Entry Seventy-Two

What did I expect? I big bang? I suppose not.

I did expect to be a little happier tonight. I was for a while. I was blissfully unaware of the world and its problems. All I had to worry about was getting to the princess while avoiding dancing mushrooms and dodging regurgitated spiky balls. Then, reality called.

Side note: Chris Wolstenholme is amazing and doesn't get enough credit.

Anyway. I am now that I am back in reality I am thoroughly unhappy.

What can I do to brighten my mood? Stop by my sister's place tomorrow on the way to my other sisters place? Sure! Only, that has become a stressful ordeal as well due to the desires of my OTHER sister. The little one. So I get to stress about that. Then it's a long lonely journey to that first sisters place to spend a New Years without TV or internet. I know I sound like a technological addict, but what the crap are we going to do?

In the meantime I am exhausted and wishing that I could just finish my night with a good flick. But the almost 19-year-old I was going to watch it with is monopolized by a former elder and his family. Of course. And when are they finally going to bed? Who knows. He does have a cute brother. Oh well.

I am tired and I think I am going to give up on my li'l sister.

I hate tonight.

Entry Seventy-One

I often miss what I had as a child. I do love the more spiritual understanding of Christmas that I have gained as I've grown. At the same time, there will never be that sense of wonder and magic that Christmas held when I was little.

I miss that. I miss so much of being a child and I often wish that I hadn't been in such a hurry to grow up

I'm scared.

I'm scared to leave what is familiar and comfortable. I fear this great unknown.

Perhaps I will arrive there and they will realize the mistake they made in choosing me over other applicants.

Every time I think about going there I get a knot in my stomach.

Perhaps it is, in part, due to the fact that I have no plan after this. No REAL plan, that is. There is a small inkling in the far recesses of my mind that sometimes thinks that it knows what it wants for me in the future. But planning that far ahead worries me. I fear disappointment.

That't it.

My biggest fear. Disappointment. Perhaps I will arrive at my destination and realize that it's not where I want to be. By then I have no choice but to stick with it.

I need to end this post. It's Christmas eve and I should be thinking about the meaning of the holiday. Not fears and worries.

Entry Seventy

Oooh yes! I'm there.

I was feeling a little awkward with the number of that last entry. MILA did that to me. Sorry.

I have to say, it is hard to keep this up. This feeling that I am okay with it all. There are only so many times that you can tell yourself that you don't care before you become numb to the effects of the words.

It doesn't help when parties involved don't make things easy on you. I'm looking at YOU democratic party and party of 5.

But in all seriousness I need to stop putting my nose where it doesn't belong. And I also need to just take a deep breath, look at myself in the mirror and face facts. I need to man up...or rather woman up. I need to realize that I can't spend my life afraid. I must take some control in the things that happen to me. Just because I tried once and was disappointed with the results doesn't mean that I give up now.

This is failing. I think the little Sarah in me that likes to spout out things is one for the day. Poor little thing. I am really tuckering her out. Three posts in two days!

At least I am seventy now.

Entry Sixty-Nine

I suddenly feel a great need to expel all pent up energy that I have. Mind energy that is.

I also really want to turn seventy before I leave for New Hampshire.

I try to think of this internship as a stepping stone. I feel like all the other stones after it will be relatively close and easy to get to. But this one feels like I have to take a big leap from the shore where I wait. I'm staring at the water raging past and several metaphorical feet away is this stone. It's small and wet. And as I look at it, I'm not even sure that I will make it if I jump. My stomach churns because I imagine myself just barely missing and falling into the rushing waters and be carried down stream. I keep taking a few steps back and gauging the distance. Then I hurriedly close the gap between me and the edge only to stop just short of making that jump. All because I'm terrified of falling in.

It's like that. Or maybe it's more like tromping through a wet and mosquito infested marsh with the summer sun beating on you and a heavy pack on your back. All of a sudden you some to a channel. You've been hopping these things all day. Most no wider than distance between your shoulder and your fingertip. Piece of cake. But here lies a formidable challenge. The Channel is several feet across. Within it is surprisingly deep water. It would surely go over your head if you landed in it. You wouldn't die, but you would be soaked and you're feet may even land in 6 inches of mud at the bottom. Mostly it would just be awful because all the stuff in you pack would get wet and once you climbed out you would have to walk the rest of the way through the marsh water-logged. The distance isn't horribly far. But it seems that unmanageable when you think of how much your pack is weighing you down and how the knee high boots you are wearing make it hard to run. Using your brain, you take off your pack and toss it to the other side. It lands with a juicy squelch telling you that it will be damp when you retrieve it. Then you back up several paces. Take several deep breaths because there is no way out of this harsh unless you make this jump. And you run. You're boots finding no spring in the sodden, grass laden ground. The muck underneath that grass tries desperately to suck your boots into their depths. You pick up you feet and gain a little speed as the gap closes. And then, right at the edge, you leap. For several breathless moments you are airborne. Watching as the other side gets closer. For one horrifying instant you are sure toy aren't going to make it but then your boots find ground again. But it's only the toes of your boots. Your heel hang off the edge and you feel yourself begin to lean backwards. So you throw all your energy into leaning forward. You even manages to get all your internal organs to help and as one you and you heart, liver, stomach, intestine (including your unremoved appendix), kidneys, bladder, ovaries (because YOU of course are a girl), and even your brain throw yourselves forward. You tilt the other direction and your knees come crashing down onto the marshy land in front of you. You made it, but only just barely and your heart thuds angrily against your chest wondering why you just put it through such an ordeal. But you made it. You are mostly dry and on the other side. Ready to trek the rest of the way through the marsh until you come to the nest channel.

Yeah. I think it's more like that. Wow. I need to remember that for some kind of sacrament meeting talk or a lesson on conquering goals or something.

I think I dispelled all the energy I had. Now my brain is pooped and ready for a nap.

Be prepared for a flurry of posts. Now that I have time to spare...(ahem)...I will be spending it letting out all the pent up emotions I've had this semester in such a way that I won't want to stab myself in the eye if I have to read it again.

Next entry...I am seventy.

Entry Sixty-Eight

I really need to be getting to sleep. Church is earlier than usual tomorrow.

I realize that I often don't know exactly what I am writing about on this blog.

(Kudos by the way to my past self for keeping the secret of who I was obsessed with in May so well. I have NO CLUE who it was I was talking about a couple entries ago. It makes me laugh that I kept a secret so well from myself.)

Other times I am actually, dare I say it, impressed with the mindless dribble that sometimes (ill-frequently (eh?)) makes it's way past the blockage of uncreative ear wax. (Nice comparison, no? I imagine creative thoughts creeping through the brain and dripping out the ear. Is that logical?)

I don't often impress myself. I feel that I am mediocre/modestly passable in most aspects (a few being spelling, grammar, math, getting things done on time, life, etc.). Writing also makes that list. At least most of the writing that makes it's way past the afore mentioned ear wax. (Maybe creative thoughts make their way out through fingertips. Flowing like magic. Like on Willow. The power to control the universe is in your own finger...)

Every once in a while I am able to look past normalcy and mediocrity and make my way to a sort of modest creativity.

I think I am okay with that. I know I will never be a great author. The least I can do is write for my own entertainment. For it is in characters of our creating that we can live as we have always wished. In great adventure, romance, and tragedy. These are the things our mundane lives crave. Yet we cringe to experience them in any kind of reality. So that is why we give these experiences to characters.

Let us all who place ourselves in the creative genre hope never to write unless we know those we are writing whether they be real or fictional.

I think that soon, the creative thoughts that flow out of these fingers (yes I do like that imagery better than the ear wax) will soon be incoherent. So I bid thee farewell on this cold December night and hope that the time between this post and the next will be nowhere near as long as the stretch between this one and the last.

Good eve'n.

Entry Sixty-Seven

Time to revisit.

And why.

And how.

Does anyone understand? Because I could use an explanation.

Billowing curtains and a breath of fresh air.

Wafting.

Few nights like this. How long will they last?

How long will any of it last?

And where are those who would tell me that they want me to stay? Where do they exist?

Phantoms. Because they are mostly drops in my wishing well.

And that, and that, and that, and that. The drops could make an ocean. And every once in a while, I draw from the well. Hoping that somehow, the wishes have become manifest. But it's just water.

Nothing more.

My pumpkin is rotting. Plain and simple. There is nothing different in that.

A fish, two birds. What lives do they live? Should I be thankful to be a sentient being?

Goodnight, inner and darker thoughts. Sleep may dull you, but I have a feeling that you will return in full force by the break of day.

Entry Sixty-Six

Time for Spero. Revamped. Only one or two things are the same. But here is what I have so far.

This has not been edited. This is months of raw typing and writing. So I apologize to those of you who hate reading things with improper grammar.

This is a VERY ROUGH DRAFT.

Also, some things have changed since I started and may be different later on than they are in the beginning. Again, I apologize for this.

Mostly I just want to get this out there. Who cares about polishing at this point? The more time I spend polishing, the more distracted I get and then the story gets left behind.



Spero

Back Story

I think that I already kind of did this the first time that I started writing spero. I don’t know for sure. Hm. I am kind of cold down here. Time to go upstairs.

So, what causes the problems? Originally, it was a man who was intent on controlling the world. So he attacked the worlds universities. And it all went down hill from there. I don’t think that is remotely possible.

So here is what I am thinking. Mom read in National Geographic that Yellowstone is showing signs of possible exploding in some epic volcanic upsurge. It would be huge. And the ash and volcanic winter caused by it would spread across half the united states. Even a little into the Midwest. Possible Missouri.

Here is my thinking. This explosion occurs. Because of this millions are forced to leave their homes. It is impossible for the rest of the United States to support the surviving population. So a boarder is put up in Missouri. The rich are able to buy their way into homes across this boarder. Many who are able to afford it leave the country. Those who stay are only able to do so because of their financial stability. But the country pretty much goes into poverty. Much of the crops are destroyed and useless. What is left is bought up by companies as quickly as possible. Those farmers sit pretty because of the value of their land. The live in really nice houses and ignore the poverty around them. The East coast is home to the worst section of the country. The rich live on ranches that have electric fences built around them to keep the disgruntled poor out. Cities are breeding grounds for gangs, crime, Washington is a fortress and most believe that the government has abandoned them. Only working for those who are able to still pay taxes.

Columbia Mo is not the worst city out there. The worst by far are the big cities like Chicago, Philly, Memphis, St. Louis, New York, etc. But Columbia has it’s fair share of gangs and crime. One of them is the orphan gang known as The Grey Five. Known for breaking into the rich estates and stealing what they can. Run by Mama Bessie. She’s doesn’t sound very terrifying because she isn’t. She is kind but tough as nails. She takes in abandoned children and together they go in teams of 5 and break onto the properties of the rich. There they steal what they can. Mostly food, electronics, petty cash, blankets, shoes, clothes. They then are able to trade them to those who need them. For whatever they can give. They only ever steal what is necessary to survival. The electronics, they will sell to those willing to pay.

The cities are usually run by whichever gang is in highest power. In Columbia MO, this happens to be the Tigers (taking their name from the University of Missouri Tigers mascot. They have not lost their pride). They are strict, but fair in their control. The same can’t be said of other gangs in other, rougher cities. They allow Mama Bessie and The Grey Five to continue their larceny as long as it doesn’t draw unnecessary and dangerous attention from the authorities (in other words, as long as they don’t get caught.)

Most of the time, the cops are unwilling to see to the petty complaints of the rich. Most of the countries police forces are dispatched to bigger cities with more control problems. As it is, The Tigers of Columbia have an understanding with the small police forces.





At first there was nothing for the senses to comprehend but darkness. Pressing in on every side. Thick enough to take your breath away.

She couldn’t breathe. Fear and her temporary blindness saw to that. The fuzzy cotton that crowded away thought and memory instilled a panic in her, which made those first seconds of re-consciousness almost deadly. Once she found her breath, her sense of smell was assailed by rancid sweet. Death. It was obvious even then. No more than 24 hours later. Tears made her adjusting eyesight useless. Her throat constricted in protest against the stink and fear with grief made her air reserves rush out of her lings. They began to scream, crying for her to give them respite. In a final act of defiance to this bombardment of sensations, her stomach threw itself into her throat in an attempt to jettison from her body. She was sick all over herself and the floor in front of her.

[Mama, Papa]

She wanted to call out to them. She knew full well it was a cry that would not be returned. Their corpses now lay rotting not far away. She tried to push herself up to a sitting posistion. It wasn’t safe here. Her hand found itself in a cool, sticky liquid. Blood. She was sick again, less violently than before.

[Slow. Go slow. Get out.]

Once it was common knowledge that this place was the home of the dead, every gang would send a representative to ransack it and grab what they could. That would include her. There was always a market for pretty young girls.

[Slow. Don’t think. Just go.]

Trying to ignore the feel of blood between her fingers, she pushed against the floor to heave herself up.

Her hand slipped and she collapsed in a heap again.

She sobbed uncontrollably.

[Forget it. Let them come. Let them take me.]

All she could hear was her own weeping so at first no other sound was distinguishable.

“Psst!”

A rat no doubt. Come to gnaw the nose and toes off the bodies.

“Psst! Hey! You, girl!”

Not a rat. At least not in the literal sense.

She lifted her head. There was a light very suddenly in her eyes. She cried out.

“Sorry,” mumbled the voice.

She could only manage an unintelligible groan.

“C’mon. Stop crying.”

The light came closer. Her fear sparked muscle cooperation. She pushed herself up to a sitting position and used her feet to push away from the advancing light.

[He’s going to hurt me.]

“Take it easy, girl. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She could back up no further. His light full upon her now.

“Phew…you are a mess!”

[Leave me alone!]

She tried to say it out loud. All that came out was a ragged cry with no words.

“Shhh! Jeez! Do you want to call over every gang in the area?” The light moved and spanned the room. It stopped somewhere in the east corner.

“Oh, man. These were yours, huh?” He swore softly. The light came back.

“Look. You’re not safe here. I’m sure there’s a lackey from every gang on the beat on their way here now. Including the Tigers. If you come with me, I might be able to help you.”

[He’s lying. He’ll hurt you.]
She shook her head.

He sighed.

“Okay…um,…what’s your name, girl?”

[Don’t answer.]

She shook her head.

“Fine…well, my name is Knox. K-N-O-X. I was sent to see what I could gather of value. I don’t see much, so I’m gonna go.”

[Good. Go. Leave me alone]

He continued.

“If you come with me, I can help protect you. If you stay, you will no doubt be collected and sold as a sweetie to some gang leader.”

[He’s lying. He can’t protect me.]

“So what’s it gonna be, girl?”

[No. Go away. Let me die.]

He lowered his light.

[Maybe…]

Her fear of him was great. Her fear of becoming a sweetie was worse.

[A chance..yes. Maybe…]

Her lip trembled. She took several deep breaths, and swallowed. Trying to moisten her throat.

“Keera.” She whispered.

“What?”

A tear slid down her cheek. Her voice wavered.

“K-E-E-R-A. Keera.”

Knox chuckled. Took slow steps toward her.
“Okay Keera. Give me your hand.” He extended his left hand to her.

She shook her head.

“I give you my word. I wont hurt you.”

“No.” She said. “Blood.”

“What?”

She lifted her left hand. He shone his light on it, revealing the blood-covered appendage.

“Oh, sorry.”

She switched the light to his left hand and offered her his right.

[Wait]

“C’mon. We don’t have time.”

[Okay]

She took his offered hand. He pulled hard and in several moments, she was on her feet. Her knees buckled and she fell against the wall.

“Easy.” Knox had a soft voice. Soft and inviting.

He offered her his left hand again and took her right in his.

“We have to go quickly. It’s far. Don’t let go of my hand, okay Keera?”

She nodded.

“Alright, lets go.”

He took several steps and she followed him shakily. Then stopped.

“Wait.” She whispered.

“There’s no time.”

She looked at him. Couldn’t see his face in the darkness.

“Please.”

[Please…]

A sigh.

“Alright. Quickly.”

She made her way to the two corpses. Jennifer and Matthew Petri.

She knelt beside them. Took her fathers lifeless hand in her own and kissed it. She slipped his class ring off. She took her mothers wedding band. Pocketed them both. Touched her mothers hair. It was caked with blood. She wept.

[You have to go. Just go.]

“Goodbye.” She whispered. She stood and went to Knox. Took his hand again.

“Don’t let go,” he commanded

“I won’t.” He told him.

They walked out the broken door and out into the dark streets.


Knox grasped the hand of the girl Keera tightly. His hear went out to her. Her parents had been murdered. Brutally, by the looks of it. For some reason she had been spared. Pity was one possible reason. Negligence was more likely. The murderer thinking she was dead and not checking properly.

She was an orphan now. Doomed to live her days without a real family.

She stumbled often and could not move very swiftly. He did not push her, but moved as quickly as she would allow. They weaved through dark alleys, pushed through the city ruins. Once he had to help her scale a small brick wall. He took barely used paths to avoid detection. Once or twice they stumbled across some faction-less geezer who rattled their handout cans. Around the halfway point she began weeping again. There was a dark, well covered alley ahead. He led her to a stack of plastic crates and sat her down.

“Let’s rest here a bit.”

Know took a small pack off his back and rummaged inside for his bottled water and a thin strip jerky.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. Her shoulders trembled.

He took his light out.

“Lets take a look at you, huh?”

He turned the setting to dim and directed the beam at her. She really was a horrible mess. There was vomit on her clothes and in her hair. Her left arm and hand were covered in blood.

“Is this yours?” he asked, pointing to the stain.

She shook her head.

He raised his light so that he could see her face. There was blood there too, and in her hair.

“What about that?” He nodded to her head. She reached a hand up and felt on her head gingerly. When her hand came to area with matted blood, she winced.

She nodded.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She looked like she was trying hard to remember. It was then that he noticed just how young she looked.

“How old are you?” He asked gently.

“12.” Was her soft reply

12. She was still practically a child. He decided he needed to be blunt.

“Have you been violated?”

She looked down. And shook her head.

“Good.” Knox let his breath out. “Here.” He handed her the water bottle.

“It’s clean. You should drink it all if you can.”

He hesitated.

“Go on. Take it.”

Reluctantly, she reached out and accepted the bottle, opened it, and took a small sip. She must have accepted it wasn’t tainted or poisoned, because she drank the whole bottle quickly after that. She wiped a dribble off her chin, then slumped forward and rested her head in her hands.
Know wanted to leave her be, but he needed to know the circumstances of the situation. He needed to know just how hard the murderer would try to finish off what he started. He would like to think that this was a random hit, but the idea that her life had been spared for no reason was too improbable to ignore.

“Do you remember anything about what happened? Who attacked you?”

She didn’t look up. She was silent. It was too soon of course. He felt foolish for even asking.

“Sorry. Of course you don’t want to talk about it.”

She began to weep softly again.

(Great, Knox. Real smart.)

Stupid.

“Hey, look…I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean to pry…”

He shook his head and looked away. Turned his attention to the dried meat he had bought. He wasn’t hungry but he ate to have something to do.

“My parents used to work at a ranch.” She spoke softly, grief in every syllable. Know stopped eating.

“Really?” Knox encouraged when it seemed she wouldn’t continue.

She nodded.

“They both worked in the household. My mother was a genius cook. Father was in school for computer science before Yellowstone. He worked for security. They didn’t know each other before they were recruited and sold by The Tigers to Kirk farms. They met there by chance. Mom, she was always so kind. And loving…”

He voice broke. She took a shuddering breath.

“She was stealing food from the kitchen to give to a stable hand being deprived of meals as punishment. Dad caught her on the cameras and confronted her. When she explained herself, he couldn’t bring himself to punish her. From then on, he covered for her and in time they fell in love. Some months later, mom got pregnant with me. The Master of the House, Kirk, got angry. So angry that he kicked them out onto the streets of Columbia. They were at the mercy of The Tigers then. I don’t know why, but they took my parents and I into the center city and never bothered us. Not until tonight. Tonight…”

She paused. Closed her eyes.
“It’s okay… you don’t need to.”

Of course he wanted her to. He needed to know was much as he could.

“I know.” She took a deep breath.

“Tonight, 3 men came. We weren’t prepared. We were just playing cards. Laughing. It’s cold enough that dad let us get a fire going. They came. They had guns and we had no way to defend ourselves. Mama cried out, ‘No. No. He promised.’ She yelled.”

She said the words with no emotion in her voice.

“I don’t know what she said that. They pointed their guns. Told us to shut up. Papa held mama and me. Held us close and shook. He was crying. He put something into my hand. ‘Don’t lose it,’ he whispered.

She held out a small plastic rectangle. Knox took it from her and recognized it as a data chip. From one of the computers that existed before. He examined it, then gave it back.

“They grabbed Papa. ‘You first’ they said. Shot him in the head. Twice. He fell. They grabbed Mama. Talked about selling her. ‘Too old’ one said. ‘Not too old for me.’ Said another. Mama cried. Kept saying, ‘he promised. He promised.’ They took her then…”

Here her voice broke and he could hear the sickness in her voice. Barely controlled rage, fear, anguish.

“…All three of them.”

She was sobbing. Knox wanted to stop her. He didn’t want to hear this. But he needed to know.

“They took turns. She screamed the whole time. While one took her, the other two held me. Made me…made me…”

Knox felt his throat constrict in a mix of sympathy and rage. She was only a child.

“They made you watch?”

She nodded silently.

“Jesus.”

He could tell it was taking all her effort not to be sick all over the ground. To keep talking.

“After, they threw her down. Her eyes were so blank. In the light of the fire I could see how dead they were. Like her soul was gone. She looked at me with those empty eyed. Those holes. ‘It’s okay’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid. He promised.’ Then they shot her. They kicked her body next to Papa’s. I…”

She was reduced to silent weeping now. Nothing else came out. But he needed to know more.

“Why not you?” he asked. Hating himself for it.

She just shook her head.

He put his hand on her knee and she jumped.

“Sorry.” He removed it. Stared intently at her.

He thought he should just leave her be.

(I can’t. )

She could be very dangerous or very profitable. He had to know.

“Keera, why not you?” He asked again. Her head shot up. Her eyes burned white hot.

“I don’t know!” She shouted.

“Shhh!!”

“NO! What do you want from me? They said that they wanted me alive! Needed me alive!”

“Keera, you have to keep your voice down.”

He looked frantically around. They had not attracted anyone yet. But if she kept yelling…

She stopped yelling, but her voice held as much anger as if she were.

“One of them said that I had to be kept alive! They knocked me out! The next thing I know I wake up in darkness, alone.”

(Shit.)

“Then you showed up.” She finished.

“Great. That complicates things.”
“What. Would it make it easier on you if I had been captured and sold as a sweetie?”

“What? No! I just…I was hoping…”

“I don’t know anything else!”

“Okay fine.”

(Geez. Okay. Let me think.)

“I just hoped you would know more about why you were left behind. It could be you’re wanted or it could be they were just careless. I just wanted to know how likely it is that we are aggressively followed. I guess we’ll never know.”

“So…you think that maybe they came for me? For more than just selling me as a sweetie? I mean, what…what could they want me for? Why…?”

(Stupid)

He had managed to piss her off and then completely freak her out in a matter of minutes.

“Look, it’s probably nothing. Just a couple of idiots too incompetent to finish the job they were sent to do.”

(Not likely).

He knew there was a very good reason she was left alive. You don’t send 3 guys to slaughter a family that small and harmless. Chance is something about this girl was valuable. Or maybe it had to do with that chip. Maybe.

“C’mon. We need to get moving again.”

She didn’t rise.

“Where are you taking me?” She was terrified. Of course she was.

“Someplace safe.” He assured her.

She still remained sitting.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

He sighed.

(You don’t really have much of a choice, that’s why)

“You don’t. You’re gonna have to decide right now if you trust me or not.”

She looked down at her legs. They were trembling. She was trembeling.

“How much further?”

“A few miles.”

She shook her head. Sniffeled.

“I don’t think I can make it that far.”

She was very weak, he could see that. She may be right. But he couldn’t in good conscience leave her here alone now. He rose and then sat down beside her, offered her his hand for the third time.

“I’ll help you,” he said.

She looked over at him. Doubting.

“Please. I can’t leave you here alone.”

“Why are you helping me?”

(Why? Because no one deserves the fate you’d be resigned to if I left you alone.)

“Because I want to.” It was the truth, and he hoped she could hear that in his voice.

(Okay? Please)

Another beat.

“Okay.” She took his hand. Gripped it hard.

They went on. She stumbled, but less often. Made no sound. They passed less people as they got closer to the outskirts of the city. Everyone in this part of town stayed inside at night.

They were shadows and he doubted even the desperates would notice them. Sometime later, they came to a place in their road where the huts were few and far between. There was a lot of open space. Desperates were watchful in places like these. He stopped in the shadow of an old gas station and pointed.

“About 1 more mile that way. But we have to be careful. Just keep hold of my hand and you’ll be fine.”

Here there were several old businesses. No longer running. Home to who knows. They were the only shelter. The best way was to keep running from one building to another. If you had to stop, stay in the shadows.

“We’re going to have to run. There’s no good place to stop until we reach that dump-station ½ a mile away. Can you make it?”

She looked unsure.

“I wont let go of you okay?”

She took a deep breath.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

So they ran. One shadow to another. He didn’t even bother to look behind him. He would be able to hear the desterates if they were there. And if they were there and you could hear them, you had little chance anyway. She didn’t stumble once though her breath became very shallow. He gripped her hand hard and she gripped back. They managed to reach the dump site without incident. He stopped. She was panting. Her breath ragged. She wasn’t used to this much running. His own breathing was only a little shallow. He’d had a lot more practice than this.

“We can rest a bit.” He let go of her hand. She sank to the ground, gasping.

“If they saw us…won’t they know…we’re here?” She said between breaths. Her voice trembled.

“Yes. If they saw us. But if they saw us, it wouldn’t matter how fast we ran or where we went.”

She nodded. Taking deep breaths to calm her heart.

“You’ve never seen a desperate, have you?” He asked.

“No. Have you?”

He didn’t answer right away. It was a dark, unwelcome memory.

“Not up close. You see one up close, you’re dead.”

He looked away from her.

“They killed my parents.”

A long pause while her breathing became normal.

“You’re an orphan.” She said softly.

“So are you.” He replied.

They looked at each other. An understanding. He thought he could see trust in her eyes now.

They sat for a while longer. Nothing stirred.

“They must be elsewhere tonight.” He said, relieved.

(Thank God. If there is a God in this world anymore.)

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

He pointed again as he peered around the pile of junk that hid them.

“Look.”

She came and looked. He pointed to a large white house that stood alone. Seemingly unprotected. About ½ a mile off.

“There is home.”

“How is it standing unprotected?”

He hesitated.

“I can’t tell you. Not right now.”

“What?”

“It’s…confidential information.”

She scoffed.

“Okay James Bond.”

“Who?”

She sighed.

“Never mind.”
“Do you trust me?” He asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Keera, do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

He took out his light and held it around the heap of junk. He made a series of flashings then stopped and waited. An old form of communication. Morse code. He peered around the pile. From the house there was a similar series of flashes.

“What…” She started to ask.

“Shh!” He commanded.

All clear.

He held out his hand again. She took it.

“We have to go fast. There are no shadows. We’ll be exposed.”

She looked unsure again.

“What if I fall? What if I can’t do it?”

“You can do it. I told you before. I wont let go of you.”

“You won’t leave me behind?”

He didn’t answer right away. What if she did fall? What if he couldn’t get her back up and a Desperate did show? Would he risk his life for this complete stranger? Her hand trembled in his. She was still bloody from her encounter.”

(Yes. I would.)

She didn’t deserve to die that way.

“I won’t leave you behind.” He promised. “We have to go now. Quickly. We’re almost there.”

“Lets go then.” She said.

And they were running again. The ground between the junk pit and the house was pitted with holes. He avoided them as much as possible. The house grew closer. Then she hit a hole and stumbled. She fell and cried out.

They heard. From behind them came a triumphant, cry.

(Oh shit)

She gasped. He pulled her up, hard.

“Faster.” He whispered. “Don’t look behind you.”

They ran faster. He could hear steps behind him. Not too close yet, but faster. At least one set. An animalistic sound. His heart turned cold. They had found them.

“We have to stay far ahead. We can’t let it get close.” He said through great gasps of breath.

The house was close now. Only about 50 meters away. But his hand was jerked out of hers as she fell again. She cried out in pain.

(No!)


“Keera!” He dashed to her.

“My ankle!”

“C’mon!” He looked up and he could see it. The Desperate. There was only one. But one was enough. He was close and would be on the quickly.

“Keera, c’mon!” He pulled. She stood and took a step.

“No, wait…ow! I cant!”


She could barely walk.

The desperate was running and closing on them.

“Go!” She yelled.

“I said I wouldn’t!” He pulled her up and put her arm around his shoulder.

“Just keep your weight off it. Quickly.”

“It’ll catch us!”

“C’mon! Just keep moving.”

A few more steps and there was a snarl. He felt a ragged hand grab his arm. He cried out as he was stopped and Keera fell forward. Instinctively, he kicked out. He heard a satisfying crunch and the Desperate snarled in pain. But it didn’t let go. He kicked out again. Another impact. It still held firm. It pulled him to the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and screamed in pain. It was biting into his flesh.

“Keera, run for the house!” He yelled. He tried to free himself. No success. He thrust his head back and struck the desperate in the face. It howled and released his shoulder. But it still held fast to his arm. It all seemed hopeless.

“Go!” He yelled at Keera, again.

They were suddenly flooded in a brilliant blinding light. A spotlight. The Desperate screamed and released him fully for a second. It was enough. He rushed forward and grabbed Keera, who was on her knees crying. He half dragged, half carried her several meters forward and then collapsed. They were about 40 feet away from the porch of the house.

“Knox. C’mon. We have to keep moving. It’s coming around!” Keera was panicked. The spotlight was still on the desperate who was screaming in frustration but it was starting to move out of the light.

“Knox!” She pulled on him.

He didn’t move.

“Stop pulling me. We’re fine.”

“What?!?”

“Just watch.” He grasped her hand so she wouldn’t leave.

“Knox…”

“Just watch.”

She looked at him, incredulous. The Desperate was out of the light now and was running towards them again. Closer.

Closer.

It was 10 feet away when it suddenly it stopped like it had hit a wall. It fell backward. Did not rise.

Keera gasped.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it dead?”

“No. Stunned.”

“But what…”

“It doesn’t matter right now. We’re safe.” He lay back on the ground breathing.

“You’re bleeding.”

He smiled.

“Yeah.”

(But I’m alive)

Their conversation was interrupted. The door to the house opened and several figures rushed out.

They were all dressed in dark colors. Their faces hidden. There were 5 of them and they surrounded him and Keera. They were holding crude weapons. Pipes, clubs, one held a knife.

“Explain yourself!” A voice cried out.

From the ground, he answered, “I come from hell in search of refuge. A lonely soul abandoned.”

“And the girl?”

They were all tense and waiting.

“The girl is with me. I’d appreciate it if you would lower your weapons.”

4 of the 5 complied. The one holding the knife was still tensed.

“You know we have to be cautious. How do we know this girl isn’t dangerous?”
He recognized the female voice. His jaw clenched.

“Because I am saying she’s not.” He insisted.

“And what was that anyway? That was the worst crossing I’ve ever seen. You could have let the desperate in.” She wasn’t going to relent.

“Claudia. Please. I’m tired. I’m bleeding. I’d like to go inside now. I would appreciate a little less aggression.”

“Whatever.” She said and lowered her knife.

Knox pushed himself to his feet and winced at the pain in his arm. Keera got to her feet. Everyone tensed and clutched their weapons. Knox moved to her side protectively.

“Rocky, would you help her get inside? She sprained her ankle.”

One the figures shook his head.

“No way. Why me? Why don’t you help her?”

“Are you kidding? C’mon. Just help her will you?”

(Don’t test me…)

“I can manage.” Keera said softly.

“See? She’s fine. Lets go.” The one called Rocky insisted.

Knox looked over at her. She looked terrified and stood close to him.

“You sure?”

She nodded quickly. The others had already started moving towards the house.

“Okay, come on then.”

Entry Sixty-Five

New Muse music.

So sorry to be a liar. I did get some (well, maybe a page or two) of Cancer Cafe written. And it is no where near good enough to put here for people to read.

On the other hand, thanks to a dream, I have gotten much farther in Spero. As always, it is going in a different direction than what was previously thought. I think this way is better.

Thanks also to Mom for reading the National Geographic and adding to my inspiration.

There will be a post soon of what I have so far. Aren't you glad that I've gone from Bus Stories (My first actual brilliant idea) to Cancer Cafe (something that barely got off the ground) to Spero which is where this blog started? I'm sorry that I am one of those people who has trouble staying on one track.

I just read the two most current entries from Cousin Jamie's blog. I cried. I am now feeling a little less cheerful, but at the same time I am so glad that her testimony is so strong that she hasn't let this experience shatter her faith.

Oh to be in the computer lab again. Where will I spend my days this semester? Here? Or will I find some cozy corner and read? Or will I bring my laptop and spend lots of time searching for an outlet?

Who knows. There are so many possibilities.

A small part of me likes this new feeling. I like Fall semester much more than Winter semester. There is such a promise of awesome things to come.

-Halloween
-Fall
-Thanksgiving
-Christmas
-Snow
-Leaves
-The Renaissance Festival
-The Pumpkin Festival (maybe if I have time)

Those are just some of the things.

Time to find something else to do.

Entry Sixty-Four

I never promised to be consistent.

The presence of this toothache makes me uncomfortable and might hinder creativity.

I did however come up with the inklings of an idea. It involved an interstellar diner. The name The Cancer Cafe came to mind. As did a character named Thrasher Doobian.

Ha. A collection of short stories. All about a human who works at The Cancer Cafe as a cook and moonlights as something. I haven't decided yet. Perhaps a private detective. Or maybe a bounty hunter. Or both. The point is, You'd be surprised at how much information can be gleaned from the customers at a restaurant like The Cancer Cafe.

Thrasher is a tall and fairly gangly man (but don't let that fool you. He fights like rabid ferret protecting its territory. But don't think that he LOOKS like a ferret. It was just a personality comparison). He has bright red hair and blue eyes. More often than not clean shaven, though he did sport a good looking goatee years ago when he was still on the intergalactic police force. Yeah, he used to be a cop. But there was an incident. He was on an undercover case with three other officers trying to take down one of the biggest drug cartels in the Milky Way galaxy. According to his account, he got cocky and careless. Long story short, the bust was a failure and the other three officers lost their lives. Because of this and other PLANTED evidence, Doobian was wrongly accused of working with the cartel and kicked off the force. He was shamed into hiding from all he knew and moved out of the Milky Way and eventually ended up working at The Cancer Cafe.

Through chance he had the oppritunity to keep some of his detective skills sharpened. He couldn't help it. Those cases were begging to be solved. And you hear a lot about shady dealings in a place like The Cancer Cafe. Doobian solved a few of these cases and found that it helped him cope. Now, through word of mouth, you can hear of the amazing skills of Thrasher Doobian and call upon him if you want a case solved under the radar or just don't trust the proper authorities.

In an attempet to sitck it to those who ruined his life, Doobian also works as a small transporter. Smuggler is another term for it. Small things. Nothing huge. And all very hush, hush. He found he was good at it since he intimatly knows the inner working of the intergalactic poliece. He was able to transport things quite easily. This was his petty and self pitying revenge. But it brought in extra cash.

Thrasher Doobian has enough money to live pretty, but instead spends a lot of it on high tech equipment to make his dealings easier. The rest he saves up for a time he will leave and go some place far away where he never has to hear about the intergalactic poliece again and where noone knows his name.

So that is the general idea. Like I said. Short stories. Like episodes. I blame it on a few things.

-Watching Psych
-Watching Star Wars
-Working at Bob Evans

Okay. Later.

Entry Sixty-Three

Okay, the season finale of Supernatural.

This post will be largly about the episode.

Can I say that I LOVE that they play Kansas a the start of every season finale?

"Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man. Though my mind could think, I still was a madman...Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more."

It's Eddie! Eddie from First Wave. Aw. I have a feeling he is evil and going to kill all those nuns.

Aw. He looks so sad. Too bad he is an evil jerk who betrayed his older brother.

Also, I have a bone to pick with the people that picked this girl to play Ruby. I already hated her, then they put in this actress that barely even merits the title.

In every season, my favorite has been Sam. I have to say that this is not the case this season. Not since I found out he's been drinking demon blood.

Go Bobby, go. You rule my world even though your not the best actor.

Um, what just happened? What's the pretty room?

Angles would not bring him beer.

Nice. Dean referencing The Suite Life of Zac and Cody.

"Bail on the holodeck, okay?"

Have I mentioned already how much I dislike the way they portray angles in this?

That was smart of the demon. If he still drains her, I will stop watching.

Okay, probably wont stop watching. But it looks like he's going to go through with it.

"Maybe Dean was right..." Um, you think?

Well, I saw that one coming. Though I am not happy about it.

It is going to happen, but not this way. God does not work that way.

Aaaaand I totally predicted that Sam was going to be the reason the last seal would be broken.

"Where's God in all this?"

"God? He left the building."

Um, not! I am so tired of movie and TV plots insisting that God is not involved in any of this. His hand is seen in everything. Ug. This is easily my least favorite season.

No one will ever read this post and find it interesting. Only me. Good thing that is the only thing that matters.

My head hurts. Nothing to do with the show. It just hurts. I think I need to drink more water.

Do it Castiel. Help him! You were always the only angle in the right! Do it.

He will.

I know it.

No Sam. Don't do it. No. I will forever hate you if you do.

Oh, that is low. SOOOOOO low! I hate that angel and that is wrong! I should be siding with the angels!! Ug. Again. I hate this season.

Who else is really sick of the Old Navy commercials. Bad move by their marketing department.

And again with the random prophet.

Ew. Sam. I hate you now. You did it.

I LOVE Castiel.

Awww...he stops because he hears Dean. No Sam. Don't so it. C'mon. You know who to trust.

No, no, no. If course this is how it's going to end. Ug. Whatever. There can be no resolution. There has to be some HUGE battle at the end. And since I am pretty sure that season 5 will be the last, I think Lucifer is going to be released. And then the whole next season will be hunting him down.

I hate you Sam.

I KNEW THAT RUBY WAS A TRAITOR. I NEVER TRUSTED HER!!!!! SAM YOU ARE SO STUPID!!!

Dean, kill Ruby. You have to. Get in and kill her.

YES!!! Thank goodness.

Oh jeez. Here it comes.

Worst. Ending. Ever.

Is this still my favorite show? Only if it ends good.

I am so disappointed and unhappy. And that makes me sad. Time to find a way to catch up on Lost and love that show. It never disappoints.

Okay, done. I promise that the next post won't be so pointless.

Entry Sixty-Two BUS STORIES ENTRY

Rather brief. But it's something.

(This portion of the entry occurs just after we left off in the last entry.)

The impact was jarring. The sound was deafening and I felt like that hit alone had shattered my whole body. But I was still alive, still conscious as the car spun. Like a merry-go-round. Like some terrifying ride. One on which I would probably die. There was this horrible screeching, a deafening scream as tires skidded and metal ripped apart. For one spit second I could hear the screams of the driver of the truck. Or maybe that was me. Then everything was dark.

Entry Sixty-One

Or not. That's what happens when you don't follow through.

Should be getting ready to take a test on Yeats, Keats, Blake, Wordsworth, Woolf, Austen, the Victorian period, Romanticism, and all the like.

Instead I come here to express a foolish feeling.

Mostly it has to to with a person. Mostly that person is a completely illogical choice to focus on. But there are times when our hearts decide to go a way of their own. Completely opposite of what are heads are logically suggesting.

I need to wake up my birds.

Here I go.

I'm not that worried about this test. Maybe I should be. If I do horrible I bring my grade down to a low B. I have to potential to get an A. I got an A on the last exam. But I think that I (1) knew the material better and (2) studied more.

I hope I get a B in Pop Dy.

I also hope that I can quickly get over this problem of thinking about this person. I can promise you that you will NEVER guess who it is. I can also promise you that I will never betray myself and let you know who it is. You will never know.

Think on that for a while.

"we could have had so much fun, but you blew it away."

I am not having fun and I will continue to have no fun until after my final tomorrow morning from 10:30-12:30.

Man do I miss a real number pad.

"Nothing by my own skin."

I love my finches. I want to buy them a bigger cage.

What I REALLY want to do is let them fly around the room freely. But then they would poo on everything and I can't have that. I have considered wrapping my whole room in newspaper.

But then getting things would be hard and I would wake each morning with yesterdays headline written on my face.

Man, that sounds like a good line from a book involving a tragedy.

"There he stood. Hair a mess, clothes covered in a days worth of grunge, and yesterdays headline written all over his face. You always believe that what you read in the newspaper will never have any personal meaning to you. Today, Russel could no longer number himself among the people who read Sundays paper and moved on. He would not, could not, ever move on. Not from this. There was no recovering. And in that moment, I felt that I would never see him the same way again."

There.

That makes me feel a little bit better.

Now back to the featured item...studying for my British Literature (The Major Authors) Final Examination.

I really should have been a literature major.

Entry Sixty

I'm there. 60, baby.

And I feel sick. My head is...not on fire. There are no flames. It's more like I'm being held deep under water. There is pressure.

I want it to go away. Yet, I only have myself to blame. I am the one who decided that it was a good idea to take a 3 hour nap. It felt good at the time. Especially since I got 4 hours of sleep last night.

Then my body screams at me, "WHY DID YOU WAKE ME UP!"

Truth be told, I could have slept right into the night. Slept from 3:00-10:00 or 11:00. But I didn't want to waste the rest of today. So I awoke and promptly got on the computer.

I have to admit that the glare from the screen is not helping things. I don't want to look away.

Also, my show starts in 5 minutes and I cannot miss it. Unless we have already turned the cable off.

Oh, what do I do. The advice? Wait until after finals to worry about it. But by then we are getting into "real problem" territory. Why am I the one? I have asked myself this over and over again.

(Is it just me, or has the acting in Smallville gotten worse? Not just since the start, I mean from last week.)

(Speaking of bad acting, I love this show...but does clenching and showing your teeth really equal acting? You look like a chimp)

Back to things. I SHOULD be studying for the finals that I have next week. The weekend will be spent wishing bees would attack those that are delinquent.

Maybe I should get a head start. Then again, I think I would much rather watch my Netflix movie.

Did that.

"Now we'll always never know."

I love thunder storms more than pretty much anything else.

I also love writing when creativity permits.

I just feel like doing nothing, but that requires sitting and I am SICK of sitting.

Okay. Time to get some more story put out there.

Refer to the next post.

Right now.

Entry Fifty-Nine

I could fall asleep to spring peepers.

Some deep inside part of me yearns to.

A smoky cloud passes across a crescent moon and the moment is lost.

Time to get back to work.

It is still time to worry and be unhappy. Shortly that time will be over and ease will be what is written on my heart. Not this black scrawl.

All I want to do is sleep. It dulls the worry and the anxiety. It puts it off until morning. Then is returns in full force.

I am the queen of procrastination.

This queen bids you farewell.

Entry Fifty-Eight BUS STORIES ENTRY

Oh jeez. This makes two entries in one day. And two BUS STORIES entries at that! Also, I am close to the 60 landmark. Who wants to get me a diamond? Ha. Just kidding.

SO here goes. I'm pretty sure it's going to be another short one. I need to sleep.


Time to put on a little Muse/Coldplay/Keane (etc.) and let 'er rip!


STARTING RIGHT AFTER THE LAST ENTRY (just after she pushed 7)

Not much stuck out in my mind after that. The cold, realistic part of me was weeping. My disgusted and terribly pessimistic sense of being scoffed and took over. First, call in. No work today.

I'm not sure who I talked to or what was said. I'm sure I made my excuses and the co-worker receiving the information was rolling their eyes. Most of them did that behind my back. They thought I was a crazy, lazy, anti-socialite suffering from depression. They were right.

Next thing I knew, I was in my car. My noisy, old Saturn. The tires needed rotating. The whole car shook if I got over 60 mph on the highway.

No breakfast with Josh and Susan.

No time for ANY kind of pleasantness this morning.

I'm not sure if the horrid consciousness leading my actions really had intentions of my death. Death always sounded like a good idea at times like this. But today? Today was different. I'd tried death on this day. Several times. Last year in fact. It never worked. October 24th was not may day to die in any year. Yet it was the death day reserved for a man and an unborn baby boy.

Desperate for something to take the anguish that was threatening to explode in me, I made my down the highway. Go somewhere. Anywhere. The car shook in protest as I pushed 85. That should have warned me. But I just wanted to forget.

I could never forget.

It had been dark then. But not too dark. The stars and moon painted the road with silver. The windows were down and the air smelled of dead leaves and spices. We were driving home from a week early Halloween party. Me and Will. It had been outside the city. A friend owned some land. There had been a bonfire, marshmallows, hot dogs, soda. I'd held Will's hand and snuggled with him on a soft fleece blanket. He grabbed a white hot tipped branch and wrote my name in smoke. He rested his free hand on my gently swelling belly.

Mikey kicked for the very first time.

We had been so excited. We made everyone come over and try to feel it. No one did, of course. Once Will's hand had left, the kicking stopped. It didn't matter. We both felt it. We knew it was real. There were no words in existence that could describe the happiness and contentment that I felt.

No words will be invented that can express how I felt when all that was taken from me. How I feel now, sill existing without them.

I wasn't watching the road. I just barreled down. There was a split second when I saw it coming at me. This horribly battered and sad looking truck. In that second, all this flooded in...

...Better to die remembering something wonderful than something awful. Better to have reality wrench you back just before memory lane took you into a terrifying dark tunnel. What was the color? Why was it going the wrong way on the highway? It didn't matter because it was there and nothing could stop what was going to happen. Did I brace myself? Did I make any attempt to avoid it? No. Here was my chance. Here was this truck, here was me. The distance between us closing impossibly fast. And at the last second...would I make it through this?

Okay, for real. Time to get to sleep.

Tomorrow I will definitely have more. Can't stop a good flow while it's coming.

Entry Fifty-Seven BUS STORIES ENTRY

This is my attempt at getting at the middle stuff that I decided to skip in that last entry.


STARTING JUST BEFORE I TYPED "LATER" ON THE LAST BLOG ENTRY.

Then it had all been noise and pain..and death.

Yet I was still here. Left to remember the happiness I had and would never have again. Part of me wanted to blame God and THAT part of me did. The other part, the one that tried to force me into reality, that corner reigning half of me blamed myself. It had been my fault.

Soon the spot of tears on my pillow swelled to something unmanageable. Time to get up. I wiped my eyes with the back of my pajama sleeve. Snotty nose. Never a pleasant thing. Sitting up, I looked at the alarm clock. It read 6:42. I had to be to work at 9:00. That gave me plenty of time for a nice hot shower. Something to scald away the dream that still had a strangling hold on my thoughts.

Why go to work?

There was that voice again. The one that blamed God. The one that thought life was pointless. I must admit that I gave into that part of me often enough. She led me to poor decisions and unhappy days. The fitter side of me tried hard to fight back. But she often lost. I was determined to listen to the half of me that believed life still had meaning today.

I grabbed my cell phone. I had two messages. I had slept right through the vibrations. Hold down 1 and listen.

"You have two unheard messages. First unheard message:"

"Hey Becca, it's Susan. Look, I know that today is going to be really rough for you...so, um...lets not have a repeat of last year...okay? I love you. Give me a call when you get this and we'll talk...okay, hope to hear from you! Bye!"

My sister Susan. Always looking out for me. Looking out for everyone. The oldest, you know. What was she talking about, last year? Hard for me?

"End of message. To delete this message, press 7, to save it in the archives, press 9..."

I pressed 9. Something about deleting messages immediately bothered me. Like I would forget what they were about and never get back to the person if I deleted it.

"Message will be save for 14 days. Next message."

"Becca, hey. It's Josh. Look, it being October 24th and all, I, uh, thought you could use a pick me up...So um....I know it's early and you have to work today, but me and Susan are gonna come over and bring you some breakfast, okay? We'll be there at around...uh, probably around 7:30ish, or something like that. Just, uh, give me a call if you would rather not...so uh, I'll see you then! Okay, bye."

"End of message. To delete this message press 7, to...."

All the other automated words were drowned out by a rushing in my ears. October 24th. Was that today? How could I not remember? Why? No. I felt a rush of something much more than grief. It was despair.

"...Are you still there? To delete this message, press 7..."

I pressed 7.


********

I know that this was short, but I am doing so many other things right now. Maybe it's good to get it out in short little spurts.

Entry Fifty-Six BUS STORIES ENTRY

Time to get this posted like I said I would months ago.

I really with I had more time to work on this.

"Bus Stories"


I jolted awake. Like I had been plummeting from some height and landed with a fwump on my own mattress. I remembered nothing of the dream. I could have been falling, or perhaps drowning. I was out of breath. And afraid. The fear was tangible and foreboding. It came from somewhere deep inside. I lay there with my eyes shut tight. Bright sunlight tried with minimal success to break through their barrier. When I finally cracked my lids, the light was blinding. I gasped, groaned and rolled over, trying to avoid it. In my attempts, I met something soft and warm. Blinking several times I took in my surroundings. There was a man in the bed next to me. The pristine white sheets clashed against his modestly tan skin. His face was turned slightly so that I could see every feature. His small nose that seemed so ill-proportioned to the rest of him. His square jaw off-setting his lips. And dark eyebrows. Just like his hair. It was inky black and splashed against his forehead. It made feathery patterns on the ivory pillow upon which his head rested. I knew every contour and line of his face and body. I felt the cool reassurance of the ring on my finger reminding me of the eternal bond I had forged with this man.

“William.”

I spoke his name aloud. A murmur…a prayer even. I reached out my hand to trace his jaw. My fingers trembled, stopping millimeters from his face. I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want to break the spell. He looked so peaceful, so perfect.
As if he could feel my nearness, he stirred, inhaling deeply. First he squeezed his eyelids tight. Then one peeked open, peering up at me. Once it assessed the situation, the other one followed suite. Both eyes were open now and staring into mine, clouded with sleep. As gray and deep as always. Those eyes reminded me of winter. Not the blinding white, but cold slate December days that were fuzzy around the edges. Warm quilts and steaming mugs of coco. Hickory fires crackling. I could easily get lost in those eyes. Then William spoke, breaking the spell.

“How long have you been up?” He stretched, his arms muscles going taut. His feet extend out of the comforter and his toes curled.

“Not long,” was my answer. Though I could have been watching hi for hours. “I’ve been watching you sleep.”

He smiled. Teeth showing. A rare site-He hated his smile.

“You know I hate it when you do that,” he teased.

Something went off in my mind. A stab of pain accompanied by the brief flash of an image across my vision. William dead and bloodied. It was enough to make me pull in a breath sharply through my teeth.

“Hey, what is it? Becca?” Williams voice resonated with concern. He reached out and put a hand to my face. When I looked at him, I saw that his eyes had lost all the fogginess. They were alert. Searching.

“Nothing.” Only a dream. Nothing to worry about. As always, he was a mind reader.

“You’ve had another nightmare, haven’t you?” I did not meet his gaze which never left my face. Had I? What had I been dreaming? I suppose it must have been frightening to produce such a grim image. A horrible alternate world where things weren’t as they should be. I looked out the window. The sun shone in. Too bright. I squinted against the garishness of it. The light reflected off my hand. Off my wedding ring. It threw rainbows on the wall. Rich color. Every single one on the spectrum was visible. ROY G BIV.

“Becca?” He said my name so tenderly that it sent a hollow ache through every single bone in my body. Why? What was this pain? Suddenly he was standing at the foot of the bed. All physical contact broken.

“Will? Don’t.” The words that escaped me were desperate.

“Don’t what, babe?” He smiled again. But this time it was not bright or reassuring. It seemed almost patronizing. Like I was overreacting.

“Don’t go. Please.” The hollow ache reached my throat and the words were almost a sob.

“I’m just going to check on Mikey,” he assured me. The name of our little boy sent a peculiar shock through me. As if I was surprised. What were these feelings? To confirm his task necessary, a soft cry reached my ears from what seemed to be a great distance…

…And then I was awake. All brightness gone. The cry still ringing in my ears and Williams face still imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. The ache I had felt seconds before became an overwhelming grief. I had been dreaming. Of course I had. Dreams were always too bright. Colors too vibrant. Real life was all gray, dark and cold. The complete opposite of the world I had just been in. I rolled over and squeezed my eyes tighter. Not against light this time but against reality. Maybe I could fall back into the dream. Maybe I could have a few more moments with Will and Mikey. Tears leaked out and dampened my pillow. I bit my lip against a sob.

Get a grip, Becca. You need to make it through this day. And the next, and the next. One day at a time.

This internal voice was both encouraging and reprimanding. I tried to listen. But another voice inside scoffed.

What’s the point?

Yes. What was the point? Why had I gone so long without them? Why hadn’t I ended this pain years ago?

I shook my head, trying to clear it. I shouldn’t think that way. Suicide was not the answer. Remnants of the dream rose to the forefront of my thoughts. The ring. Will’s face, his eyes. And the phrase, “You know I hate it when you do that.”. Those had been that last words my husband ever said to me.

(A section of writing is missing here. Part of it is written in a previous blog post. Entry seventeen (the car accident). I will get to this later. Writing is NOT linear.)


LATER
Awareness begins to descend upon you again. Slowly. Awareness has taken a sleeping pill. Thoughts begin to swirl in your mind in a garbled, haphazard way. You try to sort through them and focus on the important ones. You want to prod awareness with a hot poker to get it moving. Eventually you are able to wonder, “Where am I?” This is promptly followed by “what happened?” and “am I dead?” Once awareness of mind is achieved, awareness of body races to catch up. You wonder if the part of the body that distinguishes direction (somewhere in the ear maybe?) decided to sit this one out. You think you are lying down. That would make sense. Who is ever unconscious standing up? Soon you feel your eyes. Lids closed. At the same time, sound enters the equation. Eyes distinguish darkness with random intermittent scrolls of lighter darkness. Ears hear a constant rush/hum (a white noise sound) interrupted by an occasional rumble and clatter. Some part of you is aware of perpetual motion. The sounds touch a memory far in the recesses of your mind. It invites images of plastic lunchboxes, wooden pencils (specifically not the mechanical kind), and Lisa Frank notebooks. Grade school. School, movement, the smell (your nose joins the fray and lends a hand) of fake plastic leather…

A school bus. It had to be. Where else in the world could you find that smell. The scent of 11 years of cramped, negative nostalgia. Wow. Kudos to your five senses for working that out. Why though? How did you end up on a school bus? Suddenly, your pain senses flare. Sharp stabbing pains assail your head. Only your head. The left side. Each time the lighter darkness occurs it intensifies. You move your head, trying to escape to agony. The pain is causing your stomach o protest. You really don't want your sense of taste to be agonized by vomiting. Close by someone gasps.

“I think she’s awake!” is the excited whisper that follows. You feel a hand gently rest on your forehead. The fingers are cool and feel good on your noticeably hot skin. The hand is small. There is a brief scuffling, the sound of hurried movement. Many voices join the one. Your confused senses don’t distinguish any specific phrases. Only muttering like the babbling of a water fountain. You open your eyes at the risk of increasing your pain. Half a dozen blurry faces are bent over you. You try, but can’t really bring any one of them into focus. You groan as another wave of nausea ripples through you.

“C’mon everyone, give her some air,” says a voice. It’s fuzzy. Like you’re ears are filled with water. You decide that the pain in your head must be the cause of your senses garbled reception. The pain and nausea reach a peak and your body decides to, rather than deal with it, pass out again. Everything goes dark.






Hours, possibly days later I was aware of a steady beeping sound. One that I knew well. The first time I’d hear it the man in white told me I’d lost the two most important things in my life. The second time, I had overdosed on an antidepressant. I guess I must have hurt myself again to be in the hospital. When I opened my eyes, everything came into sharp focus. A relief from the fuzziness of the bus. The room was dimly lit. The sheets white. I had one of those nasal oxygen tubes jammed up my nostrils. First instinct? Rip it out. Reason told me that might not be the best idea. Instead, I took in more of my surroundings. Typical hospital room. One that you might see in movies or soap operas. There were monitoring devices to my left where the beeping originated from. There was a TV attached to the wall in one corner. There was a window on the right wall. The blinds were closed. What time of day was it? I was covered in sheer white sheets.

Alright. I knew where I was now. What was my physical status? I began to move each individual part of my body. Checking for pain. Except for a little stiffness, there was nothing out of place. I remembered the pain on the bus and I reached my hand up to touch my head (I became aware of the needle inserted into my skin sending fluids throughout my body and shudder. I hated IV's). My fingers traveled from the left to the right side of my scalp. I applied pressure.

There was the pain. I winced and sucked breath through me teeth in a cobra-like hiss. My hand dropped. The pain didn’t though. The intensity of it was nothing close to what it had been on the bus, but it was there. So I had been injured. Finally, something tied these two experiences together.

From the shadowy right corner of the room, something stirred. There was a chair, and in the chair sat a figure. How had I missed that in my previous inventory seconds before? I squinted in an attempt to ascertain who it was that accompanied me. The poor lighting made that almost impossible. I could see it was a man. He was slouched over. I listened closely and I could hear his slow breathing. I cleared my throat. Nothing happened. I tried again. Louder.

Ouch. That was a bad idea. The pain worsened. And my throat was so dry.

Still nothing happened. Perhaps he was a statue. I contented myself with listening to his breathing. I matched his breathing with my own. Some strange internal urge to be in unison, like my head would explode if we were out of rhythm. At first it was uncomfortable. He was breathing so slow. Eventually it became easy and natural. We breathed a little chorus together, and at times, the ECG took up a descant. Beeping in to match our pace. I could have laid like that for hours. Or days. Time decided to render itself unnecessary. But at some point, we were rudely interrupted.

A man in white entered the room. He was complete with stethoscope and clipboard, which he was currently pouring over. In a moment, he looked up and our eyes met. His widened and his face went slack. I thought he was going to drop his clipboard. It seemed like the thing to do when you look that surprised.

Then he did. The clatter it made on the floor startled the figure in the corner who almost fell out of his chair. This short Rube Goldberg machine reaction was almost enough to make me laugh. Unfortunately, the doctors surprise was more than a little out of place.

He retrieved his clipboard, and the dark figure straightened up, moving his arm in a wiping motion across his shadow obscured face. Had he been drooling?

The doctor shook his head.

"Sorry, Mrs. Brighton. I just...I didn't. Well, you're awake! That's wonderful! It's good to see you again!"

Mrs. Brighton. As much as it shouldn't, the title stung. I observed the surprised man in front of me. He was tall and thin with a kind face and hair that reminded me of an English sheepdog. Shaggy, tousled, and of similar color. His washed denim eyes looked at me with nothing short of awe and amazement. He kept looking at his chart, then at me again. Then he would shake his head. It got to be bothersome.

"Um, Doc? Am I missing something?"

He looked at me again, this time slightly uncomfortable.

"Missing something? No. No not at all, I mean that is, well..."

He searched for the right words.

"We weren't expecting you to wake up."

He waited for my response. I have to admit, it wasn't all that spectacular. I sat there. Thought about his words. They weren't expecting me to wake up. Well I did, so, there was nothing to worry about, right?

"What happened?" It was the only question I could come up with.

Doc looked at the man in the shadows. For permission? I looked at shadow-man as well. Saw him shrug. doc looked back at me.

"You were in a motor vehicle accident. You don't remember?"

No. I didn't. Vehicle accident? I guess that would explain the head injury. How bad? Must have been bad for them to think that I wasn't going to wake up.

"You were driving a blue Saturn. You were hit by another driver. Out on route K."

Then I did remember. I regressed, actually. I closed my eyes and everything was bright flashes and loud noise. Screeching metal, explosions ripping into my ears. Pain, blood, memory...horrible memory. Because he had been there. Right there next to me. Alive and smiling...

..."You know I hate it when you do that." And then fire and pain. A pain that would never leave. The doctor had come in. Looking grave. And I had asked...

...The words came out before I could stop them. "Is Will okay?"

I opened my eyes and the man in white was just looking at me.

"Will? I'm sorry, who are you talking about?" He looked at shadow-man again, who shrugged. As uninformative as he was indistinguishable.

I shook my head. Stupid. The brain pain was there again. From the injury.

"Ow...No. I'm...I'm sorry. I was just confused..."

The doctor looked at me closely. Took several steps forward. "Miss Brighton, what day is it?"

I thought for a moment. For a second there I had been 7 years earlier. I thought some more and then responded with, "October 24th, 2009?" That was the day I had been driving. The day I had felt the pain again. The good kind. The kind that made every other inner pain go away.

Doc shook his head. "It's November 5th. You had your accident 12 days ago."


OKAY! I know this is a bad spot. But I have to stop somewhere or I am NEVER going to stop and post anything. It will just get longer and longer and thenget forgotten and no one will want to read it because it is so long.

See what I mean? I ramble.

Done now.

Entry Fifty-Five

Thank goodness for outlets.

I am a little annoyed at people who talk on their cell phones in the library. Especially one that has a no cell phone on policy.

"Oh, you don't always die from tobacco. Sometimes you just lose a lung. Oh, you don't always die from tobacco. Sometimes they just snip off your tongue. And you wont sing worth a heck with a big hole in your neck. oh, you don't always die from tobacco."

I really like that commercial.

Is that language really necessary? I don't think so. I cannot stand it.

Editing is hard work.

That is all I have to say.

Also, it is good to see old friends but weird when you had a dream about them recently.

What is my real life going to be like? How many times can I ask that question?

Entry Fifty-Four

Cod. You are a codfish. No. Hook is a codfish.

That is what I am looking up.

Did you know that they change colors at certain depths?

That's pretty cool.

Also. Cod liver oil.

Cod, cod, cod.

So much to do. Really? So much to do. Do it now. Go and do it now. Where? I guess in here. I have no other choice and I would get distracted anywhere else.

Time to contact my advisor.

For advice.

To register.

For classes.

Glasses.

Tassels.

I want real food.

What should I eat for dinner tonight? What do I have? What do I feel like making? I miss my internet.

Entry Fifty-Three

His nose honked. No ones nose honks quite like dads.

How funny is that?

Man, I am so good at NOT doing anything. I have it down to an art. I should get paid for it.

right up to the second. It's always right up to the second and often past it.

Have not we decided that U2 music all sound the same? Maybe not "vertigo". But then he does skip from 3 to 14 in Spanish.

Who does that?

I want my prize.

Did I mention that I was randomly nominated for employee of the month in my district? I didn't win. I'm okay with that.

I love pie. I also love sleep. I wish I would eat pie while sleeping. That would be amazing.

I am ready to not be sick.

NEW TOON! Time to go.

Entry FIfty-Two

The times are hard. They are busy. Breathing is barely an afterthought.

On the plus side, it is starting to feel like spring. I don't believe it has any intention of staying that way.

I like the smell. The feel. The warmth. It's cleansing. Often I smile for no good reason.

Music is where I find myself. I soothe myself. Heal. Take time to listen. To pull something deep down inside up to the surface. Belt it out. Feel no shame. In their words there is poetry, understanding. I wish I had that kind of honesty. The music will never die and in that I find a measure of comfort.

There are times where I wonder exactly how I got to where I am. Where along the way did these things become important and these things lose all meaning and significance? Where is she, or he, or them? They were there. So strong. Then lost.

Was that my doing or theirs? Most likely a combination of both. The worst part is the time we had. It meant so much. It in some ways shaped who we are today. Then it was lost. How many more will follow?

But today is not a day of sad memories. It is a day of family, of the sun calling to the inner child within us. It's a day to ignore the part of you that wants to shun the society you mingle in. Kindness is essential. Understanding.

Wishes come true this time of year, or so it seems. If I had a wish it would be that at least ONE of my wishes come true. They are ever changing and here I lay them out for all to know.

1. To find love. Not the rush of uncertainty. Love in the ones I know best. Or love in one that I could know better than the rest.

2. To find my calling. To know what He would have me do to make it better. To know if what I envision is what could be. To know that this is what he wants me to do at this point in my life...life and church.

3. To make it through. To keep up. To understand. To learn. All these directed at my schooling. I am not unintelligent. But I am not as intelligent as others. I find that a reason to excuse my lack of excellence. I just want to prove that I can do it. Make it. Lean. Understand.

4. I want to find them all again. Every one that was lost. I miss them. Deeply. Perhaps I am holding on too hard to some and not hard enough onto others.

5. Materially I want many things. But in all honesty they are things I don't need. Who needs a new iPod, phone, computer, car, place to live? I have all those things in some way or form right now. And that will do.

6. To create the best road trip playlist ever for Spring Break.

7. To get to class on time. That means I have to leave right now.

Entry Fifty-One

It has been far too long. I admit that I like the evenness of the number 50 and didn't want to move onto 51.

Also, I have been planning a Bus Stories post but I can't seem to get the formatting right. It's frustrating that Word formatting does not match Blogger formatting. What can I do?

Try again, right?

Here I go.

Doesn't work. I am going to have to try to find a better way. Thats why whenever I usually post a section of story I do it directly on the blog.

I hate Microsoft Word.

It makes me sad.

Entry Fifty

I wanted entry fifty to be something special. Halfway to 100, you know.

The intention was to post what I have of my new and improved version of Bus Stories.

There has been no time. And the days between entry 49 and this one are already too many.

It's making me anxious.

Mostly formatting got in the way. Stupid Microsoft word and blogger not wanting to work together.

I almost went off on a fellow employee tonight. Not a pleasant thing.

The worst part was, 15 minutes later she apologized for getting angry at me and I felt really bad.

I told her I was PMS-ing, which was true, and that I was really sorry...which was only partially true.

Mostly I just wanted to be mad at her. Does that make me a horrible person?

I think it does.

I'm just glad to be home. Even if I have way too much homework to worry about.

speaking of about, it's about time I got to sleeping. I have a lot to catch up on tomorrow.

*sigh* I am soooo glad that am getting the hard stuff out of the way this semester so that my last one wont be so miserable.

"Time to die Crowe"

Name that movie. Me and Kirsti did yesterday.

Sometimes I hate myself for being so annoyed by people.

Especially my family.

Entry Fourty-Nine

Oh, the anticipation. I can barely take it.

I have been in the 40's too long.

About time to move from Hitler to Elvis.

"This perfume that I mixed myself"

Sounds like one of those stories that gets put in books filled with compilations of inspirational anecdotes.

It's actually kind of an interesting story, but I think that this woman was a little messed up when she was 16.

I think I was a little weird then too. But at least I mostly had my head on straight when it came to love. Maybe not. That was 5 years ago.

Who wants to tell me a story? I would have to record you. Well, maybe not. But that would be best. I think any old interesting story would work.

Still sick=still wanting to sleep all the time. I got 2.5 hours today and I am actually tired right now. It's only 10:35!

I think that entry 50 will have to be some good time fun writing. I mean a little addition to my current story that I actually think might go somewhere.

Dang. Every time I say that, it goes nowhere.

Which is where I am going right now.

Or...to bed, actually. Not nowhere.

Dreams. I can't wait.

3...2...1...

Zero.

Entry Fourty-Eight

only two more to go!

I am getting sick again. Not the stomach kind of sick like last time. The kind where you can feel it creeping up on you in the back of your throat.

I have taken on more than I need to with Icthyology. Well, to be accurate, I haven't decided if that is for sure my plan. I just think that in this class I would get a better grade if I turned in something myself. At least a better grade than if I worked with a group that may not want to do as much work as I do. So I am going to talk to my professor about doing a solo project (it was an idea that he suggested to those of us with a little more motivation.) Perhaps this will encourage me to learn more about fish.

My lip hurts.

I need to stop biting my lips. Its not like it keeps me from biting my nails.

I made my blueberry tea a little strong tonight.

Everything is set and ready to go for tomorrow.

I hate Wednesdays.

Alright. I bring this unnecessary entry (#48) to a close.

Merry day-after-groundhog-day to all, and to all a goodnight!

Entry Fourty-Seven

"The most explosive season of 24 is up next."

We'll see. I reserve judgment on that.

Hey! A fragment of code!

No, your FACE needs to open a new socket. That brings back memories.

I wonder where this season is really going. I wish I could say that there is much I find riveting.

Maybe it really is because I am used to watching season after they come out and not one episode at a time with a whole week in between. Hm.

Naw, I'm pretty sure that seasons 1, 3, and 5 were pretty good. I don't remember 4 very well. Maybe this follows a pattern and this season will get significantly better.

That same dang code fragment. There it is again. Hmmmmm. (pretends to think dramatically). I wonder if that means something.

Mmmmmm.....pesticide.

It's not responding. What does that remind me of? Maybe Star Trek?

Speaking of that, who else is REALLY EXCITED for the new movie?

I really wish I had time to get into Fringe. I wonder if it will be a short lived show and it will be easy to catch up.

I am really sick of the White House constantly recapping everything that has already been recapped. I don't think they would talk like that. It also seems like they are getting nothing done.

Oh, yeah. Sure. You are going to find Dubaku and the CIP device right in time to stop all the pesticide from being released.

I love tiny cameras.

Less than 10 minutes? What will we do with the reat of the show? I also agree with Dave. Can't they just manually stop the tank?

Oh, manually release some of the pressure. Isn't it a safety hazard NOT to be able to shut it down manually?

Aw, he is willing to sacrifice himself. Good man. And now we have the first noble death.

I love how the characters love to state the obvious.

Oh! Thats how they are going to extend it. Everything is pretty and nice until they find a new location to run their opperation.

GO BILL!!!

And Rene. I think she is growing on me.

Somebody find and stop Dubaku!!!!

Of course not.

But they do have the destroyed CIP device. At least thats something.

"Theres an ap. for that." "ap" should be added to the dictionary.

EW! That commercial was dumb. And that Bacon Cheddar Melt makes me puke.

Aw, they still have the one man from the beginning. I guess he can make a whole NEW CIP device.

A bob is gonna go off. That was obvious.

And...he just walks out.

You're gonna have to give up the "find the device, find Dubaku" plan.

Dr. Quinn! There you are!

New target, First Gentleman Taylor! I kinda wish he had just killed him. Ha! Dave agrees.

Tony should get shot in the neck again!

Whats the twist for this weel? Dubaku has a crappy apartment. And, and, AND he has a girlfriend! How much of a person is this evil terrorist? I can barely believe it...

NEXT WEEK: Jack Bauer: "you can trust me". -yes you can.

Thats all folks. This has been my monthly 24 blog update. Tune in next time for what happens 4 episodes from now!

Um, did that McDonalds commercial have Carrots in their "we use fresh ingreients in our burgers" commercials? I really hope I never eat a carrot on my burger. Of course I will never eat McDonalds food again.

Entry Fourty-Six

Uh-oh, I'm getting excited for entry 50!!! After this we're only four away!

I guess I'm in the computer lab writing on my blog. But that's just a guess.

"Autosave failed." Sad.

I really should be reading the intro to The Caterbury Tales. The thing is, I started it last night and got really close to ripping my eyeballs out with my bare hands. Sorry to be graphic, but geez. That Olde Elish ure pac a whump. (translated to "That old english sure packs a whallop).

I swear, thats what old english is like. Add vowls where they shouldn't be, delete letters, have a word that only veguly resembles the word that is translates to, etc. It's pretty mind numbing. No wonder you can take old english as a foreign language at some universities.

I think it is about time I stopped.

I've got 50 minutes to get as much Chaucer read as possible before going to the class that makes me want to cry (AKA Icthyology. Acording to dad it should be the study of gross religons. He's not too far off the way people worship fish these days.)

"Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hir smiling was ful simple and coy."

I think that could also be read..."There was also a nun, a Prioress, that had a a simple and coy smile." Now was that so hard? Also, Chaucer tends to go on and on where he doesn't need to.

I'll get over it.

No, really. Time to go.

I wonder what will happen at 50?

Only 4 left.

Entry Fourty-Five

Again with the vomiting because of Smallville.

Yes Lana, touch the Kryptonite and never be able to see Clark again! YES!

We get to see the brothers when they are young!!! I am really excited.

Hm, that makes me think of x-files. The black oily stuff that turns you bad.

Young Dean is hot and young Sam is short.

This kid is perfect. Both of them are. Aw, look at his eyes and his little boy tough guy act. Man, I live this show.

"The whistle makes me their god."

"Yeah, nice shorts."

Oh, this is so not over.

This is definitely a favorite. Easy.

I want to see Push.

This guy is still doing Chevy commercials?

What is this entry about?

He totally just wailed on him.

He should feel a little bad.

Wow, it's really funny that they are playing a really suggestive song for a kids movie.

It's over!

Entry Fourty-Four

Who else is excited that there is a new Hre-mail this week? 'Cause I am.

I bought new books. Not all of them and thats what makes me sad. I paid $116. I still have two expensive books to buy.

I love The Office.

I am also excited not to work tonight. Even though it means that I will not make the money that is very important.

I like going to FHE. I also like not working. I also like working. I also like sleeping. I like people. I like life.

Where was I going with that?

Free is better. Turbo tax.

I do not like taxes. I cannot imagine a single person who does. If they exist I'm pretty sure that they need to be found and put out of their misery because they must have a hammer sticking out of their head screwing up their neural functions.

I was just bored. That's all this post is about. I am ready to go back to class now and be bored.

Oh joy.

I might catch you later.

Entry Fourty-Three

Where am I? Why do get the feeling that I've done this before?

Oh. Because I have. How convenient.

I really should be reading Beowulf.

8:00 is really going to take some getting used to. Why does it seem so much earlier that 9:00?

Only my right eye is tired. It wants to close. My left eye disagrees. It is of the opinion that there is much still to do before we all (that is each body part) retires. I think most of my brain agrees with lefty. But the majority of my body wants to follow the example of right-eye.

I'm finding it hard having good feeling around certain people in my life. This is my most recent struggle.

Once I put forth all my effort mastering one flaw, another one pops up. Like in Edward scissor hands and the water bed. He just keeps making more holes. Oh Johnny. You are pretty amazing.

All is planned for tomorrow. I will have and apple, 1 slice of cherry bread and ham for lunch. Don't forget a water bottle. That is important. I will lose 10 pounds by the end of February.

That means no more food from work. No more random stops to Sonic. Smaller meals. Eat only when you are hungry. Drink lots of water. Exercise more. I will not do the special K thing again. That made me unhappy. And it's not a lifestyle change. I'll just gain those pounds back.

I'm glad that I've lost what I have so far. But I am mostly at a standstill.

Stop it right eye.

Time to read more Beowulf before I get too tired.

Entry Fourty-Two

I cut my finger and I don't know how. I was really upset about it when I found out at 9:00. 7 hours into my 8 hour shift.

I don't work 8 hour shifts that often. They take a lot out of me.

My back and feet hurt.

I'm pretty sleepy and I'm going to breakfast tomorrow.

The people in my Brit. Lit. class don't like to talk much. There is a lot of silence. The only reason I didn't speak up today is because I don't have the book yet. I read the text online. I didn't feel confident in my answers.

I like my Folklore class. My teacher remembers a song she used to sing in grade school...

"Joy to the world, the Teachers dead..." I can't remember the words she sang, but it's funny. I remember a similar song with different words. Many of the other students in my class also remembered my version.

"Joy to the world, the teachers dead. We BBQ'd her head. What happened to her body? We flushed it down the potty, and round and round it goes, and round and round it goes, and round and round and round it goes."

How morbid is that? How did I learn that? Wow.

I liked The Dresden Files. Why did it have to go the way of Pushing Daisies and Firefly and get canceled halfway through? Why can't they just let a show run a whole season? I really want to read the books.

Really, I need to go to bed.