In 2011, I started writing a story about a woman living in a house who is being visited by demons every night and getting raped by them. This was inspired by a friend who was (and probably still is) having to live through this. After I wrote the first couple sections here, I wound up getting a roommate and my social life kind of exploded and I just haven’t had the time to come back. Now I’ve forgotten a lot of the mood that I wanted to portray with this. I still remember the actual events I was going to write out to conclude it but I can’t quite remember how I wanted it all to feel, so I decided not to return to this story.
However, yesterday I was looking through old drafts and found this and was surprised that I really like what I’ve done with it so far, so I figured I’d post what I have and finish it off with the outline I had in mind.
This story is kind of told from the perspective of the woman’s house. You still see inside the characters heads and you still have only one POV character at a time, but all the events of the story occur in the home and I think my plan was that in the end she would have some kind of communication with the house and it would help heal her of the delusions she was so convinced were real demons.
So here it is:
After midnight the demons would make contact and promise they were about to rape her. Most nights she would fight, her soul crying out in fury, but blocked deep in sleep. She would rise and walk to the living room to stand motionless for unknown periods of time, staring at Simon’s urn above the fireplace, blocking every other part of her mind. She would pray to wake, plead for morning, but remain, seemingly for hours, in a daze, aware she was dreaming and sleepwalking, but unable to do anything about it. She would awaken exhausted, sometimes on the couch in the living room, sometimes in the den, the porch swing, and occasionally, David’s old room.
Other nights it would prove too much and Susan would give up, prepare for the pain and humiliation, then wait for it. The spirits would invade her from the back of her mind, manipulating, distracting and tricking her with her own emotions. She would lie, half asleep, quietly sobbing, pleading with them to stop, but the more pain she felt the more they would laugh, the more they would tease, until finally, she had no choice but to bring them in, to ask them to get it over with, to sink into that helpless reality and accept that God had handed her soul to the demons for their pleasure.
They would refuse, telling her she had to beg for it. She had to want it. She had to need it. She had to fall into that pit of demonic desires and forgo everything good and pure, and allow her mind to become that of a slave. The spirits promised that someday the torture would prove too much for her, and she would fall, broken and sobbing to her knees, pleading for the revolting act that would provide that final release of acceptance at becoming a simple, degraded servant to the darkness that dwells at the bottom.
She would awaken terrified, exhausted, telling herself it wasn’t real, but forever thankful that she never took that final step. She would stagger to the kitchen, hit play on her husband’s video cassette, then sit at the computer in a daze to accept her gifts and tend her crops, pushing everything from her mind to think of nothing but gaining gold and experience on her farm.
Later in the day she would think about her nightmares. She would hear David screaming at her, attacking everything she cared about, telling her she was delusional, that all these experiences come ultimately from the church, from God, and the destructive conflicts that religion brings to the minds of believers. He told her the very thing she loved the most was a lie that had caused all the pain she was now experiencing. It was all just mental processes gone wrong, damaged and distorted from years of obsessive spirituality and prayer.
Perhaps there was no point to all this, there were no demons to blame, no angels to look toward. Perhaps all this was just her own thoughts. …and the rape… just her own blocked desires, buried through years of repression and an acceptable but unsatisfying marriage, from years of playing it safe, trying to be good, avoiding carnal pleasures, and for choosing sacrifice and devotion to God instead of embracing life. The torture could all be her own doing, all based on simple science and psychological processes.
But that demon was too horrible to be true.
His father’s tortured screams echoed through his childhood home as David sat, rapping his fingers on the kitchen table. “Are you gonna play FarmVille all day, Mom?”
“I’ve just got to collect my gifts and harvest and visit some friends,” she replied absently, her eyes glued to the screen as though she needed to become one with the monitor.
“That’s gonna take you two hours. I thought we were gonna go out to eat.”
“I can make you grilled cheese and soup.”
He sighed. “No, I can make it myself. Don’t want you to lose out on any farming time.” He stood, but stopped to stare for a long moment at his father on the television in his hospital bed, his face contorted as he whimpered, burying his face in the pillow.
“Do you need anything?” Susan asked.
“Can I turn this off?”
David watched for another long moment. “I don’t like watching Dad dying. No wonder you see demons.”
“If I had a better video, I’d play that, but it never occurred to me that I’d lose him until he was lying there in the hospital. This is all I have of him.”
“Pictures,” David said.
“It’s 2011. I need more than pictures. I need to hear his voice.”
“But he’s in so much pain…”
“Yeah, but his voice still comforts me.” She glanced over her shoulder toward him. “Why do you need to criticize everything I do?”
“It’s just so… morbid. And I worry what this stuff might be doing to you.”
“Fine,” she replied. “You want to turn it off, then turn it off.”
“No,” he replied, stepping toward the refrigerator. “If you like it that much, I can deal… but…” he chuckled nervously. “Why can’t you watch Jeopardy like normal moms your age?”
“I’m not smart enough for Jeopardy.”
“Oh, don’t say that…”
“You know it’s true,” she replied. “I can be honest about it. You of all people should understand I don’t have the brain for that kind of thing. My mind is broken, like you always say.”
“I don’t say that. What I say is that we’re all imperfect products of evolution–”
“Here we go…”
“Our brains developed over millions of years of randomness, confusion, and animals bumping into each other. We’re never going to be perfect–we’re never even going to be rational–but we can find ways to deal with our minds the way they are if we have the courage to admit to ourselves how our lives really work.”
“It’s all about brains and chemistry to you.”
“We need to recognize that much before we can understand who we are and where we’re going as human beings.” He stared into the refrigerator. Nothing looked good. He wasn’t here to eat anyway.
He stood in silence for a long moment, listening to his father’s heavy, pained breathing, the background static of the video and the hum of the refrigerator.
“I like watching the video,” Susan said absently, followed by a long pause. “Maybe I can find a clue.”
“To why he was walking in the road?” David asked.
Another long pause. “Yeah.”
David slowly shut the refrigerator. “This isn’t Scooby Doo, Mom. Sometimes accidents happen. He just wasn’t thinking, wasn’t paying attention. It’s been three years. It doesn’t matter at this point.”
“I want to know.”
“I know you do.” He sat back at the table with a sigh and a scrape of the aluminum chair against the floor.
“I know you’re trying to find some way to blame it on our beliefs.”
David sighed as he stared at his mom’s back. She didn’t hate him. He knew that. She did, however, believe he might be sent from hell. Perhaps this was why she refused to look away from Farmville while in his presence. “I’m not trying to do that at all. Everyone makes mistakes, regardless of what they believe.”
“I feel like you’re always trying to pick away, to find something you can criticize about the church, like how you’re constantly blaming my nightmares on the church.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “And I stand by that one. That’s why I don’t get nightmares, because I don’t believe in the supernatural.”
“What do you think about going to see someone, like a professional?”
“I’ve talked to a lot of people about this.”
“At the church?”
“Yeah,” she replied.
“Well, I think it would be good for you to get an opinion from someone outside of the church.”
“Hmmm…” she replied.
“Did anyone ever come forward about the money?”
“The money?” she asked.
“The six hundred dollars they left on the porch?”
“No. I’m sure it was just someone from church trying to help out.”
So I think so far you can see the woman has a son who is an atheist, and this is a point of contention between them. She’s addicted to FarmVille and a handful of other online games. (Retired women are now technically the largest demographic for video gaming, playing mostly facebook style casual games). She also has a video
In the next section I’m going to go back to about 2009 or so, and show the father befriending a few teenagers who are clearly trying to take advantage of him. He gives them money for something, twenty bucks here and there, telling him its for the church or something. We see that on some level he knows he’s being used, but he wants to believe so badly that these are good Christian kids and keeps giving them money, unbeknownst to his wife, who does not like them. Their lies become more and more outlandish, and each time, one part of his mind believes them and another part can clearly see they’re lies. At the same time, however, he has some very deep conversations with the kids about the meaning of life, God, the meaning of being good. I think there may have been a scene where the woman finds out he’s been giving them money and they have a fight about it, and the man talks about how important it is to give people the benefit of the doubt and have faith in the good within all humans, even if it’s hard to see sometimes.
But then one of the kids takes the religious manipulation a bit too far and tells the man that to prove your faith to God you should close your eyes and step blindly out into traffic. God will protect you, and you will prove yourself worthy… I don’t know, I had a plan on how to make all that sound plausible but can’t quite remember how I was gonna do it. The man doesn’t believe them and realizes they’re just messing with him, especially because the other kids are suddenly saying the guy is crazy… but over the next couple days, the man can’t get the words out of his head and in a moment of passionate prayer, the man decides to go for it, closing his eyes and stepping out into traffic in front of their house. Since the story is told from the house, all we hear is the screeching of the tires and a woman screaming for someone to call 911.
When the woman hears her husband is in the hospital and probably won’t make it, she realizes she has nothing to remember him by, pulls the old VHS camcorder out of the closet, not stopping to think her cell phone could probably get a better picture, and sets it up to record him, but he’s in so much pain that she never gets to hear his real voice. Of course, we don’t actually see the hospital room, and only the things that happen in the home. She watches the video over and over, thinking that it’s close enough to the real him, and in a weird way the video comforts her, at least on the surface, but in reality she’s watching him die over and over, which doesn’t help with the nightmares.
I think in the end she gives up and lets the demons overtake her instead of fighting them, and at the same time, allows herself to embrace her son’s perspective, which she views as a demon as well, but finds that the demons don’t feel nearly as demonic as she thought. I think her son’s perspective inspires her to think the house is the problem, like it’s haunted and she just needs to get out, which isn’t really the case, but at least she’s thinking in some kind of real-world cause and effect way, so she sort of merges her religion with her son’s perspective and it leaves it implying that she’s on the way to exorcising these demons. There was supposed to be something about the house itself subtly helping her along with this idea, but I can’t remember how I was going to do that.
There was also supposed to be a scene in the son’s childhood but I completely forgot what that was about. Also, shortly after the dad’s death, the kid who told him to do it, comes back and leaves the money on the porch.
I dunno… it woulda been cool if I’d finished it but the outline doesn’t do justice to the vision I had
I just posted another science fiction story that I wrote a few years ago, called The Atrocity Planners. This is an EVE Online fan fiction piece. I got this published in EON Magazine, issue #22, back in 2011. I call this my first publishing experience since I don’t count those two fetish porn shorts that I still don’t talk about outside of Fetlife. I decided to publish it here finally, figuring they’ve had their proprietary hands on it long enough. They didn’t pay me anything and I didn’t sign anything promising not to publish elsewhere and the magazine has gone out of business anyway, after issue #30, so they shouldn’t be mad at me
It surprised me that they were willing to publish it considering the message of the story, where I generalize that police are atrocity planners and portray them as the bad guys. It surprised me that some people who support and believe in criminal justice also enjoyed the story. It’s like normal people separate their real-world morality from their story-time morality, allowing them to see terrorists like Luke Skywalker and criminals like Han Solo as heroes, when if they actually lived in that universe, they would hate them the same way we hate Al-Qaeda. In the same way in this story, we see the terrorists or pirates (I never totally explain which they are) as human beings, and we care about their family and want their children to get away and maybe even kill a couple cops along the way. It’s like most people enter a different world when they read this kind of fiction, one where morality works totally differently.
A couple of the folks at the No Safeword Writers Group helped edit this for me in one of their sessions and I’m not sure if I would have gotten it published without them. One of them even suggested the title, which now is one of my favorite aspects to the story, the title and its meaning.
Because police are our atrocity planners. Criminals don’t really plan atrocities, at least not nearly as often. Most violent criminals do not plan their crimes, and even if they do, only a few of them are doing so out of a deliberate desire to cause someone to suffer. At worst, criminals commit crimes to punish someone, the same way the police do. This is different with police. Their whole job is to make people suffer. That’s their purpose for being. We call it a deterrent, and it’s not going to work as a deterrent when a criminal is overflowing with emotion or looking at a potentially huge profit from committing a crime, unless it’s a truly horrible thing the law is doing to them. That’s how it works. Society wants criminals to suffer. We say it’s to keep them from committing again, when in reality it’s because we enjoy knowing they are suffering. The police make all this possible as they sit around planning their raids, taking only a moment to justify it by listing off a few crimes, rarely caring about who they are or their motivations, then they plan their attack to break down the door of someone’s home, then haul them off to prison where their sole intention is to make them suffer and to destroy their lives.
You can argue that planning the atrocities is necessary. You can argue that there’s no other options because some criminals are just so awful. The government must take control and commit horrible things in a controlled manner to keep the majority safe. But in a literal, real world manner, you can’t tell me police are not atrocity planners, and yet when we meet police or talk about police, we always forget this simple fact and insist on viewing them as heroes of wondrous virtue… until, of course, they come breaking down our doors, or the doors of our family, and we meet, face-to-face, the fact that they are, every day, in a planned and systematic fashion, going out and providing people with some of the most psychologically damaging events of their lives.
Back in 2009 I was all excited about my new novel, Against A Rock and wrote out a very detailed outline of my plans for a couple sequels, though I finally decided against actually sitting down to write them, particularly because Against A Rock was fan fiction for a video game called EVE Online, and I felt that it would lose some of its magic if I converted it to avoid copyright infringement the way 50 Shades of Grey was done.
I also want to write stuff that’s not quite so violent… but maybe that’s not such a good idea… maybe I was meant to be a writer of violent, torturous stories… no, I like experimenting with writing, doing different things and try something new with every story I write… or at least, that’s what I want.
But I do really like some of the scenes in this outline, though most of those instances are kind of twisted and sadistic, like the scene where the child is about to be executed and Mahran tells him what’s going on instead of protecting his feelings, the scene where Viotro’s favorite slave, whom he adores, betrays them and he’s forced to kill someone he genuinely cares about, with a hatchet to the cranium, or where the abolitionists are tricked into swallowing explosives by the slaves they had just rescued.
When I started writing Against A Rock I decided to do what I could to get into the head of a truly sadistic and selfish person, in this case, Floreina, our main character. What I found was that I really got in touch with the sadistic aspects of myself, aspects that I’d kind of been repressing for many years. I think that’s something that most of us repress and we pretend like we don’t really enjoy the thoughts of other humans suffering… but we do… I think all humans have the capacity to, and at some points in their lives, take pleasure in the suffering of others. We hide it, we deny it, we pretend we’re doing it for altruistic reasons, but in the end, we all have sadistic tendencies. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t have some kind of human suffering in virtually every hollywood movie.
But the real problems with sadistic people, is when we give them guns, badges, and start calling them heroes. The problem is because we are lying to ourselves until we believe that the satisfaction we feel when a criminal is punished is out of a love of justice, when in reality, it comes from this deeply repressed love of human suffering.
So I think there are some healthy outlets for our sadism, such as these violent stories I write, horror movies, and my favorite new outlet, BDSM. I started topping (toppping is the term for when you’re the one swinging the whip) merely because that’s what people wanted, but I quickly found that once I get into the sadistic perspective, I need to be careful. The first time I made someone cry from hitting her, it was an amazing experience that I wasn’t expecting, and it never would have happened if they hadn’t asked me to do it, as topping was not something that comes naturally for me. The truth is, nobody knows what a sadistic person they really are until they start to explore it and try to understand it in a relatively non-judgemental context.
If we don’t stop to recognize what sadistic and awful people we all are, we will never be able to address the fundamental problems in our society. We need to explore these things, put ourselves in the minds of soldiers blindly killing the enemy without concern for their families, to recognize and imagine the overwhelming sexual urges that drive a serial killer, and recognize how easily we could convince ourselves it wasn’t so bad. We need to try to feel ourselves, that trapped desperation, frustration and lack of self-worth that drives men to beat their wives, and we need to stop and imagine what it would really feel like to be a police officer, with a license to kill, looking out at all the civilians, never knowing which one is a criminal so you learn to hate them all, recognizing that the punishments you inflict are never enough so you keep upping the ante.
We need to get in the heads of people who do sadistic things, to understand them.
It’s not just the people in prisons who are capable of great cruelty. That capacity is a part of all of us, and it’s time we recognize it.
So today I added three new stories that I’ve been hanging on to for a few years now. These are all true stories and I’ve been nervous to post them for reasons I’m not totally sure about but I’ve decided I need to just do it and move on because they’re real things that happened to me and if I don’t post them I will just forever feel like they’re stories that need to be told, though I’m not too sure what I’m trying to say with them.
I want to experiment with not editing so much. I’ve been really bad about posting here because I always feel like I need multiple hours and my life is so busy and awesome these days that I just never get that amount of time unless I shedule time and stick to it so I’m thinking about trying something where I just write and write and write and don’t look back. I want to try not editing so much and worrying about whether or not I’ve already said something and whatnot. This will mostly apply to my blog posts and I’ll take a lot more care in my stories, though these three are an exception and I will try just not really looking over them and just posting them as-is. I think my perpectives on these subjects have probably changed too much since I wrote them anyway.
Anyway… these three stories I’m not going to edit. They’re years old, talking about events even more years before they were written. So… I guess… they’re not really PC, you know… it’s hard for me to tell… they may offend some people but maybe… I don’t know… they’re just stories that actually happened to me… at least to the best of my memory.
Warning: sexual and potentially offensive content in all three of them.
Anyway, enough babbling. I’ll start with The Condom, which is a story about this time a girl tried to trick me into getting her pregnant because she thought that would convince her parents to buy her a car. What am I trying to say with this story… I don’t know… most people see crazy stuff like this and they just want to run away from it and say “well, that person is just crazy” but I like to explore that kind of thing… maybe avoid getting involved, but at least try to think about this kind of thing and what it means.
I think it might take some time for me to get used to this free write thing and not going back to edit anything… it’s weird to just babble on the keyboard like this but admittedly it’s going a whole lot faster than my normal blog posts. If I got used to this I might even be able to do this on the bus on my phone.
Anyway, the next story is called Rape Me, about a girlfriend I had who… well, you know how those “ignorant and women-hating conservatives” say that women invite rape, well these kinds of stories may be what they are referring to and I think that’s why I have held off so long in telling this story, other than the fact that I’d prefer it if people didn’t try to figure out who this person is in the story (I usually use fake names in my true stories). Anyway, since I wrote this I actually experienced a situation where someone tried to rape me and I had to fight him off… it went down just like it does in the after-school-special except we were two dudes and I was able to fight him off and/or convince him to quit and in the end it was not that big a deal, which has really made me rethink the way I look at rape. As horrible and evil as this sounds, they are human beings. I’m gonna stop now before I really start offending people.
The third story is called Drunk and Horny College Chicks, about a night I got pretty drunk and met a couple hot college girls, one of whom had just graduated from some bio-engineering degree. I’m not really sure what I’m getting at with this story. It’s kind of pointless I guess, though it does illustrate the kind of sexual and personal freedom that I advocate. Most people would probably look down on these women, but I thought they were awesome and this night still sticks with me as an example of people just having fun and enjoying life.
Okay, so I’m going to end this rambling blog post soon but I will say that I have more stories and writings sitting in my backlog, though I think this may be last of the true stories that I have sitting in reserve, though I do have a whole bunch of true stories that I still need to write… perhaps the most important ones are the ones that I haven’t written yet.
Okay, I’m going to call this blog post, my first attempt at just rambling without thinking, it’s done now.
Yesterday I posted a couple new pages, a short anarchist article about how we should appreciate what criminals have done for us, at least here in America. It’s so strange to me how criminals are so frequently the heroes of our movies and stories, and in our history books, but when normal people see others with actual criminal behavior, we automatically forget all that and decide that all criminals are evil.
The other page I posted is a short story I wrote maybe a year ago called Canned Air, Hannah Montana and the Purpose of Life, about a foul-mouthed fourth grader and his inhalant addicted mom as they avoid a funeral to go see a Hannah Montana Cover band. This was kind of an experimental story, my first attempt at comedy, though people tell me it’s not that funny
It’s definitely not my favorite creation, but beyond the failure at comedy, I think it does have a few interesting points to make about parenting, about finding your way in life, doing what you feel is right instead of what you’re told and just being yourself. Also some stuff about war and how humans get along in society.
The story is full of Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana quotes, though I figure the kinds of people reading this aren’t going to be familiar with those lines, so they are probably going to be lost. And the last line is even a song reference that I worry no one will get.
But behind all the different things going on in this story, one of the reasons I wrote this one instead of one of my numerous other story ideas was because I wanted to come out of the closet as someone who enjoys Miley Cyrus. I’m sorry, but she just has some really fun, catchy songs that I find enjoyable to listen to. As you may guess, this is more difficult to be open about than being a bisexual kinkster or an atheist. I still feel very hated by society because of my anarchism, because I don’t see police or soldiers as heroes, but as far as the normal things that people supposedly hate and discriminate over, the things that liberals want people to be legally protected for, have never been an issue for me.
Nobody has ever seemed judgmental because of my abnormal sexuality, and while it is offensive when Christians talk about how I’m going to burn in hell, I’ve always gotten the impression their ultimate goal was to save me, and I’ve never felt any genuine discrimination for my atheism. I once worked in a company where I was the only person who was not a church-going Christian and I never felt unwelcome. I was very overweight most of my childhood, and while I did get picked on quite frequently as a kid, I can’t recall a single instance of the fat shaming that everyone seems so concerned about these days.
But for some reason, people tend to get real nasty about the music others listen to. If you look up Miley Cyrus videos on YouTube you’ll find a notable number of commenters saying really nasty things that would get them instantly banned if they were based on race or sexuality. Because it’s relating to music, for some reason it’s not seen as an issue, it’s not seen as real hate. You might say this is because there’s no history of violence from musical tastes, but most homophobic people have no more violent intentions as the musical snobs do when they say they want to kill Justin Bieber.
It just seems strange to me that I know so many liberals who talk about equality and get all bent out of shape whenever a conservative says something insensitive, and whine about how they feel judged because of their sexuality or beliefs, then they turn around and tell you there’s something wrong with you because you don’t like the same music they do.
If we want to claim to be open-minded and accepting, we need to be open and accepting on all levels, not just the legally-mandated ones.
Anyway… I think that’s kind of what I was trying to say with this story.
The other day I posted Compensating for a Small Penis, some old EVE Online fan fiction that I wrote something like three years ago and have just been hanging onto it. I have some other stories that I need to post too, so maybe I’ll get around to that in the coming months. I was planning on putting these together, finishing my next novel and looking for a publisher or self-publishing, but the more I think about it the more I realize it’s unrealistic for me to think I’ll be able to make as much as a writer as I do as a web developer, and I’m too lazy to do the grunt work, so I might as well just start posting them here. I still want to put together some kindle books at maybe three bucks a pop and see how they do. I think my main problem with my writing career is my lack of desire to market myself.
Anyway, this story I posted is a violent one. I have only shown it to a few people since it is rather over the top and I feared that people wouldn’t like the violence and swearing, but on the other hand I do like some aspects of the story beyond the silly curses and creative ways to kill people. The characters–two soldiers on a battleship who discover a spy and must fight to escape–do have some redeeming qualities, one desperate to get back to his daughter while the other wishes for forgiveness for a mistake he made to another little girl. I tried my best in this story to examine the reasons why people want to be soldiers and go to war, as I did when I was young, and the excuses and lies we tell ourselves to justify it.
I’m writing another novel. Or more specifically, a massive rewrite of my second novel. Here’s a blurb I wrote for it:
This is my diary, a book about me, Allihence, and my thirty-five friends. We are humans, raised in the wild, who don’t want to be forced to host another species in our bodies. We have escaped the carathlings and must evade them until we make it to the human villages in the east.
But for me, nothing is real unless I write it down. My friends worry that my obsession with this pen and paper will drive me mad or get us captured, but I can’t get this idea out of my head that our story will make a difference in the way our two species communicate.
I still don’t have a title. I’m calling it Rediscovering Communication: The Journals of Allihence and the Wild Ones, but I’m not particularly happy with that title.
This story was something I came up with around 1996. I started writing it when I was a sophomore in High School but gave up after about fifty pages to write short stories and four years later a novel I called This Desert Life, which turned out to be terrible. I came back to write Rediscovering Communication again around 2002. I finished it, but it had a few major problems. People really didn’t like how Allihence died two-thirds of the way through. I originally intended to bring her back as some kind of mysterious ghost writer for the final chapters of the journal, but that didn’t pan out.
Around 2006, somebody claiming to be a world-famous fantasy writer wrote me a series of emails saying that he’d read it and loved certain aspects of it but pointed out all the problems and gave me some advice on how to make it into something sellable. Looking back I realize it was very good advice. I didn’t take him seriously at the time and eventually deleted his emails, but years later, I pieced together some of the things he’d said and realized it was Terry Brooks, who is known to go out of his way to help local aspiring authors… or someone doing a good of pretending to be him.
After I wrote my third novel, Against A Rock, in 2008, I looked back over Rediscovering Communication and realized I had to remove it and my first novel from my website and hide them both away forever. I started re-writing Rediscovering Communication around 2009, but lost interest or something.
Then a couple months ago I listened to a book on Audible called Room and the unique storytelling style inspired me to come back to this. Now I’m finally back at it and I’ve got most of the core parts complete, rewritten the beginning and the last third of the book. The main character survives to the very end now and the ending I feel is dramatically improved.
But the most important change is the theme. The original theme of the story was how we must learn to fight back when it’s necessary for our freedom, even if we feel guilty. Now the theme is more focused on peace and reminds me more of an old Star-Trek story where people learn to work together for the benefit of all.
Against a Rock was an uncommon kind of story in that there were no good guys. There were no likable characters. While I love it like my baby, Against a Rock is packed with as much violence, grit, hate and selfishness as possible while still making a compelling story… which is why I love it. Rediscovering Communication is just as abnormal, but in the opposite direction. While there are a couple short violent scenes, overall there are no evil or selfish characters. There is still conflict but every person in the story is working toward the greater good in some way. It’s a challenge, and I’m still at least six months out from being able to show off a finished product, but I think this is turning out well.
You may notice I re-used the name Allihence. Basically that’s because in 2006 I named my EVE-Online character after my character in the first draft of this novel, then wrote Against a Rock as though it took place on board my character’s ship. There is no actual relation between Allihence in this book and Allihence in Against a Rock.
So after enough of my babbling, here is a preview of the first chapter:
Allihence, May 29 afternoon
I don’t know what to write. I don’t even know where to start.
My home is destroyed. All my papers, all my possessions.
Today the meteors fell with no warning. It wasn’t that we missed the warnings. No. There were no warnings.
Everyone is crying; not just the children. The cave walls make the crying and praying echo and burn into my brain. My only consolation is that almost everyone on the island got here safely. Almost.
Have the gods abandoned us? Are they punishing us? Are they still up there?
I won’t look up.
This paper is my world right now. If I look up the insanity will overcome me.
I will keep writing.
This is the first page of my second book. My first book, over a thousand pages of articles, free writes, broken hearts, arguments, fishing adventures, poems, stories, and emotional ramblings, was inside my hut when the meteors hit.
I saw the crater. It’s all gone.
I’m dead now. Everything about me was in those pages.
Allihence, May 29 evening
I wrote my last book in an attempt to understand myself. Now I want to write a book for others to get to know me.
I can’t do this. I’m trying and trying but I can’t. It’s not like it was yesterday.
Allihence, May 30 morning
I’m thinking a little more clearly today so lets start from a logical beginning.
I suppose my story starts nine years ago when Marthus negotiated with the carathlings to bring us books, paper and writing supplies in place of the bear hides and grain the rest of us wanted. I had only learned to read and write a year earlier but when I got my first pen I realized I could keep a record of everything I did and everything I am. I wouldn’t forget myself when I become a carathling and must share my mind with another. As I grew older, I realized that my writing was my greatest asset, that it would result in my being claimed by a successful carathling family, providing comfort in my second stage of life. Over the years my constantly growing stack of papers became everything to me.
Maybe the gods decided I was too selfish. My first book was all about me, my feelings, my goals and my memories. The gods decided to take them from me yesterday, to destroy them forever, to show me that I should have been concerning my writing with something bigger than myself. At least, this is the thought I have not been able to shake.
So I’m not going to start talking about my youth and recreate the stories I told in my first book. Instead I will try to accept that old Allihence is gone, and start with yesterday morning as I sat on a boulder on the northeast shore of our island, paper and writing board in my lap, pen in hand.
The waves lapped at the base of the rock as I debated over the perfect words to say that I now enjoy spending time with one of the older boys named Doumli.
A boom shook the ground, drowning out the sounds of the sea, starling flocks of birds into flight behind me. A gust of wind blew me back onto the rock, ripping the paper from my hand.
A pillar of water stood on the horizon to the north. A trail of smoke stretched from the heavens.
My first thought was a god had fallen from the sky, but I didn’t have time to ponder this as I saw the wave forming from the impact site, rising up and rushing toward me.
I dropped my pen and writing board and jumped to my feet. I leapt from rock to rock, trying to head toward the trail that climbs the dirt cliff to the grassy mesa above, but I looked back and saw the wave aproaching too quckly. I had a few moments to jump to a large boulder jutting from the side of the cliff and attempt to climb. I was halfway up before hearing the wave roaring behind me. I wedged my toes into the cracks and debated for a tiny moment jamming my arm deep in a crevice, wondering if my strength would keep me safely in place or the ocean would snap my arm like a chicken bone.
I chose to respect the water and gripped the edge of the crevice, ready to be ripped from my perch. The sea cascaded around me, flattening my stomach and chest, but I tightened my shoulders to keep my head from slamming against the rock. I held tight and a moment later the water settled around my waist, then began to retreat.
For a long moment I held there, trying to process what had just happened. I looked over my shoulder. The pillar of water had disappeared and was now replaced with a white cloud blending into the black line of smoke pointing to the sky. I’ve seen a couple drawings of meteors hitting the ocean and this seemed similar. A god falling from the sky might look the same.
But I could hear other blasts from the distance, so it only took a few moments to make sure I was safe before I sprinted up the trail to the mesa and started my jog.
The cave is on the south side of the island so I didn’t slow except in the few dangerous areas. As I ran, I abandoned my falling god theory after hearing the repeated meteor blasts, most muffled by the ocean, but some clearly impacting the solid ground of our island. This was a normal meteor shower, but felt different because I had never been outside during one. How we had missed the warnings, I could not understand. Perhaps the gods had chosen not to warn us as punishment for something, or to test us or simply to be rid of us. Did the rest of the world receive warnings?
I ran for a long time before I heard crying. I almost ran right past, and had to force my mind to re-think the situation. I had been making a direct line for the safety of the cave when I should have kept my eyes open for anyone in trouble.
I jumped through the bushes. “Whose there?”
The crying was the only response. Someone young, perhaps someone even too young to move around on their own. “Where are you?” I shouted, following the voice.
I jumped into a clearing to see little Dina, gripping a small willow branch in her hand as though it could bat away the meteors. She turned and stared at me.
“You need to follow me to the cave,” I said.
She replied with more crying and I imagined her standing here, awaiting the return of her mother, not remembering the carathlings had traded her to the mainland just a few months ago.
“I can carry you part of the way, but we need to go. You need to run, okay?” I ran to the edge of the clearing and beckoned her to follow, but she just stood there wailing.
“Dina!” I shouted, but she didn’t move, so I ran toward her to pick her up.
She swung the willow branch at me but I ignored it. “Dina!” I grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to pick her up, but she fought me, screaming louder. “Deimin!” she screamed, finally forming an intelligible word.
“Deimin is nearby?” I asked, taking a step back.
“How long ago?”
But she couldn’t answer.
“Did he head for the cave?”
She didn’t answer.
“Dina, we need to get you to the cave, okay? If Deimin hasn’t found you, he’s probably running there already. We can’t stay out here and wait for him, okay?”
She shook her head.
I turned toward a rustling and watched Randil jump through the bushes into the clearing. “Dina, I can’t find him. We need to go. Allihence?”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Meteor shower I guess. I don’t understand how we were all too stupid to notice the warnings.”
Dina screamed louder.
I squatted before Dina to look at her. “If he’s not at the cave we’ll get a couple of the older boys to go out for him, okay?”
Randil is much bigger and stronger than myself so he didn’t take the time to try and convince her. He picked her up by the shoulders and adjusted her into his arms and started marching south. He pulled the branch from her hands and tossed it aside and she screamed harder.
He carried her briskly and I walked fifty paces ahead of them. Dina cried for most of the trek, but Randil was able to put her down and got her to run with us for much of the distance.
When we arrived at the cave, my people were in chaos, shouting, crying, arguing, praying.
“Alli, Dina and Randil make two hundred and fifteen.” He put a mark next to our names with a chunk of charcoal on a list Marthus and I started years ago.
“There’s thirteen still out there.” Gimmin stared a long moment toward the opening, then listed the names of the missing.
I walked through the cave, trying to find a comfortable spot, but as usual, it was packed with people and I had to sit with my arms wrapped around my knees and tuck myself against the wall to avoid being stepped on.
Normally we are calm during a meteor shower, just sitting in here, huddled together, bored, playing games or talking, or in my case, writing. This time it’s different.
I sat for a long while, trying to ignore the voices, worrying about my stack of papers sitting in the plain wooden box at the head of my bed. When the sounds of meteors seemed to lull, this caused me to worry more rather than less, thinking I was missing my opportunity to race back to our village and retrieve them.
Finally something clicked and I rose to make my way toward the cave entrance. “I’m running back to the village,” I told Gimmin.
“No,” he said. “Please don’t, Alli.”
“I need to.”
“I need my papers.”
“No you don’t. Alli, we still have three missing people out there and three more looking for them.”
“If I find someone on my way I’ll bring them back, but if not, I’m going for my papers.”
“Allihence.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “It’s paper.”
I knew he wouldn’t understand so I turned and ran.
“Alli!” Gimmin’s angry shout echoed through the cavern but no one pursued me.
I ran down the trail as quickly as I dared and headed toward the middle of the island, back the way I had come, toward our main village and the clearing where I’d made my home for the last ten years.
I ran most of the way, making better time than I believe I could have under any other circumstances. I heard meteor blasts in the distance and a few that sounded like they had hit the island, but they were notably less frequent now, so I hoped this was a good time. Without the warnings letting us know how long the shower would last, I had no idea if it was winding down or another big wave was on its way.
My chest ached so much by the time I arrived at our clearing that I could not let out a scream when I saw the destruction. I stumbled, feeling like something out of a story book. My legs weakened, as though I would drop to my knees like when the hero of the story watches their home burn. I caught myself before falling, not wanting to be here now, writing something so cliche.
Instead I ran forward, feeling the heat and seeing the smoldering embers from the impact. The crater was three times the size of my hut, leaving nothing recognizable. It had also taken out the edge of Marthus’ home. Her roof had collapsed and was now smoldering.
She no doubt had things in there she would have taken to the cave under a normal shower so I took a few moments to catch my breath then began tearing open her wall and pushed the remainder of her roof aside. She had books in two old wooden crates, and though I’ve read most of them, I could not decide what she would like me to rescue.
I grabbed one of her medicine books, her journal, a pen and some ink from atop her writing board. I figured any more would be cumbersome. I turned to flee back to the cave, then stopped long enough to drag her book chests into the clearing where there would be less chance of fire.
Fortunately most of our important books were kept in Marthus’ hut, though we certainly lost a few in mine, including a couple supposedly written by the gods. One is a story of a young boy who steals a talking star wagon and becomes trapped in the heavens above a world where nobody lives, and must figure out how to survive. I’ve read it a couple times, but it’s hard to understand and I’m convinced much of it is nonsense written for fun. The other is a book about rocks and the magics that make them but that’s even harder to understand.
I jogged back to the cave, thinking of nothing but the path and the vision of the crater where my home had been.
When I got back, Gimmin and several others made me promise not to leave again. I gave Marthus her medical book and she shrugged, clearly indicating that it wouldn’t be of much use to her here. We hadn’t suffered any injuries that she couldn’t take care of with warm water and bandages. The search party had returned without finding the three people.
I sat down and started going crazy trying to process the loss of my papers. I cared nothing for the loss of my home, my skins, fishing spears, ornaments or even books. All I cared about was my journal. Even the thought of our three comrades, lying injured and helpless somewhere out there, could not shake my thoughts from those sheets of white paper, vaporized under a rock from heaven. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
I wrote yesterday’s afternoon entry on the paper I took from Marthus and intended to explain things more coherently, but it was only a short while after I’d started that Zerimile came to me and put his hand over my papers. “Allihence. Counsel Meeting. Back of the cave. Now.”
I’m not officially a member of the town counsel so I don’t get a vote. I’m the record keeper, so I have more influence than people realize.
We shuffled to the back of the cave and sat in Story Time, which is what we call the ring of sitting rocks we use for puppet shows and storytelling while waiting out the meteors.
I didn’t write much about our meeting. We argued about what meteors actually are. Marthus and I have read the books and believe they are giant rocks flying around the heavens and sometimes they fall to our planet. Thats a leap of faith for most because we can’t explain why these rocks would be wandering the skies, then suddenly change their minds and drop. This begs the question, could one of our moons ever decide to fall?
Debating this is pointless because we will never know.
We also argued about how to keep everyone calm and entertained since we have no books, toys or musical instruments. We announced a comedy show where the person who got the most laughs would be island mayor for a month, which basically means he gets first pick at meal time.
The carathlings were another subject. We realized they had not received any warnings, since they would have showed up to ensure we were prepared. They could have been hit hard. One small meteor could sink either of their patrol boats and a large one could capsize it from a distance. We talked about what we would do if our carathlings had been devastated, but realized different carathlings would come to watch over us.
I worry that writing this next thing is a bad idea. I won’t be able to let any carathlings read this, but I’m gonna say it anyway. I know what Marthus was thinking even though she didn’t say it. This could be our opportunity to build canoes and get off this island. We could find a place where only humans live, like in those books the carathlings don’t know we have.
Marthus also seems to realize she is not going to be able to play her game with the carathlings any longer. She’s twenty-four, the eldest on the island by a wide margin. She’s not going to be human much longer and won’t be able to continue fighting the changover.
However, I’m eighteen and the same goes for me. But now I don’t have a stack of pages to prove I should be traded as an intellectual. The thought of becoming a carathling is even scarier now.
But obviously there’s nothing we can do to help or escape the carathlings right now so we moved on to the subject of supplies.
The counsel agreed that we would all go hungry. We have almost no food, but we’ve been hungry before and there is always a bounty after a shower so we agreed that we could wait instead of sending someone outside for food.
Water is a different story. We’ve run out of water before, even when we have a two-day warning and all our bottles. We had already been hearing arguments over it. We finally decided we had no choice but to put out a call for volunteers to run to the well.
And that was about it for the counsel meeting.
Later we went around collecting empty bottles. The boys stood at the cave entrance for a long time before finally taking off. We sat worrying, but they returned in reasonable time. Unfortunately, with two hundred twenty-five of us, the water drains quickly so we started trying to figure out who will run out next almost as soon as they returned. I volunteered to go, but there were enough stronger boys that they didn’t let me.
You might think surviving outside in a meteor shower is all about quick wits, reflexes and toughness. But even the biggest, strongest carathling would turn to ash if hit directly by a meteor. You can’t just step to the side when one comes for you.
However, groups of boys have raced out there for water several times now and always come back alive.
It does not look like the three missing are going to make it back. Trinio, Colby, and Kahmad. We’re hoping they are holed up under the overhang on the western cliff so we will not speak the words of remembrance until we know for sure. A few have said the trail that runs along the cliff’s edge has collapsed so we are all fearing the worst.
I tried to write again in the evening but it didn’t go so well. I want to blame it on the lack of candles but really it was in my head.
I thought of Dina and how before I had heard her crying I had been racing for the cave, thinking of nothing but saving myself and how that represents my first book where I wrote mostly about myself to my future self instead of caring about an outside reader. I have certainly spent a share of pages talking about my desire for humans to be able to choose for ourselves when we become carathlings, but much of that was complaining for my own sake rather than trying to spark a change in the world.
All night I ran this over my mind as I tried to sleep on the bare rock, so when there was enough light, I decided to start the next phase of my life by starting my next book.
I’m sitting as near the entrance as I dare, for the sunlight. I have not heard a meteor since a page ago so we are hoping the shower is nearing its end.
This book that I have started today, I want it to be different. I have no idea how my life will play out from this moment, but these sheets of white paper will follow along with it. I don’t know how they will represent me, but I promise I will do whatever I can to make this about something bigger than myself.
A friend the other day mentioned that he thought the final season of Roseanne was one of the most brilliant ending’s to a series. Years ago, when the show was on the air, I watched virtually every episode all through the 8th season. Then for some reason I don’t recall, I stopped watching. The ninth season got horrible reviews and the critics totally trashed her for it, but I also remember everyone disliking the final episode of Seinfeld and I thought that was an excellent way to end the series, so I decided to torrent the final season of Roseanne and this last week I watched it all the way through.
And I’m forced to agree: I can’t think of a single television series I’ve ever watched with a more creative and powerful ending. Roseanne and her writers took an average sitcom and for just one year, turned it into a work of art. Unfortunately, you never get to understand the true brilliance of it until the final ten minutes of the last episode.
So there’s gonna be some spoilers in the rest of this post, so if you are like me and was a fan of the show but somehow missed the last season, I highly recommend downloading it and not reading any further.
The metaphor of Dan cheating on Roseanne I think is explained fairly well in the end, but I found that particularly trippy for some reason to think about her inventing the whole idea that he was cheating on her in order to cope with reality, which was much worse. Also earlier in the season I felt the show did an excellent job of silently communicating the idea that it really doesn’t matter ultimately where your partner happened to put his body parts on some friday night and what really matters is what’s in their heart. There were some other good episodes in the season, such as the one where the grandma goes to visit her mom and reveals their relationship. The episode where she rescues everyone on the train from the terrorists is a little weird, but even that episode makes sense in the context of the final episode.
The other part I particularly liked is the moment they decided to take Darlene’s baby off life-support. The baby did survive, but they all assumed it would die. They let nature take its course, and realized that the same devices keeping it alive were sucking its will to live. Kind of a powerful metaphor of our own modern society, all these social, political and economic systems designed to help us that are actually destroying us from the inside.
But my favorite thing out of the season was what they did with Dan’s boat. In the very first, pilot episode of Roseanne, they introduced Dan’s boat that he was building and showed him dreaming about the day he’d finally push it into the water. Nine years later, he still hadn’t finished it, and finally, his crazy mom burned it down, at the end of the series. A dream neglected and ultimately destroyed… but with that loss, Roseanne frames her novel, and we realize in the last few minutes of the final episode, as she finishes her book, that her dream we thought was long gone, was actually alive and well, and out of all this pain, rises something positive and meaningful.
I posted a new story today called I Kill for Money… well, it’s not actually a story as much as it is a few sample chapters from another EVE Online novel that I came up with. Unfortunately I have no immediate plans to write this story, but I still love these scenes so I decided I had better just go ahead and post it.
The story follows Vena and Deihlmin who are cybernetically enhanced assassins for the Gurista pirate faction as they pursue a Concord chief, unravel a tale of war and deceit and find themselves falling in love. I wrote these a couple years ago when I was still actively playing EVE Online. I had just written a story called The Atrocity Planners, which a while later was published in issue #22 of EON Magazine (originally this was titled My Gurista Mom and Dad, but I took it to a writer’s group meeting at the local sex club and they gave me some wonderful suggestions including the new title). Anyway, the Vena character from The Atrocity Planners is the same Vena, all grown up of course, in this new novel idea. It’s not mentioned in the sample chapters but the idea of course, is that there’s a lot of back story about how she dealt with the tragedy that occurred in The Atrocity Planners.
A lot of the action-adventure details for this novel aren’t worked out yet, but I have a pretty clear idea of the characters, which is usually more important. Vena is a professional, trained from childhood for many facets of war. She has a shady history having been raised by pirates with frequent hardships, rolled with drug smugglers in late childhood and became a prostitute as a teenager. This allowed her to begin purchasing her cybernetic enhancements, which rapidly became an addiction. Through her late teens she spent the majority of her income on stolen military-grade implants and mental interface software. These implants led her back to the Gurista faction where she was hired and gave up prostitution and drug smuggling in favor of professional killing and espionage.
Vena was escaping from her childhood trauma and the difficulties she endured as a teenager. She escaped into her cybernetic implants, which finally gave her the sense of control over her own emotions and the power to manipulate the situations around her. The computers allowed her to escape her own life and as time went on she started to forget which parts of her were human and which were machine. She began playing characters for the Guristas, adjusting her personality to fit whatever mission. As she says in the second chapter, “ The best actors don’t act, they become.” But now she’s been infiltrating and playing parts for nearly a decade and she can no longer tell which character is actually Vena and can’t tell the difference between real love or passion and technological manipulations designed to accomplish a mission.
Deihlmin, on the other hand, grew up straight, in a wealthy family. He got bored with life and started buying implants in his early teens, but soon learned that the implants couldn’t help him do anything satisfying other than getting away with crimes. He started with petty crimes, simply for the fun of getting away with something and in a few years had moved up to drug smuggling. He too became a little addicted to artificial enhancements, though was careful not to lose his personality within the machine. Then, a group of smugglers he was working with on a particularly large score, were busted by Concord and he watched his friend get beaten to death. Deihlmin was able to escape, but the police already had all his information, so he realized he could never return to the straight world. He was taken in by the Guristas who sympathized with his experience and he fell in love with the pirate lifestyle. Now that he had a score to settle with Concord within a few years he worked himself up to one of the Guristas elite infiltration soldiers.
So we’ve got two killers. Deihlmin truly believes the Guristas are the good guys, sees Concord as evil and wishes to fight them any way that he can. Vena simply kills for money. She tells herself the Guristas are the good guys, but deep down inside, doesn’t know if she’s sure.
Ultimately they unravel a conspiracy that goes through some top level officials in Concord and discover that many of them have been directly working with Gurista leadership in an attempt to keep a balance to the war, so that neither faction gains ground, but the local military industry, which of course has deep ties to both sides of the conflict, profits dramatically.
The story would explore the nature of criminal justice and the drive for violence through seemingly moral purposes. Like my first EVE Online novel, Against a Rock, there would be a lot of action, violence and suspenseful surprises, and the characters, of course, are not the most morally upstanding individuals. But unlike Against a Rock, this book would have a love element with just a hint of sexy stuff… but alas, I probably won’t write it any time soon unless by some miracle I get a real book deal
Here’s the first page of a novel idea I’ve had bouncing around in my head for a year or two now. It’s probably something I’m not gonna actually write for a long time. I’ve got too many other writing and programming projects I want to do right now, but I do really like the concept for the opening, so I thought I’d just write it out for the fun of it. The style is a bit different than what I’m trying to do right now as well. Very male action-violence oriented.
I know the whole amnesia thing is a little cliche in an action story, but I feel like I’ve got kind of a unique take on it, at least when we get to the explanation of why our character has it. I promise, this isn’t like Lost. I do have explanations for everything. I never start writing unless I have a pretty clear vision of where it’s going.
As he stared into his whiskey glass, listening to the jingling of the ice cubes, somehow still audible through the familiar sound of The Outlaw Torn blasting on the jukebox behind him, everything he’d ever known and cared about disintegrated, and he was left with a vague sense that he was in the right place at the right time. He was just where he was supposed to be.
He knew he was listening to Metallica, knew it was Tullamore Dew swishing in his glass, but as he looked around the dingy bar at the mix of country rednecks and pseudo-gangsters, he realized he had no idea where he was. An odd bar. Blacks and rednecks conversing comfortably with one pronounced gay man sipping a martini as he waited for a beautiful woman in tight, dirty white cargo pants to take her shot in their game of pool.
Where the fuck am I?
He sipped his whiskey. What else do I not know?
He thought. Nothing.
His eyes wandered back to his glass. Did someone spike my drink?
Possibly. But somehow that thought didn’t prevent him from taking another sip.
Am I one of those people who forgets everything constantly and every ten minutes I start this same conversation over again, each time forgetting that my brain doesn’t work? I’ll be having this “who am I” conversation with myself over and over again until I die.
Maybe I wrote a note to myself. He checked his arms. That guy in Memento had written all over himself.
His arms were bare.
He looked back at the woman in the white cargo pants, tight around the ass, loose the rest of the way down, frayed and torn at the bottom, with lots of pockets, more than enough room for phone, cash, drugs, switchblade, condoms and whatever else a girl might need for the evening. His real concern should be figuring out what the hell was going on, but somehow he had a hard time taking his eyes off those pants and that ass.
He felt something in his pocket and set his drink down to pull it out. A standard black leather wallet, full of cards and cash. A driver’s license showed through a clear plastic cover. He looked at the picture, then up at the mirror behind the bar. The same person. Scott Donahue. That’s my name… but somehow it didn’t sound familiar.
The wallet was thick. He opened the long side pocket to reveal row upon row of crisp, brand new hundred dollar bills.
He slipped the wallet back in his pocket and looked up at the bartender. Somehow this all had to do with this glass of whiskey.
He took a sip.
“Do you need something?” the barkeep said with a friendly smile.
“Do you remember what time I came in here?”
The man looked at the clock above the bar. “Like ten, I think. You losing track of time there Buddy?”
“Yeah, kinda.” He looked at the clock. Nearly midnight. “Can I get a water?”
He looked back around the bar. All these people, drinking, laughing, bitching about sports or how someone cut them off in traffic or shouting about how much they love the next song on the jukebox, none of them having any idea this strange man had just lost everything he had ever known. Three minutes ago everything changed and he had no idea why, and somehow he knew no one could help him.
His eyes wandered back to the woman, the only woman in the bar other than the old lady sitting in the back next to her husband, taking a healthy drink from her twenty-four ounce can of Pabst.
Those cargo pants. Worn by the type of girl he knew would never speak to him. Her ass swayed as she leaned over the table to take another shot. He watched. I don’t care if she notices me staring. I’m a new man now, as of right now.
She missed her shot, but didn’t seem to care. She stood and turned to reveal the black, seemingly brand new Slipknot tee shirt molded around her tits and showing just an inch of tight belly. She caught his eye for a moment then moved on, glancing toward the back of the bar.
No. He stopped himself and spun back around on the stool. What was he doing? He needed to figure this out. I need to get to a computer and Google myself.
Midnight. Everything would be closed.
He felt something in his back pocket. Keys, probably. Maybe he would recognize a car in the parking lot.
I don’t even know what city I’m in. When I walk out that door, will I be in downtown LA or out in the Wisconsin country side?
He rapped his hands on the bar. Just finish your drink, pay up, calm down and head outside. You’ll be okay. You might not remember, but you can still think. This could be a good thing. This could be a new beginning. Maybe there were things better left forgotten.
He took a long drink of his whiskey.
Then a presence appeared behind him and a moment later a softness against his back and a gentle hand to his side.
There she was. The girl in the cargo pants. Her breasts pressed into his back as her hand pulled around his stomach and her long dark hair melded with his own.
That’s why he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was already his.
Her lips brushed against his earlobe and she whispered, “Ryan, Baby, we need to get the fuck out of here.”
I thought I was Scott. But somehow Ryan felt better.
“Okay,” he replied softly. “Can I finish my drink?”
“No. Pay up.” She paused as she nuzzled his neck with her chin, then returned to his ear. “I think they’re onto us. The guy by the wall.”
The wallet came out with one hand and a wave to the bartender with the other.
“Close out?” he asked.
Ryan nodded. The lady had decided that was his name.
Ryan slapped a hundred down on the bar. “Gimme sixty back.”
“Thanks Buddy. Appreciate it.” The bartender saluted as he brought the bill to his eye to check the authenticity. A moment later the sixty bucks came back over the bar, and Ryan and this girl had slipped from their spot to head, arm in arm, to the front door. They pushed through the tiny foyer stinking of stale cigarettes and out into the open, hot desert air.
He looked out on dark rolling hills, sand, a gas station and a highway heading off into the distance. A strip mall in the middle of nowhere.
“Can they see us from in there?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He looked back at the windows. “I don’t think so.”
But she was already sprinting. The gravel crackled under their feet as he worked to keep up. She headed toward an old black sports car and slid to a stop at the drivers side. Thank God, because Ryan had no idea where they were going. He came to a stop at the passenger side.
“Keys!” she shouted.
He reached into his back pocket and tossed them across. She snatched them from the air and a moment later she was inside, unlocking his door.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” she stammered as she cranked the keys in the ignition. They backed wildly into the parking lot, the sound of pebbles flying and tires spinning matching the volume of the engine revving. She slammed the brakes again, Ryan’s hands slapping against the dashboard as they hit the middle of the parking lot. “The case!” Her left hand fished under her seat as her right threw the car into first gear. “Thank God. It’s still here.”
A second later he was thrown back into his seat as he snatched for the seat-belt caught behind the headrest. They burst out of the parking lot and skidded onto the open pavement as Ryan looked back to see four men run from the front tavern door. They paused only a moment before sprinting toward their vehicles.
“Fuck!” she screamed as she shifted from first to third.
He slipped the seat-belt into its latch and looked at her just as she shifted up to fifth. “Fuck!” She slammed her palms on the steering wheel. “How the fuck did they find us?”
Was it really such a smart idea to follow this woman?
That was probably a question he should have asked a long time before he forgot everything. As he looked at her, his heart thumping in his chest, somehow he knew he could trust her. In the back of his mind he knew it might be a trick of her beauty, but in his heart he knew she had his back.
“Baby?” she said. ”What the fuck you doing? The rifle’s under the seat. Don’t waste no fucking time.”