me was forwarded to them. Anything recorded by me as well. And I couldn’t risk it. My Misha! She had asked me to go with her that week. To the dance thing. But I wanted to party with the guys. I could have protected her, done something...

So they lay it out for me, plain and simple. I give them HQ schematics, they give me Misha. They must have thought me a moron. I bring them the schematics and they let me go? Please.

They ask me if everything’s clear. I lie and say yes. They hit me with the raygun anyway. And that was the last I saw of them. They always sent two new guys, or had me meet at this restaurant, or that diner.

I got the names of a few. Pseudonyms, of course, but I hope they help. I hope you neutralize the bastards.

Jonah, dark skinned, a little over 6 feet tall, slim build, short black hair.

Barry, medium build, maybe 5’8”, short brown curls.

Sean, medium build, maybe 5’10”, short blonde curls.

Hunt, 5’4”, bald

Walsh, 5’8”, large dragon tattoo on right wrist, probably all the way up his arm too.

Charlie, unknown height (I only saw him seated), but a scar on his nose, left side.

I regret to say that you were too late. I already gave them the schematics to HQ. I doctored them up a bit, enough for you to lay a trap in the East wing, but they’re getting a lot of free information with it as is. I’m sorry. If you take a look at the eastern underground access tunnel, it has a checkpoint in it. In the fakes I gave them, I edited it out. That’s where they’ll go, I know it. If you set up a post you should be able at least to detain anyone with the characteristics I mentioned above. Hopefully you get them.

If you find Misha, tell her that I love her and I’m sorry. And if you could, friend, lay a single white rose on my grave so that I’ll know she’s well. Trust me, I’ll know. I doubt I’ll be buried with any honors, but I’m okay with that. You’ll have to try and get me in the Rosewood Cemetery. You know, the one close by, with the poplar trees.

You were always a brother to me, Will. You were a saint. Whatever you do, don’t feel bad for taking my life - it had to be done. Even God can understand that.

Your brother in arms,

Michael

P.S. “I pray you, in your reports, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well.” It’s Shakespeare. You always did love Shakespeare

Point Being? (with new version!)

Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm then most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know no more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and I’ll probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Anyway, I think of you and me and recoil. You’re sweet, of course, but really, you’re not my type. The heatwaves stop jamming radar and go back to work burning bridges. Did I get off in time? I imagine myself crisp and blackened, like a tortilla left on a stove too long, and duck inside. The trees reflect a living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sanctity. What can I say? What can I say? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point. Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?

---

Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm than most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know little more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Before long, though, they’ll go back to burning bridges, while I wave at you from the other side of the bank.

I duck inside my apartment to escape the midday heat and sit immobile from a spell. Outside, the trees leer at me with living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sunshine. I try to explain, but they shake their leaves from side to side. “We cannot understand,” they say, or maybe “No excuses.” What can I say, though? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point? Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?

Fake

Darren swung back and forth lethargically. His head was bent, and on the downswings of his arc, his feet would scuttle across the ground, kicking up plumes of dust. In time, his arc would decay, and be set in motion once more by a languid push.

Across the lake, the reddening sun fell to the earth. It pushed against what little air separated it from the horizon, creating a wave of pressure that hit Darren in the form of a warm breeze. He lifted his head and heard a crunching of gravel, characteristic of car tires in a parking lot. Turning his head revealed the white Corsica of Karen Moore. Darren looked back over the water and continued swinging, but now more conscious of his body he fiddled with his hands as she approached.

“I love the swings,” she said, setting down her purse and hopping into the swing next to his. They rocked for a while in silence. “I betcha I can go higher,” she teased.

“I’m not in the mood,” Darren replied, head down again. They swung back and forth a few more times. “It’s just, everybody I know is so fake, you know? Fucking Carl thinks he’s the best actor in the world, but if he’s not going to take notes the whole show’s going to suck. And Karly…”

“Am I fake?” Karen asked, slowing her motion to a stop. Darren stopped and finally looked over at her. She pursed her lips as if modeling for a fashion magazine, and Darren laughed despite himself.

“Now? Yes.”

“What?” Karen said, Her hand flew to her chest in feigned shock.

Darren laughed. His head was up, his eyes were lit, and for the first time since the horrible play practice, he felt like himself again.

“Thanks for coming out here,” he said, after the laughter had subsided. Karen smiled at him, grabbed her purse, and reached out her hand.

“Come on,” she said, as Darren let her pull him out of the swing. “Lets go get some milkshakes.”
As they left the park, the sun completed its setting. The sky grew dark, and a million points of light shone on two cars winding their way towards the nearest Red Robin.

Adapted from Everything, a Muffled Silence

Prose Adaptation: "What the Hell"

(Based off of What the Hell)

Early one morning, I ate breakfast with my usual rapidity, having woken up just in the nick of time to shower, inhale my food, and drive to school. Finding parking was going to be hell, but I guess that’s what I was bargaining with for my extra (and quite sacred) fifteen minutes of sleep. My shower lasted 7 minutes, a bit longer than necessary, but of course one cannot so easily turn away from a nice hot shower. I applied the necessary cosmetics (deodorant, cologne), and entered the kitchen where my Mom was awake and washing dishes. The bread maker droned on at regular intervals in the corner, and the morning news chirped away from a distance.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly. The bread machine whirred.

“Mm.” I grunted, only half awake. It seemed like the thing to say, or rather, the thing to brutishly expostulate. Heaven forbid I make pleasant conversation with my own mother before school.

I poured myself a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, with their tendency both to please and disgust. They were the ultimate breakfast chimera, and I wondered how the board meeting had gone at their proposal some years ago. “Mr. Hamilton, we really like your idea, but two sides of frosting? We need something that the kids will like, but we need something their parents will buy, too.” And poor Mr. Hamilton never realized his dream of a doubly frosted mini-wheat.

As my mind drifted, the television was there to catch it. A story came on about a man who broke into a house, raped an 11 year old girl while her parents slept, and ran away. My initial reaction, I’m sorry to say, was indifference. Terrible things like that happen so frequently, how can we do anything but distance ourselves from them? But that was just my initial reaction. Then I saw the description of the man. I didn't catch the majority of it because my eyes were held fast by the top line: age: 18-20.

I realized that my birthday was coming up in a few days. 18. One of the big years. One of the years that my peers at school used to start buying cigarettes, or playboy magazines, or things from TV infomercials, or lotto tickets. I was interested in none of those things, as would be expected if you knew me. But even more, I was uninterested because I was struggling with the realization that, in a few day’s time, I could plausibly fit the profile of a rapist. A murderer. A thief. Any number of names you could give, and I could feasibly fit the profile of any of them.

Somewhere, a man my age had raped an 11 year old girl, and left her with the weight of that reality. And I, waiting to turn 18, was horrified.

Volleyball

When my brother and I were young, he and I would play volleyball using a somewhat flat soccer ball and the clothesline. It was a coveted activity that we would return to over and over again on lazy summer days. His court was made up of the corner of the shed, two of the posts that held up the deck, and an empty milk carton, triangulated to make a rectangle longer from side to side. Mine was marked by the corner of the cement patch (which I had to avoid gingerly to prevent stubbed toes and scuffed feet, summertime being synonymous with bare feet) and another milk carton. My court was a rectangle longer from front to back, and many times discussion would turn to the advantages or disadvantages of each court, but being stubborn as boys are, we never switched or even rotated.

I remember one particular dispute, which dealt with a potentially game-changing point. I had battled my brother back and forth for this last point, straining every muscle, conjuring every ounce of swiftness and dexterity I could until-

“Yes!” I screamed. My brother had failed to return the ball. In fact, he hadn’t even made an attempt.

“That was under,” he said calmly, picking up the ball and readying himself for another serve. He required only one more point to take the whole game.

After my initial shock at his call, we went back and forth, me saying it was over, him saying under, never once reaching what anyone would call a shouting match as one might expect boys our age to do (he and I were both trying, I now realize, to embody our stoic and often composed father). I laughed the issue aside – obviously he was crazy. And I had the last word, calling on my religious sensibilities. “We’ll see when we get to heaven. You’ll see.”

He “won” the game, and after a few days things were back to normal – or as normal as they could be. After that fateful game, our dad hit the ball with the lawnmower blade.

Johnny

When Johnny first discovered his laser vision, he flattened the rear left tire on his dad’s car. He pretended like he had no idea what happened. His father found the tire half an hour later, and called Johnny out front, asking if he knew anything about it. “But you’re playing out front all day, you had to have seen something,” his father would say, but Johnny only said “Maybe it was aliens,” and his father would stand there puzzled, looking at the melted rubber that couldn’t have resulted from a sharp rock, nail, or screw.

Johnny was afraid that he would hurt somebody, so he researched laser vision one night when his parents were out for dinner. The babysitter sat in the living room watching movies and eating their microwaveable popcorn, like always. Johnny didn’t like microwave popcorn anyways. Plus, it gave him the chance to research laser vision.

Google yielded ads for laser vision correction, which Johnny didn’t need, and about 1000 pages about Cyclops, the field leader of the X-Men. Intrigued, Johnny clicked a promising link and read up on Cyclops. What he found was simple – Cyclops always had a visor, or some special glasses to keep the lasers in. Johnny found a link for laser safety goggles, and ordered a pair with his father’s credit card.

At school, Mrs. Hayes asked why he was wearing the safety goggles, and asked if he was afraid of getting his eyes hurt. “No Mrs. Hayes,” Johnny would say. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone else with my laser vision.” Mrs. Hayes chalked it up to typical childhood fantasy and went about her business, cutting construction paper for the days art project as the children bent over their math books and read pages 17-34.

Johnny’s laser goggles didn’t work, as he found out the hard way when they erupted from his face one day at recess, sending plastic shards in all directions and burning a two foot crater into the ground. He told the duty that it was a meteor, but other kids had seen what happened and they told on him. Mrs. Hayes, at an emergency meeting, confirmed that Johnny believed he had laser vision, and the vote unanimously called for reporting Johnny to a higher authority.

And so it was that Johnny’s family was forced to move to a rural part of Montana, where the collateral damage from their son’s talents would be of no harm to anybody. Johnny’s father was forced to give up his job and look for new work, but finding none, he returned to the agricultural roots of his father’s father.

And Johnny plowed the fields with laser vision.

How to Get Over a Breakup and Not Kill Anybody in the Process

You’ve waited all of your life to be living with the woman of your dreams. You wore the shining armor down to gunmetal gray. And yet, here you are banging your head against the kitchen counter one, two, seven times, all the while telling yourself how stupid you are. Make sure you do it when she’s not home. Nobody likes a downer. Alternately, you can simply imagine slamming your head into the kitchen counter. It has a similar effect.

This first part is important because it will jog loose whatever-the-fuck went wrong in your head – because even though you just moved in together, even though you’ve been talking about getting married, even though you’ve already started thinking about rings, you messed up by thinking that things would go easily for you. Tell yourself that nothing goes easy, and anything that does isn’t worth having. Your Dad always used to say something like that. You’re not sure if it applies in this case, but it feels good to think it anyway. Most things your Dad told you are like that. You wish you would have been better to him. Be glad that there’s still time.

Remember all of the compromises you made for her and the morals you sacrificed. Realize that it was all for nothing. It’ll hurt at first, but you’ll get over it. If the feeling persists for over a month, see a doctor. Nobody wants to see you get hurt. But chances are that it won’t last over a month because this is all part of the plan. You need to cauterize the wound.

Resist the urge for melodrama. Without regard to how cool it is in the movies, tearing up old movie stubs and photographs with dramatic effect is not a smart thing to do. There will come a day when you would regret not having those memories. If you must, put them in a box for later.

Pick up an old journal of yours. Read over all of the parts that say, in particular, “I love her so much.” Laugh – a bit – through the bitterness welling up in your eyes. This too will pass. Turn to a blank page. Grab a chewed up pencil. Note how the pencil, like you, has suffered; torn by the anxiety and whims of another. Your identification with inanimate objects is inevitable, and it will only continue to grow stronger, so you might as well enlist the pencil in your plight – the dejected tools, forging a new path in life. Together, pour out all of your sharpest emotions. You can dwell on self-pity if you’d like, but you’ll eventually produce some rendition concerning the sheer hopelessness of love. Continue writing. Nobody will ever see what you write, so just go at it. Jot down half thoughts, stupid thoughts, terrible thoughts. Write about what you really want, and how you would take it by force if you knew you wouldn’t get caught.

Stop. Read over what you just wrote. Stop again.

Scribble it out until you tear a hole in the page, all the way through the pages below it. When your frenzy subsides, note what remains of the notebook. Pick up the shreds from the floor and take them to the outside recycling bin. Jam them underneath the Raisin Bran boxes so that she won’t see them when she comes home. You’ll start laughing again, and realize that it’s been almost twenty hours since you woke up. You need sleep.

Call a friend instead. Tell him you need help. He’ll ask you what’s going on, but you probably won’t tell him because you don’t want to seem like a pussy. Just tell him you need to hang out. By the urgency in your voice, he should know that something serious is going on, and if he’s anybody worth spending time with he’ll be there in ten minutes.

Watch your favorite movies and bullshit about anything that comes to mind. Now is the time to bring it up. Tell him that you’re terrified about the prospect of being alone forever. He’ll tell you all the things you already knew, but it’s good to hear somebody else say them, as if they become more truthful when compressed into sound waves. They do.

Take the most obvious steps and try to get involved. At the very least, attempt originality. Try Ultimate. And when you come home from your first practice and she’s made you dinner, give her a hug. Tell her you’ll love her forever. She’ll understand. Begin preparations to study abroad. The rest will take care of itself.

The Rosebush

“Okay, so one bucket for you and one bucket for me,” Karen said, kneeling in the flowerbed. Elise flopped down beside her.

“I still don’t see why we have to do this,” Elise said. Karen noticed her lack of enthusiasm. It left the both of them as dry as the earth around the dying rosebush.

“Oh, come on it’ll be fun.” She said, trying to infuse the experience with some life. “Besides, is it too much to ask for you to spend one afternoon with your mother?”

“No, I mean I don’t understand why we have to do this. Weeding. They’re just going to come back anyway. You can’t stop them.”

“Yes, well, that’s just life.” Karen reached for her scratcher with an inward sigh and began to pull at the weeds surrounding the rosebush.

“How encouraging.” Elise responded as she set to work, leaving her scratcher unused.

“Nobody said life was encouraging, El,” Karen said.

“Nobody said we were talking about life.” Elise shot back. Karen went on with her work, forcing Elise into the next move. “Whatever. Isn’t this sorta like ethnic cleansing anyway? Choosing which specimens get to live, and which get to die?” Elise tore at the tops of weeds, leaving the roots buried underneath. Karen knew better than to bring it up.

“Maybe,” She said instead. “Think of it this way. At the center of the garden is the rosebush. Young, vibrant. It has its entire life before it, so long as it’s taken care of. So long as the weeds of the world don’t plant its seeds too close. A rose has got to be careful about-

“What’s this got to do with anything?” Elise cut in.

“I’ve put a lot of work into these flowers. And I’m not about to let any weeds crop up and destroy them.”

“What makes you think that the rosebush is any better than the weeds?” Elise asked provokingly.

“Because it’s mine and I know what’s best for it.”

Elise shot to her feet. “What makes you think that you know best? And just because you planted it doesn’t mean you own it. You don’t own anything!” Her scratcher flew out of her hand and struck the fence behind them. Within the space of three seconds she was in the house, door slammed shut behind her.

Karen buried her face in her hands, before being reduced to sobs that rocked her like a mother rocks a newborn baby.

One Mouse Fell Away

Gary rose early, slipped out of bed quietly, and got dressed for the cold dawn. He made sure not to wake Clara and quietly made his way downstairs. Without knowing where his feet were taking him, he found himself exiting the house and crossing to his father’s old barn.

In the faint light of the coming dawn, Gary could see the paint peeling away at the edges of every board with finality, red giving way to dull grey. It was not as it appeared in his memories. In entering, he found that instead of the comfort it usually gave him, the barn left him feeling empty and lonely, feelings which matched the barns physical characteristics. When he was younger, and his father had been in charge of the farm, the barn had been a source of life. Horses lined the stalls and bales of straw could come in from the elevator in the back. Gary enjoyed countless memories of summers long past; countless days of hard work and countless afternoons of cool lemonade with his mother and father.

His hand, outstretched, traced the etchings of names in the walls of the horse stalls, now empty and desolate. As his fingers felt out one particular name, they recoiled in sorrow. Gary turned away and set his jaw against tears which welled up from within. The name was as dead as the barn itself. What had once been a living and breathing center of his life was now gone, an empty shell now given over moreso to mice and grass snakes than to livestock and vitality.

Cobwebs now dominated the majority of the barn, and had done so ever since the farm was shut down. Gary walked to the end, as rotting straw fell away at his boots. In the back, he took the ladder up to the loft, where he had often gone to think about things as a boy. Settling himself, he took notice of miniature life scampering about the floor. Mice.

Gary watched them for a time, zigzagging their way across the ground like an army battalion. He could imagine them shouting out “no man left behind, forward ranks, c’mon boys, it’s just over this next rise,” and then the trump tromp of their mousy boots, more like a tip tap.

But One Mouse was left behind. It lingered behind as a barn owl suddenly swept low, and clutched up the mouse with a throaty hoot. No mouse rushed to his comrade’s defense. No mouse lifted arms to liberate the One Mouse. And that mouse’s last vision would forever be his friends running away as he was taken out of life, leaving him behind to die alone at the hands of his attacker. It didn’t even have the chance to shriek.

And Gary broke down in tears.

A Small Consolation

"The trouble with standards..." he began, "is that you and I will probably be alone for a very, very long time."

"I suppose we're better off for it. At least we have our heads on straight."

"Well, Rick, you and I both know that that's a very small consolation to the beauty of a woman."

The two friends joined in laughter and ordered another round.

Dead End Rock Island

Maria looked all over town, starting at the sound end and working her way north. Then, she'd move over a block and head the other way. She felt like a fool, peering into shop windows, restaurant windows, back alleys - like a girl who'd lost her keys. Except these keys were too big to lose. These keys were a full grown man. And she had no idea where to start looking.

She was on the verge of giving up and heading home when she received a call from Karen. She'd seen David in the courtyard by the docks, staring off into space.

How long ago? Less than a minute?

Maria hung up before Karen could utter another word. She tried to call again, but Maria let her phone buzz away in her jeans.

She sprinted to the courtyard and found things just as Karen had described. David sat hunched over on a stone bench, facing the grassy yard. His hands were shoved in his pockets agains teh cold, and his hood was drawn up like the shell of a turtle.

Maria apporached slowly, delicately. She sat down on the bench next to him.

"We've been worried about you," she said after a moment's silence.

"Mm," he grunted.

Maria let another moment pass. "Dave, what are you doing out here?"

Dave drew in a large breath. "Thinking about stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Maria asked, prodding for more.

Dave paused again, considering, and then sprung to life. His right hand flew out of his pocket and he began to gesture as he spoke. "You see how the concrete jutts out into the grass, how it interlocks with the grass? How it's all perfect 90 degree angles?"

"Yes," Maria said slowly. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the grass, and then shifted back to David.

"I was just thinking, do you think they were trying to say something, when they built it like that. You know, something beyond what it is."

"Like what?"

"Like..." His hands drew grand pictures in the air. "Like maybe nature and man are locked together with each other. Clasped together like a jigsaw puzzle, like the grass and the concrete here. They've got separate identities and separate composition, but you can't really define one without the other." He stopped.

Maria cocked her head to the side. She didn't see where David's observations were headed.

"Do you think death is like that?" he continued. "The grass runs up to some point and just stops. And some strips stop before the others. And what about those slabs there?" he asked, pointing to isolated islands of concrete in the middle of the lawn. "Even where it doesn't belong, it seems like death is there. It doesn't wait at the end, it just appears how and when it wants. It doesn't care how fair it is. It's just a dead end rock island in a sea of dying grass."

Maria resisted the urge to agree with him. As right as it might be, she didn't want to put her acceptance of his apocrypha on him as well. He had enough on his plate already.

"I'm only 23, Maria," he said. He looked left, met her eyes, and looked back to the concrete patterns, casting about for something, anything to accept his wandering attentions.

"Lets go home, Dave," she said. "It's cold out here and we don't want to get sick before finals."

She kept her eyes on him as he nodded with all the determination of dripping honey. Then the two of them stood up, arm in arm, and made their way across the grass, step by step. Walking though a sea of grassy life.

Eyes Wide Open

I saw him from across the bar, staring into his drink, and tapping out the rhythm to a song I didn't recognize.

Mark was usually very cheery - even though the word didn't quite apply. It was strange for me to see him,;first of all, in a bar, and second of all, so entirely melancholy that it seemed all who approached him would freeze along with time itself.

Of course, I knew better than to know somebody from work. The workplace is the last place I'd expect somebody to feel most themselves. But still, the image before me - Mark now drawing pictures with the moisture from the bottom of his glass - conflicted so with who I thought he was, that I was forced to do a double take.

Whatever had been ailing him, he looked in no way hostile, so I figured I would pull up a stool next to him and see what was up.

He saw me coming out of the corner of his eye, and pulled the stool out from under the bar.

"Fancy seeing you here," I said jokingly, in a futile attempt to lighten the mood.

"Fancy that," he agreed. "You want a beer?" he asked.

"Sure. But I can pay-

"Nonsense. Tender," Mark called to the bartender. "Two more." He finished his drink with a smack of his lips. Turning the glass in the air, he examined it like a child would with a captured firefly in a jar.

"Looking to forget a bad day?" He asked me to the side. I took a deep settling breath.

"Looking to balance one out." He cocked an eyebrow as he met my eyes. Our beers arrived. "Not all of us can relax on just the one day every five years." I took a pull on my drink as Mark let out an almost imperceptible laugh.

"A bar is not a place to relax," he said. "It's a place to either get drunk, meet women, or hang out with friends. And you came in here alone."

"So did you," I commented.

"And I've got my reasons. What're yours?" His diction was sharp and to the point, and I began to worry that I was bothering Mark with my presence. That maybe I should never have come over, or that I should just find an empty table.

I sat for a while in silence and thought about it. What reason did I have for ending up in a bar every other night? Sure, I'd love to meet a girl, but I'd also like to meet one outside of a bar. And most of my friends had been married off, some with children to tend to at night. What reason did I have for coming alone? What kept me coming back?

"I never had an answer either." Mark said softly. "Sometimes you just get so caught up in living life that you forget to better yourself."

He slapped a crisp hundred down on the table and rose from his seat. Emptying his beer in one last gulp, he slammed it down on the bar. He then pressed something into my hand, and only had time to tell me that he wouldn't be at work the next day before making his way to the door.

"Wait!" I yelled. I got the bartender's attention, showed him the hundred, and took off after Mark. But by the time I got outside, he was already gone, his car collecting snow in the parking lot. I don't know what it was, or what kept me to it, but something told me that I had just witnessed the turning point of a man caught up for too long in the whirlwind of life. Then, remembering the piece of paper in my fist, I unclenched it and read: "Tell Christine that I haven't left. 6612 38th Ave S" I looked for him a solid ten minutes, calling his name until my voice started to crack and my body could take the cold no longer, but it was no use. He had disappeared into the night.

---

Just like Mark said, he wasn't at work the next day. I decided to pay a visit to Christine after my shift was over. She answered the door in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, and was obviously tired.

"Can I help you?" she asked guardedly.

"Um, hello." I stumbled over my words. "My name is Charlie. I'm a friend of your husband's at work-" I saw her reaction, saw a pained look in her eyes that I could no longer meet. I pushed on. "He, uh... I met up with him last night and he didn't seem... well, he told me that he wouldn't be at work today, without explanation, and he wasn't, so... he gave me this." I fumbled in my pocket for the greasy slip of paper. I held it before Christine, who took it cautiously and read it slowly. Her hand reached to her mouth and her eyes closed, holding back tears. When they opened again she was composed.

"And he gave this to you last night?" She asked. I answered affirmatively. "Was he in a bar?" I struggled to come up with a suitable answer - a suitable lie - but she cut right through my speechlessness. "It's okay," she said. "I just need to know."

"It was in a bar," I told her. Her eyes closed again.

"That's okay," she whispered. "That's okay."

A small girl ran into the living room behind her with a whoop. "Alice," she called, and the little girl came to her. "Can you play in your room for a few minutes so mommy can talk?" The little girl nodded and waved at me. I smiled and waved back before she sprinted back from where she came.

"Thank you," Christine said. "For the note, of course, but... thank you. For being there with him."

"I was just in the right place in the right time." I said.

"It means a lot to me. To us," she added, looking back at the girl who was no longer there.

"It's nothing," I said. I honestly felt like I had done what anybody else would have in my situation.

"Do you want to come in? I can bake you something in return for your trouble."

"I appreciate the offer," I began, "but I really should be getting home."

"I understand," she said. I turned to leave, but she called out. "Charlie?"

"Yes?" I responded evenly.

"Did he... did he say anything else? Anything I should know?" Her arms crossed herself in an attempt to ward off the cold through the front door.

I stopped for a moment and remembered his words to an exact accuracy. It wasn't hard, for they resonated within me as if I had spoken them myself.

"He said that 'Sometimes you get so caught up in living life that you forget to better yourself."

We shared a smile before I drove back home. On the way I saw Mark's car in the lot of a neighborhood church. I didn't know what had happened between him and Christine, or what had caused him to turn his life around, but I knew that he was looking at his life with new eyes - with eyes wide open.

And I resolved to do the same.