Lamentation

Lamentation
By Matt Moore


Dawn with her rose-red fingers might have shone
upon their tears, if with her glinting eyes
Athena had not thought of one more thing.
She held back the night, and night lingered long
at the western edge of the earth, while in the east
she reined in Dawn of the golden throne at Ocean's banks,
commanding her not to yoke the windswift team that brings men light,
Blaze and Aurora, the young colts that race the morning on.
-Homer: The Odyssey, XXIII.273-280

I need to be protected. More so because I don't think I need to be protected. I'm sensitive. I'll admit it. I'm sensitive and I take care of my own problems. I need more help than most people and I'm the last one to ever ask for any help. I may not turn down help if its offered. I like to be helped. I just don't know how to ask for any help.
Perhaps this is why I find myself standing on the Great Wall. Perhaps this is why I find myself alone on a structure older than Christ and I'm alone. All alone. There are still sections of the wall that have never been put on film. Places that exist only in one place at one time. No photocopies of them anywhere in the world. Just approximations of what they must look like based on what has been shown of the rest of it. Perhaps I am like an un-photographed section of wall.
We were supposed to be here together. This was our honeymoon. Twenty years ago we were here and I laughed as she joked about the serious demeanor of our guide. The other tourists barely noticed, too busy pretending to be awestruck as we strode u pon the fifth mile so far. It all looked the same. History had happened here, we were sure. The English translator had long since given up relaying what that history was as the guide continued to tell it. She saw we were just here to go for an interesting hike. She saw that we were ready to be back in our hotel room.
I remember this kid. Maybe not so much a kid, twenty probably. We were barely twenty-five. He looked German. Maybe Swedish. He had fallen for my wife. He said hello to her when we were meeting at the entrance to the tour. He wanted to say more before I came up from a few feet away and said hello with my left hand outstretched with my right reaching over her, pulling her into the curve of my body. When it had an inward curve. I look down now and see the inverse, my belly stretched out beyond recognition. Twenty years can change you.
Maybe I should have let him talk to her. They would have flirted. She was always flirting. It used to bother me. Not so much as to say anything about it. It just bothered me. They would have flirted and he would have gained more confidence and he would have walked along the wall beside her and perhaps she would have gotten lost with him for a while and I would have left her there. Here. Maybe if I had left her here in China I would have had a much better life.
Now the sun is rising and I wonder just how many hours I have spent on this wall. How many days? Just since last night, I am almost sure of that. Just since last night. I think I remember it. I woke in the dark and wandered aimlessly trying to find my way back to anything resembling civilization. Soon the remains of the alcohol took their toll and I found myself just sitting and watching the sun come up. And I wonder why we never did this. Did we watch the sun come up from the longest wall in the history of the world? Would it have made a difference? The warmth of the sun can't even be felt yet. My face is frozen. Like a stone. Like the stone I'm sitting on.
When we were here before she wondered if we could be seen from space. I laughed at her. The first time I laughed at her but certainly not the last. Though at least this one was not meant with malice. She explained that since the wall could be seen from space, so could we, couldn't we? I told her it was just a myth the wall could be seen from space. It isn't even tall. She told me that she had seen pictures of China from space and that it was there. So maybe one day she would see a picture from space and there would be two little dots that loved each other dearly and they could be seen from space. I agreed that I supposed it was a small possibility. Then I pictured us as dots from space and I think that was the first time I realized how little our love really was, no matter how big it seemed.
That kid just walked away when I came up. He was alone. Not alone, with his mother and father. He was alone as they enjoyed themselves and he tried not to ruin their good time. I wanted to let him walk with us. Is that how I used to be? Looking out for other people? Trying to cheer everyone up? Was that me? Or was it her that wanted to let him walk along with us? I think that it was more likely that it was her personality coming through me. That is how we used to be. Her goodness shining through me. And I was transparent near her.
Someone is on the horizon. A camper, probably, maybe a couple of them. Or a couple. They are coming towards me. I don't think they have seen me yet and I want to hide but I can't stop watching because now I know it is a couple and they are holding hands and I recognize them. I've never seen them before in my life but I recognize them. Young. Happy. In love.
I hate them.
They are at least a mile away and they will see me before long as the sun continues to rise. I should move. Though my mind makes itself up to do so long years of sobriety have forgotten the torment of a hangover. So to stand could lead to my death. A relatively short fall to the ground from here. I doubt I would ever get back up. Sitting on the ledge was probably a bad idea. Hopefully they can at least stop their love-fest long enough to help a hapless drunk to a more sensible location. Like a hammock on a beach somewhere.
We were going to go to Hawaii. That was the plan but as the wedding approached she told me that she wanted to do something less cliche. Go somewhere fun and exciting but not somewhere where American's go on honeymoons. I suggested China. She had the tickets changed before I could explain I was mostly joking. I didn't care though. The thought of twenty-hours on a plan with her there and back seemed quite pleasing to me at the time. Now I wonder if I'll be able to endure the flight back. Maybe I can just stay here. On this wall. It does get pretty cold out here at night. And all I have to eat is a bag half full of beef jerky. I should have changed the tickets back to where we should have gone in the first place. I shouldn't have come back here. My friends told me not to come back here. The tickets were purchased. The plane was leaving in two weeks and I'll be damned if I'm not going to be on it. My friends are really just my coworkers. I haven't talked to any real friends in fourteen years. I don't really know what happened. They just sort of faded out of my life. I thought of them later as actors. Minor characters that are just there when they have something to add to the plot. My plot had already played out. Oh god, how my plot had already played out.
The dating process was fast. The engagement was faster. The marriage dragged on longer than this wall. We didn't so much as meet as find each other. I sat in a cafe. Trying to appear to be refined. She walked in and sat down at my table and asked me if I were Chris. Chris Sale. I remember his name though I never actually met him. I told her that I wasn't. She said sorry and started to stand up and I told her she should wait for him right there. She told me it wasn't a blind date or anything. Just a business call. She sold metals. To everyone from contractors to jewelers to soda can manufacturers. I told her I was fascinated with her work. And I was. At the time. Later I came to find it quite dull. Almost as dull as she found me.
When I saw that boy walking a few paces behind his parents, kicking rocks and dirt out of his way, head down, the quintessential restless teenager, just a little bit older and a little bit calmer, I told her that we should have kids. Normally the thought of a little baby in the house is what makes people want to have babies. Or at least that's what I thought. But seeing this kid who was really almost the same age as us I realized that one day we would come back here and she and I would walk around, eagerly paying attention to everything we missed this time, there could be one or two restless kids walking behind us. And for some reason this appealed to me.
We did have kids. And they are in college now, both of them. And I am proud of them. They don't know how to talk to me anymore. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I wouldn't know how to talk to me anymore either. They were supposed to be here. Walking aimlessly behind me and the wife. They were supposed to talk pictures of us smiling in the bright afternoon sun and I was supposed to talk them to Beijing and make them try food they've never seen before. They didn't know I was coming. I told them I gotten a refund on the trip. Next year, I told them, next year.
It never really worked. Once we left this wall it never really worked. Up to that point it was magic. Then we fought, then we made love, then we fought. I thought that it was just a release of stress. I didn't realize it was the tone for the next twenty years.
That couple has made their way to a stairwell in the wall and they are on their way up. My fat and tired legs are slowly working their way back over the ledge. I should be standing by the time they get here. I think about jumping off. I think about but I don't want them to have to try to get me to a hospital. I may hate them but I'm not spiteful.
They see me when I get turned around and I am facing away from the sunrise. They smile. They stop for a second and asses me. They decide I'm not a threat. They walk up to me and he pulls her in close to him and reaches out his hand. They are Chinese, they are young, they are in love. And I don't want to deal with them right now. But they will walk right on by before too long so I take his hand and he nods slightly.
"You are American?" He asks and she smiles in that way that only Asian women seem to be able to do. Or at least non-American's seem to be able to do. A smile that reflects actual happiness. I don't recall the last time I saw an American face with such a smile on it.
"Yes." I say and I nod slightly to him.
"We are," he pauses searching for a word, "pleased to meet you." She doesn't change the expression on her face and I want to hug her so badly suddenly. A face that brings hope to the world. Only a face that belongs to someone in love can do that. Only a face like that can make an old man like me feel like their is still something left to hope for in this world.
"Pleased to meet you."
I refrain from hugging her. Instead I pull out the bag of beef jerky and offer it to them.
"Oh, we," he pauses for longer this time. A breeze comes off the fields around us and chills me to the bone. "We don't want your beef." I smile and laugh and he laughs with me and she joins in for a moment when we don't stop laughing. Then they stop laughing and I wipe a tear from my eye. I wasn't crying because I was laughing, I realize.
I hate them again.
Those stupid grins and that take on the world attitude. I wish that he wouldn't make the same mistake I made and leave the girl with me while he leaves her here for good. Maybe they haven't even married yet. Maybe their is still a chance for him. A chance for her. It would be better for everyone if they never gave into the fallacy of love. I stand and begin to walk away from them. I can feel them watching me so I turn around and they have suddenly forgotten to smile and I think that perhaps I can reach them.
"Don't believe in love. It will never last." They seem to be confused. Better confused then hopelessly happy.
Checking her face between every word he says slowly "You believe in love?"
"No. Don't believe in love."
"What is... love?" He says it like he's never heard the word before.
I turn and walk away, not even sure which way I came onto the wall the night before. Not sure where the village I was in is. Not sure what it was called. Not sure what the hell I am doing next. I should ask them for directions. I should find out what it is that makes them happy. But I know what it was for me. What it is for them. They could help me. They could protect me until I can get back home. But they can't. Because I won't ask them. Instead I choose to hate them.
And I hate them.
"Close enough" I yell into the morning sun as it finally begins to warm my face.

New Every Morning

Okay, so it took me a little over twice as long as I said, but it is finished (sort of). I'm not sure how I feel about it, but I feel it is complete if not as refined as it could be.

Also, this is my 100th 76th post on this blog! Woo!? (I just realized it was counting drafts as well as actual posts, so it only comes to 76. Lame.)


New Every Morning
By Matt Moore

Windshield leaflets cover the parking lot as he walks through. There is only one car there at this hour, it is his. He leaves it as far back as he can and enjoys the cool breeze of the early morning as he walks. He reaches the door, he knocks. A dead-bolt slides on the other side, the door creaks open and he walks inside.
The room is dark. It smells of mildew and stale beer. Now cleaning off the back of the door as she pushes it closed is Sandy. She doesn't say hello to Him. He studies her from the back and finds her nearly attractive. Blonde hair in a bun. A body that would drive him wild save for a few misplaced curves within it. But as she turns around and catches his eye for a moment the years have clearly caught up with her. She smiles, but it is a hollow smile. She smiles, but He knows she doesn't not mean to smile at Him.
The chairs are still up on the tables from the nights before. The bar stools have been set back down on the ground, the counter wiped down. This place will open at ten thirty. Now it is just before nine. In the back someone is cooking bacon, maybe eggs. Today is Tuesday, it must be Mike. He hopes Mike has made enough for everyone. He hopes, but Mike rarely does unless he is asked.
He walks to the stage, still set with amplifiers and microphones from the night before. He begins to unplug everything. He goes to a closet hidden behind the raised dais that makes the stage, opens it, begins to roll in the equipment.
When he is done Sandy is vacuuming and Mike is sitting at the counter eating bacon and toast. Mike smiles at Him, and this is a smile that is meant for Him, and Mike has points to a tray of bacon sitting beside him and he finds a plate behind the bar and grabs a handful and sits down next to Mike and they eat in silence save for the vacuum.
Soon Sandy is sitting at the counter smoking a cigarette and Mike is chopping tomatoes in the back and He is in the bathroom with a plunger. By the time ten-thirty rolls around He has finished. But the bathroom still has a smell He wouldn't wish upon anyone.
"What's with all this hootenanny?" Hollers a voice from the large wooden door as soon as Sandy unlocks it.
"Hi George." She says and turns away and goes behind the bar. She begins to pour Pabst from the tap and opens the door to the back and says simply 'George' to Mike. Mike nods and begins to make a ham and cheese omelet.
"What's with all this hootenanny?" George asks again and Sandy stares at him. "Out with it then." George says after a moment.
"I don't understand." Sandy says as she hands him his beer.
"Last night." George says with a raised eyebrow and a stern expression. Sandy knows that he thinks she should know what he is talking about. She stands with one arm on her hip and one arm on the bar and thinks and can remember only an overly loud band and hardly anyone sticking around for the evening. "What they are saying about Him." George points to Him as he walks out of the bathroom and He smiles and waves walks behind the bar.
"What are they saying about you?" Sandy asks Him.
"I wasn't aware anyone was saying anything." He responds.
"They is saying your some sort of messiah." George says and then laughs a gruff laugh.
"Really?" Sandy asks and she joins in the laugh, adding a high squeaking noise to George's baritone.
"Oh, yeah." He said, "You hadn't heard. Yea, look upon me, my children, and know me, I am the Lord your God." He now laughed alone, but only for a moment as the others joined him as well.
"And so shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars will fall from heaven and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken. And then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man in heaven. And then shall the tribes of earth mourn. And they shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory." Mike said with his head sticking out from the door to the back. The laughing stopped and the three froze to reflect upon what he had just said.
"Matthew 24:29 through 34." Said a voice from somewhere behind George. The four turned and saw a man in priests garb. Salt and pepper hair, his clothes neatly pressed, a bible tucked under his arm. The priest was smiling and that smile was for Him. "The second coming."
"Yeah, that's right. How are you Father?" Asked Mike.
"I am very well. Thank you for calling me."
"No problem." Mike smiled at the priest and nodded with a large grin to Him and went away behind his door once more.
"So, may I have a word with you my Son?" Asked the father to Him. He met Sandy's eyes and she shrugged and leaned over the bar to whisper to George. With that He motioned to a booth near the back and strolled over with his hands in his pockets as the priest sat and straightened his bible so that it was perfectly perpendicular to him.
"What would you like to talk with me about?" He asks.
"Last night of course." The priest lights up like a kid in a candy store.
"Nothing happened last night."
"That isn't what I've heard."
"Well then you have been misinformed." He sits back in his seat, draping his hand over the back partition.
Rock and roll oldies from the sixties and seventies played over the radio. The two sat quietly contemplating why it was that Mic could not, in fact, get no satisfaction. Perhaps the double negative was meant to imply that he always did get satisfaction. It would be nearly impossible to tell.
"I don't believe that I was misinformed."
"Just because you may not believe it doesn't mean that it isn't true." He scooted nearly out of the seat, sitting on the edge the priest grabs his arm.
"You saved her life."
"Let go of my arm please." He shrugs the arm off but the priest stands, stands in front of Him, places his hand on His shoulder.
"You placed your hands on her and she was healed. You have saved her life. You must take responsibility for it. For what that means."
"It doesn't mean anything. I didn't do anything. Let go of me." He stands, but the priest does not move. "Please get out of my way."
"Not until you admit what you are."
"And what am I?" Standing, starring, they look like father and Son.
"You are He."
"I am just a bar back."
"Jesus was a carpenter."
"And if He came in here after a long day of work I would happily serve Him a drink. But I would not take his position." The priest loses eye contact. Picks up his bible and rubs it in his fingers. He squeezes it, the book bends up and down in his hand. Suddenly it flies open, lands face up on the table.
The priest, his hands curled nearly into fists, takes a deep breath. He picks the bible off of the table and holds it open in his hands, reading.
"Matthew 10:8. Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give." Said the priest.
"You don't need to quote the scripture to me. I have heard it before."
"Perhaps you weren't listening closely enough."
"I think I was." He tenses, His arms and His fists seem almost ready to strike.
"If you were listening then you know how deeply I regret what I have done. The things I have done in my life."
"And how would I know this simply from listening to a sermon? A sermon by someone other than you?" His hands relax, but His face turns to a scowl.
"If you were listening, really listening, then you would know I can, no one can, ever live up to what is expected of us from Him." The priests face stays soft, smiling, affable.
"Are you saying that you have sinned? That is no great surprise, you above all should know that we all sin."
"I have sinned worse than you know, my Son."
"Well, I am sure that He will forgive you."
"So then you forgive me?" The priest touches His arm.
"I am not in the position to forgive you." He brushes it off.
"Say that you forgive me."
"I can't forgive you. I am not who you think I am."
"Yes you are. You are!"
"Perhaps you should leave, preacher. I'll buy you a drink if you'd like or-" The priest grabs His hand once more.
"Freely give! Freely give to me! Drive out my demons!" The priest falls to the floor, holding His hand to his forehead. "Heal me! Heal me!"
"Get off you old fool!" He says and he pulls his hand away from the priests head. The priest drops to the floor. The priest lays motionless. He kneels down over him. Pokes him lightly on his arm. The bar is completely silent. The others stand by the bar watching. "Are you okay?" He asks.
He hears nothing, no breathing. He checks for a pulse, finds nothing. Holds his hand in front of the priests mouth and feels no breath escape. Checks for a pulse again.
"I think someone should call an ambulance." He says but no one moves. They watch, the lean forward, they hold their breath. "Shit." He says under His breath. He places one hand on the top of the priests head, the other on his chest. He closes his eyes, breaths deep. Exhales. A small shimmer of light escapes from his lips and shrouds the priest.
A moment passes slowly. Another moment. Then the priests gasps, his eyes shoot open. He raises his hand and feels His hands upon his body and sees the light surrounding him, but before he can reach out to touch the light it vanishes, and He removes His hand from his body.
"You passed out." He says.
"I think perhaps I did more than pass out." The priest attempts to stand, He gently pushes him back to the ground.
"Rest for a moment, you just had a shock to your system."
"Yes, I think perhaps I shall rest... just... for... a... moment..." The priest closes his eyes as He lowers his head to the ground.
"Sleep well preacher." He says, then He stands, and the door opens wide and there is a bright, bright light. And He walks into it, and then He is gone.

The Second Coming

I'm still working on the second story in this series. It took me a long time to get going on it and then I've had a few problems with getting it done, but it should be done before the end of the weekend. Hopefully before the end of the day, but I make no promises. I just wanted anyone who cared to know I hadn't given up on it yet. And I'm still accepting new ideas from any takers.

Okay, see you back here soon with the second story. I know I'm looking forward to it!

Ha ha, sell it.

Fall From Fort Point

Josh gave me a setting, character, and line of dialog for this story as I was asking for in my last post. This was a lot of fun. Feel free to go back to the last post and read what I was saying and throw out your own ideas. The minimum I'll write is 500 words. This one came out to 1,666 (oooohhh) words. Thanks, Josh!

Also, this is a first draft and I skimmed over it briefly but there are bond bound to be typos (see?), sorry.

Fall From Fort Point
By Matt Moore

This is it. This is the spot she fell into the water. Fort Point. Below the Golden Gate bridge. This is where she fell. Where she always falls. She continues to fall each time I replay the scene. Each time Kim Novak falls in and each time James Stewart saves her. Then he falls. Falls for her, and she falls again for him and again to her death, though the first time she doesn't die, the second time she does though, after making him fall in love all over again.
I feel like falling. Not into the water. But falling, forever. With only space above me and below me. I feel like falling. I've been falling all of my life. Just not free falling. The wind is picking up and I can smell the daily catch coming from, well from just about everywhere. I wonder how long I have been standing here. I wonder how it would feel to fall from further up.
I woke up here this morning. No real memory of coming here, though I find I wake up here many mornings. Clutching onto my empty bottles like a cliche. I never used to drink. That isn't true. Do you want to hear that I was once a successful man? Do you want to hear that I was just screwed over? By a woman, by a boss, by a bank? That I found myself on the street all of a sudden one day having ostracized everyone in my life? That I turned to drink only after I was left alone in this world? Do you picture me falling from the top, hitting every ledge but never getting a handhold before falling further down?
Yes, I was once the head of industry. I ran a newspaper, we have several here. A homeless newspaper. I was in charge of everything. We take turns running it. This was last week. When I was a newspaper man. Now I'm a poet. Sold my first poems on the street just days ago. So far I've gotten positive reviews. But who am I kidding? I wasn't being read by the Paris Review. I suppose there aren't many people out there who read a poem and tell the smelly old fart that wrote it and sold it to you for fifty cents worth of beer money that it was a piece of shit.Unless you plan to tell him he is a piece of shit. I've heard that more than once.
You'd think I'd be tired of falling. Each muttered remark and each condescending ass who gives you a quarter and expects you to kiss their ass for it. Even the ones that just drop a dollar or two my way and barely make eye contact bother me. What sort of asshole would give me money? What is so wrong with them they feel they need to buy redemption from me? I fall further down each time anyone does anything for me, even if all they are doing is nothing.
Perhaps I don't hate them that truly want to help me. They are just too naive to understand that they can't do anything to help me. No one can help anyone. Everyone is falling, and everyone is powerless against the forces around them. We grab onto each other in mid-air, we shout into the wind at each other. We hold on for a while then let go. Some of us just fall faster than others.
I'd love to stop falling. To find my feet on solid ground. Yet when it gets cold and wet at night and I haven't got a place to sleep I lay on the ground and picture myself falling. Sometimes I jump from a plane first. Sometimes I'm just falling. I never hit the ground. I can't see where I started from. I'm just falling. A bottomless pit and I am completely powerless against anything in my environment. All I can do is allow gravity to do what it is already doing. And I know that thinking I am the one to allow it to do that is just as ridiculous as the thought that I could stop falling if I really wanted to.
I'm sitting in a corner, hidden almost in the long shadows from the rising sun. I'm cold, but I hear someone coming and I don't want to go into the open just yet. A woman, I can tell from the clicking of the high heels. I suppose I don't know its a woman for sure in this city. Either way she would like to be called a she so long as she is wearing high heels. Perhaps she will become he when he goes into work. You can't take any of this stuff for granted anymore.
She passes by me and I know she doesn't see me, but she wouldn't slow down even if she knew I were here. Determination. I don't expect a woman like that to have any interest in me. Not even enough to acknowledge my presence on the same planet as her. But that won't stop my interest in her.
She stops in just the same spot as Ms. Novak. And from behind I could almost, almost... she turns and looks right at me. She is. She looks as good as she did in 1958. She's even wearing the same clothes from the movie. She can't be her. She'd be in her seventies by now. She looks barely twenty. But I am standing up now and I don't know and she has turned back towards the sea. And I'm standing in the warm morning sun, the same sun as her. And we stand, the wind blowing my tater clothes the same way it blows on her tailored dress. She doesn't let out much of a sound, just a gasp, and she is gone. Over the edge. And I am Jimmy Stewart and I am going in after her. I take only a moment to throw my coat and my shoes to the side as I run towards the edge. She is laying face down in the water, the current pulling her away from me, towards the open water just beyond the bridge and I am a terrible swimmer.
Now I am falling. Finally a true free fall. The water isn't too far away but I am in the air for what seems like a lifetime. Minutes, hours, before I hit the surface of the water I see her young body age, die, decompose, turn to dust atop the water and blow away. I'm stuck in the air, not moving. Not falling, and yet I'm still falling, somehow.
Time remembers it has forgotten me as I smash into the freezing water.
"Ahhh... Fuck!" I hear before my ears go under. There is a current down here, its pulling me, not an entirely different sensation than that of falling. Yet in this place time moves much faster. I want to embrace my new life underwater, the few moments of it I feel I will have before I suck in enough water to become John Doe. But there is a hand on me chest, and another hand on my leg, and I'm being pulled towards the surface. Falling upwards.
"Come on Al, at least try to swim." He was talking to me. All I could see was his face. A pleasant face, but to square to be doing anything other than working for the government. I kicked absently in the water, but knew to try to push against the water was as useless as kicking against gravity. I was falling sideways now.
Soon we had gotten to a ladder and he helped me climb up. He wore only soaking black slacks, but laid out on the ground next to my discarded clothes was the upper half of his uniform and utility belt. I laid myself out next to them, he sat on the cold stone ground and shook his hair of the salt water.
"I thought you might be a government man," I said to him. I want to hate him for helping me. For grabbing onto me in midair for a few seconds. But I can't seem to hate him as much as I'd like. Something about him tells me that he knows how to fall better than most.
"Goddamnit Al, one of these days I'm not going to be here to save you."
"You already saved me." I sat up and extended my hand to shake his.
"Just like last month, and last year before that. Do you wait for me before jumping in or is it just that I am that goddamn lucky?"
"I'm sorry, have we met?" I retracted my hand, not wanting to shake his hand until he started to make some sense.
"Trying to save Kim Novak again?"
"Yes, she fell. She keeps falling. Just like me."
"That was a movie Al. It was a movie from a very long time ago."
"But she hasn't stopped falling."
"Yes she has. You haven't." He stood up and pulled his shirt and belt back on, ran a hand through his hair to try to even it out, then reached out his hand to mine which I had extended towards his again. "Come on, get your coat and shoes. I'll take you to the hospital."
We walked dripping the cold water from our clothes back to his car.
"She died out there."
"Al, your going to die out there. I can't always save you."
"But you saw her. She died out there. She fell and she died. But she loved the fall. You saw her." He opened the door and let me in the back. "Tell me you saw her." He closed the door and walked around to the front and got in.
"I saw her." He said as he turned on the siren and headed towards the VA hospital. "I saw her."

Tree Fiddy

The last four days have been a blur of illness. I guess a lot of folk have had what I got. I called in monday and tried to go to work on tuesday but as soon as the boss saw me he told me to just go home and try again wednesday, which didn't happen as I was stuck in bed all day wednesday. Today is thursday and I feel well enough to head into work in a couple of hours for my shift, but I do still get dizzy and light headed when I stand up for too long. Fortunately I can take it slow and since I'm a driver I can sit most of the time I'm working.

I still need to get a better job. Since my last posting I've done very little looking for anything else as I've been bedridden so much of the time. But it did give me time to think and think I have. I have thought, "I'm mother-fucking broke." I have also thought "Am I a fucking idiot? Why am I working as a goddamn delivery boy?" Apparently when I'm sick I like to swear a lot. Hell yes I do.

I haven't written anything creative in a few months now. I'm going to start up again soon. Sometimes I have to let life sink in for a while before I'm ready to write anything. Perhaps I shall even post some of this writing if anyone is interested in reading it. Although I always say I'll do that and rarely do. But we'll see. I need to get something published. I think if I do that I'll be more motivated to finish the final drafts of things. As it is now I just sort of forget about them because I hate editing my stories. But when I have motivation to do so I'll get them done.

But for now I want to have an interactive writing experience. So if you are so inclined, whoever it is thats reading this now, please provide me with a setting, a character, and a line of dialog and I will attempt to turn that into at least a 500 word story to be posted here later. And if anyone else wants to join in on this with me the more the merrier. I'll even start you out:

Setting: A mineshaft
Character: George, the fast-talking detective
Dialog: If only I'd remembered to tie my shoe.

The story doesn't have to be all in a mineshaft or all about George, they just have to make appearances. This is an old workshop trick to force creativity out of people under strange circumstances. So hit me with something and we can see what we come up with. Or not, if you don't want to. I understand.

Brian Williams Talk Fire With Me

Lately I've been feeling like an old man. Not because of my age, but I wake up with a sore back and an aching shoulder and I get in my favorite chair and watch the news for a while. I think I'm going to start doing some Yoga. My body just hurts, some stretching would be pretty good for me I think.

Tomorrow should be the last day for Hilary. I mean, I really hope so. I'm getting quite sick of her. Though I was sick of her months and months ago. If by some fluke she wins I am going to have to stop paying attention to the campaign, I don't think I could put up with her till November. And if she won the election then I'm going to have to go into some sort of news free box for the next four to eight years.

I'm still working on the bookstore, but the more I talk to people in Fallon and the more I look into the long line of failed bookstores in Fallon I am starting to think that Fallon may still not be ready for a bookstore. I want it to be, but is it? I've heard several times already that people want a Chili's here way more than they want a bookstore.

I heard a few times the statistic that half of all american's didn't read a single book last year. Books are really being relegated to cities and to places with a lot of people with higher education. I wonder what the percentage of people with a higher education in fallon is right now? It doesn't seem very high. Maybe ten-fifteen percent? On average in America its 25% of people have degrees.

Even if its 25% here, if out of those people that was the only group who'd be coming in thats really not enough to keep a store going. I don't know, I just don't know.

I should get a different job. I'm supplementing my income with my savings to be able to afford everything and those savings are quickly dwindling. Somehow not having money come in for almost a year takes its toll on your bank account. And if I do get a better job then I would be able to save some more for the bookstore. Of course the reason I'm doing what I'm doing is because I couldn't get a better job anywhere. But I can't do this much longer. This job is shit and it pays like shit. Its really, really not worth the time I'm putting into it.

I think I will go out and try to get another job. And keep working on the store. And maybe look into grad school as a backup plan if other plans fail. I still planed on going back to school sometime, even if I got the store off the ground. So I might as well keep thinking about it and looking into it.