On The Road

Pete sat in the small camp as the heavy traffic passed a few hundred feet beyond the trees and brush that hid the freeway. Deep in thought, he enjoyed the warm sun that felt good after the morning chill.

Pete was thinking of the pain in his gut. It was sharp today, which kept him from panhandling on the corner a mile down the road. The week before, he'd finally succumbed to the advice of his friend, Sid, and gone to the local emergency room. After a day of sitting, shuffling between tests and some stern advice from doctors, he slipped away in the evening and came back to the camp. Their diagnosis was incomplete, though they knew his liver function was not right and more tests were needed to determine the cause. Pete felt closed in and only wanted to escape.

Maybe he should eat. He thought for a moment, then decided to wait. It only hurt worse when he ate and he wanted to avoid the pain. Maybe it would ease off later.

Pete's thoughts wandered to Rhonda. They'd started on the road together over twenty five years ago. Both were first year college students and both wanted to "see the world" before they settled down and started their lives. After five years, the thoughts of settling down slipped further away. Their lifestyle was ingrained and they had lost the resources to escape. Neither had communicated with family for years and neither wanted to make the effort to return to the life that was now alien to both.

Pete remembered when she disappeared. It was a rainy night, she wanted some cigarettes and would only be gone for a short time. She never came back. At first Pete assumed she had just left, but soon realized she was the woman killed by a hit a run driver as she crossed an intersection. He saw the report in a newspaper at a store where he was buying a beer. He knew he should have done more, but he, also, knew it really didn't matter. His world shifted that moment. He gathered his belongings and was hundreds of miles away within days.

"Hey Pete. I brought you something."

Pete looked up to find Sid handing him a 44 ounce malt liquor. "Thanks" was his reply.

"I had a good day Pete. People were generous on the corner. Maybe tomorrow you'll feel like making some money?"

Pete replied: "Maybe. I'll probably feel better."

Pete opened the beer and took two long swallows. The cold liquid  immediately burned and caused the pain to increase. Taking two more swallows, he laid back on his sleeping bag and waited for the buzz to dull the pain.

"You hungry Pete? I brought some cans of chili."

The thought of eating turned Pete's stomach. He wasn't hungry any longer. Taking another slug of beer, he answered: "Maybe later. I'm not real hungry right now."

Sid and Pete spent the next hour discussing nothing and watching the sun start to fade. Eventually both were just staring and Pete eventually nodded off. Sid looked at Pete to make sure he was asleep.

After he was satisfied Pete was sleeping, Sid rolled up his sleeping bag and made sure all his belongings were stored in his knapsack. Standing, he approached Pete and pulled a knife from his pocket.

Sid stared at Pete and thought of his time in the army. Advance training taught him how to kill a man within seconds. No pain; no screaming; just oblivion. He looked down at Pete. In a low voice that was almost a whisper he said: "That's not my job."

Reaching into his stash, Sid took a ten dollar bill, wrapped it around the knife, and set it on the sleeping bag next to Pete. He made over a hundred today and he had his boot knife for protection. Examining Pete, he realized his skin was now a noticeable shade of yellow. It reminded him of an old man he'd met a few years before.

They called him old man, although he was probably only in his late forties. His life on the road, and alcohol, had aged him before his time. Sid found him dead one morning, so he flagged down a cruiser as it passed. Three days later, less all his belongings, he realized he never wanted to be involved with another police investigation. He'd done nothing, but the police wanted to be sure before they set him free. They wouldn't give his belonging back. They'd said something about a health hazard.

Never looking back, Sid slipped from the wooded area and started walking down the shoulder of the access road. Holding out his thumb as he walked, he hoped to flag a ride and be a few hundred miles down the road by morning. He'd head south. Winter was coming and he wanted to spend it in the Keys. The dumpsters always had good food and there were miles of bridges to sleep under.

Sid knew there was one rule on the road, which was there were no rules. Glancing back one time, he pushed Pete from his mind and picked up his pace.

Working on My Blog

I've added some buttons. They're on the right. One in particular is one visitors should look at. It only has one link, but it's a link to William Shunn's site. On that site is a link to proper manuscript formatting. Writers need to understand how publishers wish submissions to be submitted, and his guidelines are even suggested by some publishers.

Reflections

Ryan Brown carefully examined his reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls of his bedroom. Obsessed with his appearance, he never left for work without ensuring every detail was without flaw. He would start to leave, but two or three trips back to the mirrors were necessary to satisfy the compulsion that ruled his life.

His walk was short. The shop where he worked was only a half block from the small apartment he rented for years. Using his key, he opened the door to the shop that specialized in hats only. His employer, an eccentric older man, was adamant on how his store was run. Although he never ran the shop, no detail was to be overlooked.  A moment of neglect by Ryan to keep the mirrors clean caused a tirade during a visit that was not only embarrassing, the threat of losing his job kept him late that evening cleaning the mirrors over and over until his obsessive compulsion left him exhausted in the early morning hours.  His return home was only to change and spend the obligatory time in front of the mirror to guarantee his appearance was without flaw.  He buried his seething hate; it corroded his soul and ate at his sanity.

Customers were few. The shop was not self-supporting but the owner didn’t need the revenue. His wealth was massive; the shop was a hobby and allowed tax write-offs that prevented him from giving to charities, which he loathed. On any day, only two or three customers would appear to buy the finest of products offered by the shop for men and women.

A woman entered the shop early one morning that Ryan disliked immediately. Besides the constant chatter, which he found annoying, she handled the merchandise far more than he liked. To aggravate this dislike, she constantly touched the mirrors in the shop and marveled how easy it would be to walk into one if she wasn’t paying attention.

The morning progressed without the woman making a purchase. Her annoying chatter, now accentuated by her unwillingness to leave, had Ryan aggravated to distraction. As lunch approached, and passed, he found he couldn’t concentrate. The jabber of the woman became a noise that pounded in his head; torturing him to beyond reason – until it stopped.

Ryan heard what sounded like a tapping on the shop window. Finding nobody outside the shop, he approached the small mirrored alcove that allowed customers to admire their selection before purchase. Instantly, in a blind rage, he went to admonish the customer that had, obviously, crossed all lines of decency and was tapping on the mirrors he hated so much.

She wasn’t there, although he thought he heard her muffled voice in the distance. Stepping into the alcove revealed nothing, until he saw something from the corner of his vision. Turning quickly, he again found nothing there, but the insistent tapping continued and he could now hear the woman pleading to be allowed to leave. Again, he saw something in the corner of his vision. Turning slowly, he could see her on the edge of his vision, tapping at the mirror as though she was looking in a window. When he completed his turn, she was gone. Horrified, he ran from the shop and didn’t stop until he reached his apartment.

                                                                       ***

The older of the two detectives knocked quietly, but forcefully, on the door of the landlady of Ryan’s apartment. 

“We only have a few questions.” The older detective asked, after showing his badge and being shown into the small apartment.

“The first officer to arrive reported you called the police after other renters complained of a constant pounding in Mr. Brown’s apartment.”

“Yes. I knocked on the door and he wouldn’t answer. After hours of the constant pounding, I had to call the police.” She was still frightened. Recalling the night before was causing her to tremble.

“Is this the first time you had a problem with Mr. Brown?”

“Yes. He’s been here for years; always quiet; always paid his rent before it was due.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Brown?”

The question startled the landlady. She realized it had been a long, long time since she actually saw Ryan. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her renter, or had spoken to the young man that made her nervous.

“I don’t remember.”

She did remember how they found Ryan: filthy, sprawled on the floor; his outstretched foot kicking at a cabinet with a knife precariously balanced on the edge. Mumbling, and crying; one hand reaching toward the cabinet; the other outstretched, as though he was doing everything to keep it at a distance; a shard of mirror in the palm bleeding profusely.  

“He will be okay?” she asked. She had a bad feeling, especially with detectives visiting her apartment.

“I’m sorry, but he died early this morning.”

Suddenly curious, she asked: “Was he ill?”

The young detective answered: “The doctors think it was a combination of blood loss and malnutrition.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“I really don’t know. I do know that nobody ever visited and the only time I saw him leave was to go to work, or a short trip to the market. “

The older detective spoke: “When was the last time you saw him leave for work?”

She had to think for a moment. She really couldn’t say. As she thought, she realized the shop had appeared closed for a long time; maybe months.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought he was taking time off from work. It’s been a long time since the shop down the street appeared opened.”

The young detective responded: “The shop that you named on the police report last night?”

She nodded and said nothing.

The older detective rose and said: “That’s all the questions we have for now. We’d like you to unlock the apartment so we can look around.”

She stood, went to a keyboard and handed the key to the detective: “Here’s the key. I don’t want to go back to that room right now.”

Showing them out, she remarked: “It’s the first door to the right on the second floor.”

Opening the door revealed much of what was in the initial report. Now that there was a death involved, the detectives needed to make a more thorough investigation and determine if there was something more than what appeared. 

The apartment was small. Coagulated blood was pooled on the floor. The cabinet doors were open and empty. Several trash bags were piled in one corner. A few empty plates were in the sink. The fixtures appeared to be covered with paint, or putty.   

The rest of the apartment appeared unused. The bathroom and bedroom were neat, everything placed, yet there was a layer of dust that indicated a long time without use. Other than dust, the mirrors were unblemished and without fingerprints.

“I don’t see any sign of a struggle” were the first words from the older detective.

The younger detective responded: “The door has no sign of forced entry and the windows are locked. I didn’t find any medications in the cabinet, except for aspirin and the bottle was almost full.”

“What do you think?”

The older detective sighed: “I think we need to get back to the precinct, fill out a report and take an early lunch. Later this afternoon, we’ll see if we can find if he had any family.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Are you buying?”

They left, stopped at the landlady’s apartment, gave her the key and handed her a card for a service that cleaned crime scenes. “That’s all we need. We appreciate your cooperation.”

As they left, the young detective pointed down the block and remarked: “That’s the shop.”

The older detective never looked. After years of dealing with dead end cases, he never wasted his time with curiosity. He was tired, retirement was only three years away and he suddenly had the urge for a Reuben sandwich, which they sold around the corner from the precinct.

“How does a Reuben sound for lunch? If we hurry, the sauerkraut will be fresh and the corned beef just sliced. “

The young detective glanced in the passenger side mirror and suddenly turned to look at the shop receding in the mirror. For a moment, he thought he saw someone standing inside the front glass. When he turned, there was nothing to see.

“If we’re finished early enough, the rye will only have been out of the oven for an hour. Damn, I can taste it now. Can’t you drive faster?”

The Longing For Home

Case stared at the foliage on the trees and the birds as they flew about the courtyard. He recognized most, but they were unfamiliar and only added to the feeling of isolation that weighed heavily the last few days.  Although the courtyard was full of benches, he was alone with his thoughts as he sat and observed the things he knew would lead to questions. Though he tried to concentrate, his mind wandered back to familiar things and events of the past.

A voice brought him back to the present: “Case. It’s time for the middle meal. Don’t you want to eat?”

Case looked to find Serena, his mentor, standing to his side. He’d heard her when she came from the door behind where he sat. He knew it was her, when he recognized her familiar scent.  It was harshly chemical to his sensitive nose, but then most everyone had the odor of chemicals. It was part of his life now, so he was becoming more comfortable to what originally assailed his nose and almost caused nausea.

“I think so. I’m hungry.”

Serena had a worried look on her face, which was common when they spoke. Case spent a few minutes examining the tall, lithe woman that was now in charge of his education. Others in the dormitory commented on her beauty; Case found her to be spindly and ungainly; even though she moved gracefully.  

Rising to his feet, Case was reminded on how tall Serena was. At a little under two meters, she appeared unnaturally tall, but she was considered normal by most.  Case thought of the other adults he dealt with and realized it was probably so. Still, to Case, she was tall; as well as all adults.

“The doctors want to run some more tests after middle meal, Case.”  

Case didn’t say anything. He knew the next few hours would involve a series of physical and mental tests, which irritated but there was little he could do to change the afternoon. The doctors would explain the rationality for the tests, but still Case would rather be somewhere else.  Sometimes, he had the feeling they really didn’t care what he felt. They seemed obsessed by their tests and his discomfort was just something else to study.

After entering the cafeteria, Case spent a few seconds observing the occupants.  Immediately, he knew all that were there. Those he knew were immediately recognized. Those he didn’t were briefly analyzed and categorized. Nothing escaped his attention and if asked, he could tell how many seconds it would take to reach any exit and what weapons were available for use.

Serena pointed to a table and they sat down across from each other.  After they sat, the menu appeared above the center of the table for their review. Noting that little changed, Case passed his finger over the menu and chose his food. It was his favorites of food he detested.  He’d learned to act like he wasn’t revolted, which Serena would comment: “I see you’re starting to like your food.” Case would offer a smile and consume his food with pretended exuberance.

Serena examined Case as they ate.  At a 1.5 meters, he was shorter than he should be at 17 years of age, but what he didn’t have in height, he made up in width. Stocky didn’t describe the thick bundles of muscles. She remembered the photos taken when he arrived and was reminded of how Case was unusually muscled for his age. She knew the reason, but carefully avoided discussing this with Case. Her job was to help Case adjust to their society.  Pointing out differences was counterproductive.  

Case ignored the stares, and comments, as they left the cafeteria after their meal. He was accustomed to both and paid little attention.  Their next stop was the research building, which housed the equipment and rooms the doctors used for examining Case. 

Serena spoke as they walked to the research building “We have a few minutes, if you’d like to spend some more time in the courtyard” 

Case thought for a second and responded: “I think I would.”

They stopped and sat at a bench near the entrance to the research building. After a few moments of silence Case commented: “The weather will change tonight.”

“How do you know?” was Serena’s response; hoping he would tell her he’d used his information access and studied the current weather information.

“I just know, like I know many things.”

Serena hid her disappointment, but knew it would take time to help Case.  He’d endured a lot in the last six months and she needed to be patient. She hoped he could adjust and finally accept what was offered.

As they sat, Case thought of his parents and Carla. He remembered the first season they made the season trek together.  It seemed like yesterday, but it was over one year ago. His parents were proud of his transition to citizen and Carla had promised they would spend a long time together. He smiled for a moment, which wasn’t missed by Serena’s constant attention.

“Are you remembering?”

“Yes”

Serena waited for more, but Case was silent after his comment. She felt frustrated, but accepted it was all she would get for an answer. She knew little about Case, which was frustrating. The doctors had given her a wealth of physical information, but she knew very little about his past and Case provided little information. 

“Case, we need to go in. The doctors will be waiting.”

Case said nothing as they stood and proceeded to the research building. After entering, Serena left Case with the doctors and went to her office to update her records and suggestions.

Case spent the afternoon performing the tests the doctors prescribed. While they seemed enraptured by the results, Case was bored and constantly distracted by his thoughts. During one of the tests, he realized all was in place. It was time and his efforts would require concentration, without distraction.

Serena escorted Case back to his room in the dormitory after the tests. She reminded him of the time for evening meal and left to prepare for the meal that required everyone to dress accordingly and be on time.

After she left, Case started gathering his equipment and supplies. He had one hour to prepare and execute his plan. Carefully, he examined his plan one more time in his mind, pulled on his backpack and slipped through the ventilation vent to the equipment room. There, he climbed the short ladder to the access tunnel and was gone.

                                                                                        ***

“Doctor, I’ll expect a complete data record, but first we need to go over today once again.”

Serena stared at the director for a few moments, and explained everything she remembered happening over the last waking period.  As she spoke, she reexamined her thoughts, but still could not find any indication of Case’s actions.  After she finished, she quietly waited for the director to speak.

“From what we can determine, Case is on his way home.”

Serena was shocked for a moment. “How could he envision such a risky endeavor?” was her immediate thought.  She thought of the distance, and time, he would be traveling and wondered what he was thinking.

Serena paused for a moment before asking: “Is there anything we can do?”

The director shook her head and commented: “No.  He appeared at the ramp of the survey ship Pleiades requesting asylum, which was granted. The ship left with him on board”

Serena thought of Case’s home.  She’d seen videos and still photographs, but they were woefully incomplete to the experience of actually being there.  She admired the beauty, but knew a visit would be extremely unpleasant. 

The director continued: “As you know, we abandoned the Hawking System almost 400 years ago. The unstable star of the adjoining system was considered too dangerous, especially after we thought it destroyed the settlers on Hawking.  At one time, a return was considered, but the possibility of losing the precious resources for another portal was considered too great of a risk – until two years ago.”

Serena, noting the director’s pause asked: “What changed?”

The director continued: “To be blunt, we’ve depleted the available resources required for our technology. The Turner drives, and portals, require most of these minerals. If we don’t develop new sources, our entire civilization will be changed forever.  That is why the Outer Planet Coalition granted Case asylum. They need these resources as much as we do.”

“We can’t force them to return Case?”

“No. While we have trade and manufacturing agreements, we have no sovereign power. In fact, they filed an official protest for our deliberate efforts to not share our information about Case.”

Both sat quietly for a few moments before the director added: “I think this has turned out better than we originally thought. We can learn more from Case’s society than we can from Case. Within a year, we will have scientists on Hawking, if they should allow our visit. I would like you to be one of the first.”

For a moment, Serena was horrified. The thought of a planet with higher gravity and the drastic seasonal changes due to the tilt of the planet didn’t appeal to Serena at all. That, and the dangerous wildlife, would make every day unpleasant, at least.

“I’d be honored, Director.”

“You may leave now, doctor. Your new schedule will be presented tomorrow; after first meal.”

 Serena rose, thanked the director and made her way back to her room.  She laid thinking for hours before falling into a troubled sleep. Feeling as though she failed only added to the sorrow of not saying goodbye to the young man she wondered if she would see again.

While she tossed and turned, Case lay in his bunk on the survey ship and planned the rest of his return home. The first part fell in place when he heard the freighter land. He knew he only had three hours from that time to be on board the ship, or wait another three months.  As he thought, he remembered his surprise of finding the geological party. When they explained they were from Earth, he was even more surprised.  Earth was almost a legend. After the centuries without contact, they decided they were isolated forever.  After a few days with the party, Case contracted a virus. In a coma, and the party unwilling to leave Case, they left with him on board. Although they were worried about his survival, they were more worried about their schedule and the possibility of creating a pandemic.

Case thought of Serena and her efforts to help him understand the laws that required his stay at the dormitory. He never thought the laws applied to him and grudgingly submitted to the examinations by the doctors that were fascinated by the genetic changes Case exhibited. Earth had assumed the settlers that were his ancestors had perished 20 generations before.  Finding Case was a scientific opportunity unparalleled in history.

The director, unable to sleep, returned to her office to continue her preparation and to spend a few minutes reviewing her directive on the screen:

It is imperative you prepare a team that best represents our interests. Our current situation mandates we make every effort to prevent any errors in arriving at an equitable solution to our resource problem. 

Our communication with the Outer Planet Coalition has ended with a meeting date to discuss how our current agreements apply to this new development. They, too, realize how precarious our situation has become and wish to be involved with developing communications with Hawking for developing trade.  Although they suggested force, if necessary, we’ve advised against this possibility, especially since our limited information indicates this may lead to disaster.  Research indicates the settlers are genetically and intellectually superior.  As an ally, they can only benefit our race. As an enemy, their efforts could lead to our destruction.

Eternity

Sarii awoke with a start. She was dreaming of walking on an empty beach on a cold winter day. Gray waves crashed on distant rocks and seabirds called as they flew overhead. The dream quickly faded as she returned to reality.

Pushing a button, she quickly examined the data and turned off the heads up display. Six hours passed, while she slept. No incoming communication signals and all systems were normal. Taking a deep breath, she focused on her location once again.

She could see a faint glow on the bulkhead wall. Occasionally, she would see a flash of light in different colors; some blue and others orange, or red. They were usually brief, although she had watched one that lasted for a few seconds. She had admired the deep violet of the flash. It was a pleasant and removed the thoughts that plagued her waking moments.

She thought of her fiancé. He didn’t want her to go, but they needed the credits, so she took the job and promised it wouldn’t’ seem that long. She knew he would worry the entire time and now wished she had never left. The thoughts saddened her. Knowing she needed to think about something else, she shifted her thoughts to the ship.

The ship was so much different than the military ships she served on. Besides the amount of room, simple luxuries, like the opportunity to eat when she wanted, almost made her feel guilty. All equipment was new and the engines were more powerful than any ship of that size usually carried. The captain told her it was important for their job; the ability to maneuver was critical. 

The trip had taken two months after the jump. During that time, her responsibilities were almost boring, since the ship was new. In the service, constant drills, old equipment and cramped quarters made for busy patrols. It had taken time, but she finally made chief engineer, which led to the job offer after her tour.

A flash of deep violet light on the bulkhead wall broke her thoughts. The deep color reminded her of talking with the head astrophysicist at the end of a shift. He explained singularity, the event horizon and how radiation would be emitted as something crossed beyond the point of no return. He’d said most of it was x-rays, but that visible light was possible. He also explained gravity lensing and how a black hole would be very hard to discern when close. He was right. Between the strange distorted background, and the astigmatic appearance of stars, it was more of an area, without any clear edge of demarcation.

The doctor, and all the crew were now gone. She remembered the collision, which changed her life forever. Following protocol, she was fully suited as she made a maintenance scan of the hull at the end of the drive tube. One instant she was examining the readings and the next she was at the end of her tether. Except for the small section she was in, the ship was gone. Whatever collided with the ship was big, and fast. The edge of the break was clean, as though the ship was cleanly cut with a plasma torch. Nothing was bent, or burned. There was nothing but the void of space and the eerie silence of the vacuum.

Staring out the hull, she noticed the section of hull was almost back to facing the black hole. Shifting her position, she avoided the ionizing radiation that would soon flood into the open space she occupied. She would have a few hours of staying against the structural member before the slow spin of the wreckage placed the majority of the hull between her and the black hole. She had no choice. The suit couldn’t protect her but for a few minutes. The hull blocked most of it, but she knew she was receiving more than was recommended.

She realized she had no idea how long she had been there. It was a long time. So long, her hunger was a constant dull ache. She could feel how weak she had become, but was thankful she had water. That was part of the suit design, which still amazed her. Military suits were all short duration suits. They would protect the wearer, but they didn’t supply any water. The military figured there was little reason for such a suit. There were many reasons stated, but the final reason was the cost. Still, she didn’t have much water left, and she had reached the point her rationing was only prolonging the inevitable.

She wondered again if the emergency communication beacon had traveled far enough. She had launched the beacon the first day, when she was positive the trajectory would take it away from the black hole. If it wasn’t far enough, the signal would be lost in the constant background noise.  Even if found, she wondered how her location could be determined. Thinking about this changed her thoughts to what she had planned for the last few cycles.

She didn’t want to die a long lingering death. She was already to the point she was questioning her sanity, which concerned her more than anything else. She was proud of her ability to make rational, logical decisions and the thought of losing this ability was unacceptable. She could vent the suit and her death would be quicker. With her hope almost gone, she had reached the point she knew the time to make the decision was soon. She would rather be dead than spending the rest of her life in a mental ward. There was a point that being rescued would only be the start of a long unfruitful existence.

Over the next few hours, her mind wandered between one topic and another. She had long given up on mental exercises, like remembering and singing every song she knew. She had run out of ideas and the exercises had become emotionally draining. This only aggravated her discomfort, which included maddening itches she couldn’t reach. Eventually, she nodded off to dream again; her only escape and now becoming vivid and comforting.

Snapping awake, she was disoriented, which was a new occurrence. She spent a few minutes thinking and couldn’t remember anything about the last waking cycle. It was time. She reached into her tool pouch and removed the plasma torch. It was the only thing she knew that would pierce the suit and allow the blessed relief she now longed for.

Carefully, she aimed the torch at the space between her leg and the outside of the suit. Hesitating, she thought of changing her suit recording, but decided it would serve its purpose. She didn’t have anything to add and she wondered if anyone would ever hear it. She hoped her fiancé would, but even if he didn’t, maybe someone would. She didn’t want her last words to be silenced forever.

Pulling the trigger on the torch, she swept a quick arc and waited. Instantly, bright sparkles of light escaped in a cloud from the cut. She felt her lungs collapse and her consciousness started fading immediately from her oxygen starved brain. Her last thought was of how the effervescence of the water boiling on her tongue was like sparkling water from a mixed drink. Within seconds she was gone.

A brief, brilliant flash of blue light lit the bulkhead walls for a few moments. The section of hull slowly spun and marked her final resting place, which would remain in stable orbit for centuries, if not longer - maybe for eternity.

Building a Blog Two

I've looked at the hits on my new site and found the post with the title "Building a Blog" getting the most hits. So, I've decided to offer some advice.

If you're building a blog, decide what you're trying to do. If it's just to journal your life, it's simple and you just write what's on your mind, post it, and go on.

If you're anticipating some money for your endeavor, you need a hook. The internet is huge and you have to suck enough people in to reading your blog, so you can attract advertisers, or sell something. That's not easy, and I personally feel you won't have much luck, unless you understand the nuts and bolts of your blog, have a talent for advertising, or have something to offer that will keep people coming back, which increases your hits; the necessary part of a successful blog.

How many hits? I don't know for sure, but from what I read, it's hundreds of thousands, if not millions every day. That's part of the reason for this blog. I have another, but it's where I expound on the things that run around inside my head. This blog is for exposure to my writings and the hope I can eventually have enough visitors to monetize the blog. Even if that should happen, I'm not expecting to make tons of money, or even live on the money I make; I only want some spare change.

No matter what you do, it takes time to build a blog. Nothing happens overnight, and you can become frustrated if you expect a huge amount of visitors in a short period of time.

I use Blogger for my blog. Why? It's free, and it serves my purpose. There are other free blog hosts. You just need to look around, but be aware you won't have full control of your blog unless you host it yourself. That's an entirely different endeavor, requiring paying for bandwidth, more than just a basic understanding of the internet, and an understanding you are the gatekeeper to your blog. While mine has very good protection from malicious hackers, a web site requires the best anti-virus software, and a better understanding of what's required to secure your website.

I'm no expert, so take what I've written with a grain of salt. Blogging is a great thing to me, since I don't depend on it for anything but a location to write what's on my mind. I like that part, and if that's you goal, I think you'll like it too.

Being A Writer

You can find many sites on the interwiz telling you how to get published, or offering writing techniques, or explaining the best way to find an agent, but you won't find a site that tells you most of it's horse shit.

If you write something, and post it in your public blog, that's considered published by the business. Otherwise, it's usually poison to an editor, since they want first rights, which can be explained as the first location something was published. I'm sure you could cross your fingers, and possibly get away with saying your writings were never published before, but if you're caught, you probably won't like the final outcome.

There are many things associated with being published, such as self-publishing, but that can be daunting, since you don't have people in the business promoting your work. I can't blame them. They're in it for the money, and they don't make any if they're not in control of the publishing.

Another thing: an unfinished novel won't get you very far. Known authors might get an advance, but you won't. You don't have a track record; and those in the business aren't going to take a chance on someone they don't know.

You can pursue an agent. They might like what you write, and work to find a publisher, but it's not something that happens overnight. Long periods of time can pass, and there still isn't any guarantee you'll be published.

So, what am I trying to relate to anyone interested? Do some research. Understand that submitting anything will lead to rejections. That's part of the process. Read anything you can find from authors, such as William Shunn's site, which has a link to manuscript formatting; that's valuable information if you want to submit your writing. Learning from the experiences of others and delving into the business is where you should start.

I enjoy writing, and don't care if I never make a penny from writing. If it happens, that's good. I won't stop writing because I can't get published. I think that's the right attitude; and I have the feeling successful writers probably developed the same attitude before they were ever published.

The Sparrow

Staring silently, the woman wondered about the small visitor that huddled on the small brick ledge outside her kitchen window. It appeared two days ago; a small brown bird that she only knew as a sparrow. Although she didn’t realize it, she had grown fond of the small bird that braved the elements outside her oasis of warmth. Concerned, and compassionate, she had placed a crumbled bread crust on the ledge. Although it scared the small tenant away, it soon returned to feast on what she normally threw in her garbage.

As she stared, she thought of her friend Beverly. She wouldn’t find anything strange about her behavior.  If fact, she’d applaud the effort. Although they were the same age, Beverly seemed to relish life with a vigor that was only a memory. Much had changed in the last ten years and the changes weighed heavily on the elderly woman that was feeling trapped in her home.

She despised the winter. The freezing winds, ice and snow wrapped her life in a depressing gray. The garden she loved was dead and covered with the remnants of the last snow. Heavy clouds forecast more of the same and the thought only deepened her gloom.  The short warming was over and tonight would bring heavy snow.

She thought of her children. Paul, after years of working, finally became a partner in a law firm in Miami. Rhonda was in Houston. Teaching at the university level was always her dream and now a reality. Both were successful and both mentioned her moving to be close. She always declined the invitation.  She loved her small home and few friends that remained.  She was determined to spend the rest of her life near her memories and be buried next to the husband she lost.

A strong gust of wind interrupted her thoughts. The whistle in the eaves brought her attention back to the small bird in the window. She watched for a few minutes and realized it wasn’t moving. Standing, which usually caused the bird to fly away, didn’t change the posture of the tiny tenant.  Slowly opening the window, caused a small movement, but the bird didn’t attempt to flee. Without hesitation, she reached, grasped the small bundle of feather and placed it on the counter.  She realized the tiny bird was alive but very weak. Going to her closet, she soon returned with a shoe box and some newspaper. She placed the bird on the newspaper, found some bread to crumble and filled a jar lid with water.

Over the evening, she constantly checked on the bird. She would see some signs of movement, but noted the bread and water remained untouched. Finally, it was time for bed. She thought of covering the shoe box but decided it would only frighten the bird.  She went to bed with the hope the bird was only stressed and would be better in the morning.

When she awoke the next morning, she realized the muffled wind was due to the heavy snow that fell outside. Feeling morose, she slowly got out of bed and looked through the edge of the curtains to see the snow was already heavily drifted against the houses in the neighborhood. The remains of her garden were completely covered.  Her spirits sank as she realized it would be another day of wondering if spring would ever arrive. Suddenly remembering the bird, she hurried to the kitchen to check on her patient.

Silently, she approached the counter. She didn’t want to surprise the sparrow; only to have it fluttering in panic around her kitchen. She had no idea what she would do if that happened. Maybe, if it did, she could just feed it until spring. Then, she could open the door and allow it to leave.

Quietly peering over the edge, she was immediately saddened.  The tiny bird was lying on its side.  She knew that all her efforts were futile and the bird had died during the night. She felt defeated and wondered why she had waited so long to check on the bird.

As she observed the tiny puddle of brown feathers, she remembered her husband.  He was a strong and determined man. A cabinet maker by trade, but his work was described, by more than one, as art. Always in demand, he wouldn’t bow to the schedules of architects and home builders. Only when he was satisfied with his work would the cabinets reach the customer.  Nobody ever complained, or regretted the wait. His efforts were beyond exceptional and the demand permitted him to work to the end.

She remembered the last set of cabinets. He’d seemed more preoccupied than usual, but she decided it had to do with his age. He had avoided lunch, which concerned her, since his appetite had fallen off during the last few weeks.  “I only have a few more hours and I’m finished” was his reply when she stuck her head in his shop at noon. When it became late, and she realized he hadn’t been in for hours, she went to his shop; only to find him doubled up in pain on the floor.  

The doctors were more than kind, but their diagnosis was unpleasant to report. Pancreatic cancer, which she now knew was incurable, had been ignored for much too long.  They assured her he wouldn’t suffer. Her questions of treatment were answered with warnings of suffering without any success. In a short month, her husband had faded away. He took his last breath while staring into her eyes. For a moment, she saw the old glimmer and smile, which faded as she watched.  Her son and daughter made it to the funeral, but she’d been alone at his last moments.

Years of grief suddenly overwhelmed. Staring at the small bird released a flood of sadness she denied for too long. Sobbing, she rocked in the chair and allowed the grief to finally come.  She, again, wondered why he never said anything about feeling sick. She, also, thought of the guilt she felt when she realized his quick passing was a blessing. Watching him suffer was devastating to her soul. If he had lingered, she didn’t think she would have survived; she knew it would have ruined her financially.  These thoughts filled her with more sadness and prolonged her tears.

After awhile, she stopped, wiped her tears and thought about the last few days. What little joy she could find had now ended and she wondered how something that seemed so insignificant could affect in her so profoundly. She thought of how she had slowly allowed the despair of age to wrap her in a suffocating blanket. She had given up and was waiting for death. For a second she was infuriated. How could she not notice how pathetic she had become?

Inspired, she thought: “I need a bird feeder”. In wonder of her thoughts, she said to herself: “I’ll call Beverly. She’s always telling me I need to get out more. She’ll know where to buy a bird feeder.”

Standing, she said the small bird. “Well, you deserve a proper burial, but it will have to wait until spring.”  Finding a small freezer bag, she wrapped the sparrow in a napkin and placed it in the freezer. “I’ll bury you in the lily bed.”

Determined, she started making plans. She had things to do and people to call. “I’ll call Paul and Rhonda. That will get their attention. They’re probably dreading a call.” Laughing at her treachery, she suddenly felt younger than she felt in years. Looking out the window, she noticed the snow had stopped and the sky was brightening. Thinking of the sparrow, she suddenly felt guilty. She carefully cut up half a loaf of bread and threw it out the kitchen window.  Feeling satisfied, she sat and looked in her book for phone numbers. She realized she’d forgotten them all. “Never again.” She whispered and smiled at the thought.

Building a Blog

It's taken years to build my other blog. While I'm tickled of what I consider its success, I'd forgotten how many times I posted something, and it languished unread, and maybe never seen.

So, for those that have never been here, I'm hoping the stories give you a few minutes of enjoyment. For those that have read the stories I've posted on the other blog, I'll have inspiration, write something new, and I hope you like what you read.

Bloodline

Steve stepped from his porch, surveyed the day and decided today was a good morning to explore. He was now completely moved in and ready to spend some time examining the land he purchased.

Steve was once a very successful owner of a small construction company. Years of hard work, some good contracts and a natural inclination for selling led him to the opportunity of selling his company at the young age of fifty two.  The deal was lucrative, which left him with a fortune and the ability to do whatever he wanted.  After years of working every waking hour, his immediate want was to spend some time relaxing and enjoying the freedom of what others might describe as retirement.

Steve’s land was almost ten thousand acres in the deep woods of East Texas. The land, never acquired by the lumber industry, was a rarity in such a large quantity. The original family harvested some of the timber years ago, but the rest was still unmolested by mankind.

Steve met the last surviving heir to the land before the start of negotiations for his company. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, whom he guessed was in her late sixties. Not the least bit reserved, her questions were direct and to the point.

They met while attending a construction conference. He was having breakfast, when she stopped and asked if she could sit at his table. Her explanation was she didn’t like eating alone and he had an honest face. Not really knowing what to say, he told her he’d be honored.

Over the next hour, they spoke of business, the construction market and the current economy. He found they had similar opinions and strategies on taking full advantage of what was offered. It was a pleasant surprise to Steve. His original impression was that he would not enjoy his breakfast. Instead, he was a little disappointed when she politely excused herself and left for a meeting.

As the conference progressed, Steve realized the woman was far from a small business owner. She was a major stockholder and on the board of one of the largest construction companies in the world. Later, he would find out more and realize she was far from a trust fund baby, even if she had inherited much of what she used to increase her fortune.

When the large company offered to buy Steve’s company, he was surprised and felt a little uneasy. He wasn’t on the market, but knew it wasn’t uncommon for such offers to be made. Before he responded, he sat down with his accountant and attorney. His instructions were to assess the complete worth and research the legalities of the transaction.

Steve stated his price and waited. Over months he received no information except for a letter stating the offer was received, even though it was sent by certified mail. He was impressed. It was a small unexpected courtesy.

While on a project site, Steve received an unexpected call from the woman he met at the conference. She asked if he could meet with her and discuss his price. He agreed and they set the meeting date one week from that day.

Arriving at the corporate headquarters, Steve was escorted to the woman’s office. She rose, shook his hand and asked him to sit. After a few pleasantries, she handed him a small stack of papers and asked him to review the information before he responded. 

“This might take some time.”

“I’ll have my assistant bring us some coffee.”

It took almost an hour for Steve to complete his examination of the papers.  The well prepared information was almost identical to the report from his accountant, which he used for basing his price. An expert at negotiations, he added twenty five percent to the actual worth for his asking price. Obviously, either his accountant had provided the information to his buyer, or they were well prepared for assessing a company. Either way, it was time to get down to business, so he set the papers on her desk and waited.

“As you can see, we have a pretty good idea what your company is worth. If your accountant is worth his beans, the figures we’ve provided you are close to what they provided. So, that’s why I’m going to offer you fifteen percent over that figure as my final offer.”

Steve just sat over the next few moments and sipped the last of his coffee. Before he could speak, she had one more thing to add:

“There are two more things I’ll add before you make your final decision: You must agree to not compete for ten years and you must purchase some land I own with stipulations attached.”

Steve looked into her dark brown eyes and tried to read what was on her mind. The effort was fruitless, so he asked:

“How much land and how much is it per acre?”

“Ten thousand acres, with a comfortable home and the price is one dollar per acre.”

The price was astoundingly low. Unless it was a chemical waste dump, even just doubling the price for resale would be well worth the paperwork.

“What are the stipulations?”

“You cannot sell the land to anyone. You will have enough money to guarantee the preservation of the land from developers or business.”

Steve had to know, so he asked: “Why so cheap and what’s so special about this land?”

She responded:” I’m hungry. Why don’t we discuss this over lunch?”

Steve agreed and spent the next two hours learning the history of what would soon be his.

She was the descendent of original settlers to the land. English by heritage, they carved a life out of around eighty of the acres. From this land, they survived, but one of the sons had a particular skill that led to the family fortune. In the present, he would be an engineer. In his day, his ability to move large amounts of timber down the Sabine River forged an enterprise that grew over time. As the family fortune grew, the ability to keep the land from harvesting became a family tradition. While others harvested the timber, they refused to change what they learned to love and protected the land fiercely.

“I’m the last descendent with any interest in our heritage. I have a daughter, who I love dearly, but she’s as wise as a box of rocks and horribly self-indulgent. She has no interest in the land and I can never trust her decisions on the land would be best. That’s why I’ve made you the offer. You’ve proven your honor by your actions and from our conversation at the conference, I can see you have a deep respect and love for the land. We may be some of the greatest manipulators of our environment, but we can never reproduce old growth trees or accelerate what takes centuries to change.  I’m not so foolish to believe the entire world needs to be treated as such, but I am wise enough to know some things within our grasp are treasures to cherish.”

Steve sat and pondered on the offer. Amazed at how wonderful it was, he was hesitant to agree. Could there be some other stipulation? What was he missing?

“You’ve put a lot of trust in someone you barely know.”

“I know, but I’ve found my opinions on people are true over time. I don’t think I’m making a mistake.”

“I think we need to shake on our agreement.”

Steve rose, reached for her hand and said: “I have one stipulation before we close this deal.”

Surprised, she asked: “And, what is that stipulation?”

“You must personally give me a tour of the land. I would trust nobody else.”

She smiled; they shook hands and started discussing the process of finalizing the deal. Before the day was over, they agreed on when the tour would happen.

The tour was on a brilliant early spring day. The dry, cool air of a late cold front had provided a perfect day for their task. A few red buds were blooming, but the heavy growth was still mostly brown from the winter.

Steve immediately liked the house. Modest in size, it had a covered porch that ran completely around the perimeter. The single story building sat on brick piers, which were enclosed by a skirting. The windows and doors were modern, but the he could tell the original structure was old. Time, and effort, had preserved the old building, which now had modern appliances.

Behind the house was a large combination work shop and caretaker quarters. It too was old, but had been modernized. The quarters were comfortable and the shop was well equipped with just about anything a craftsman would need.  At one end was a small stable stoutly built and well drained. Adjacent to the stable was two acre pen enclosed by a wood fence.

“Does someone live in these quarters?”

“Mr. B lived there up to six months ago. His age, and health, finally prevented him from doing what he loved.”

“It sounds like you really like him.”

“He’s like an uncle. He loves this as much as I do, but he knows it’s time to turn it over to someone else. He’s very glad you agreed to purchase the land.”

“You can tell him I’ve decided to move here.”

“That’s rather sudden. What brought that on?”

“The last hour; if I wanted to, I don’t think I could build something that fits me this well.”

They spent the remainder of the day sitting on the porch in idle conversation. By the time to leave, both were much more comfortable with what they set in motion. When they left, she was leaving forever, except as visitor. He was leaving only long enough to make final deals and prepare for moving. Her sadness was obvious, but she found she admired his exuberance and was content with her decisions.

                                                                     ***

Steve walked to the stable and opened the door. Bill, his gelding, snorted as he entered and pawed at the ground for a few seconds.

As Steve opened the stall, he spoke to Bill: “I know. I’m ready too.”

He let the horse loose into the pen adjacent to the stable. Bill pranced as he went into the pen and immediately rolled in the sun warmed grass. Steve ignored the horse as he gathered his saddle and tack. He’d let Bill spend some time being a horse until he saddled him for the ride.

As he worked, Steve thought of his new life. He’d never ridden in his life, much less owned a horse, but it was part of the deal he made. Since motorized vehicles were to remain off the land, he needed some method to move about the land other than by walking. Bill was his all-purpose vehicle. A stout quarter horse, he was trained to do just about anything Steve needed. The trainer had taken extra time to insure Bill was totally prepared and choose him from stock that was known as smart and gentle. Bill cost Steve much more than many would pay for a horse, but for those that knew such things, he was well worth the money.

“Are you ready?”

The horse snickered and walked to Steve. Within minutes, he was saddled, wearing a halter and obviously energized. He’d be a little frisky for awhile, but Steve knew he would soon fall into his steady walk, which he could accomplish all day, if needed.

Steve headed toward the creek that ran through the property. At the widest places, it was only around 30 feet wide. Artesian fed, and shallow, it supplied a constant supply of water, which was necessary to the original settlers.

As they travelled, Steve’s mind wandered. Without the constant pressure of running a company, he was still amazed at how little leisure time he had in the past. He never noticed, but it was now apparent. He had a better understanding of why his short marriage never worked and why he was almost alienated from his son. They had completely different outlooks on life and his musician son seemed to avoid anything that resembled his father.

Steve decided to parallel the creek and travel to the north, which was upstream. He’d cross if necessary, but planned on staying on the west bank. He had plenty of other days for the other side. Today, he would concentrate on only one.

After an hour, they reached a low bluff, with few trees. Deadfall was apparent, and the groundcover was thick. Blackberry vines created a thicket, which was impenetrable by the horse and rider. Deciding to cross, Steve nudged Bob toward the bank. Hesitant, the gelding slowed and became nervous. Knowing enough about horses, Steve gently spoke to the gelding and rubbed his neck. Eventually, after one step into the water, the horse almost lunged into the water to avoid tripping. When the shallow water cooled the horse’s legs, he snorted in contentment and continued. Steve stopped him in the middle. The bottom was sand and hard packed iron ore, so there wasn’t any threat of sinking. He gave the horse rein and allowed him to drink for a few moments.

Looking upstream at the semi-straight channel, he decided to proceed upstream in the creek. It was shallow and he knew the only deep spots would be on the outside of curves. They should be fine and he’d turn around if he didn’t like the passage.

Bob seemed to enjoy the extra work of waking the shallow water and seemed as curious as Steve.  He scanned the banks and his ears would turn forward at the sound of a frog or movement on the band. Birds flew between the branches of the trees and squirrels fussed at the strangers in their territory.

They were about one quarter mile upstream when they found the creek blocked by a deadfall tree. Thinking of turning around, Steve changed his mind when he noticed the bank gradually sloped up to what appeared as a small clearing. They left the creek, climbed the slope and found a small meadow, only a few hundred square feet in size.  Steve dismounted, let the reins fall and decided to explore a little further on foot. Tying Bob to a small tree, he eased on through the thin brush at the north end of the meadow. He wouldn’t go far; he only wanted to see if he needed to prepare for extended time hiking in the future.

He wasn’t far when he found the tree, or what was left of it. Lying on the side, it was at least six feet in diameter and covered with moss. What had caused the magnificent tree to fall wasn’t important, but the fact it still remained after what must have been decades –or longer – was what stirred Steve’s thoughts.

From the side, Steve estimated the huge remaining section of trunk was thirty feet in length. Close examination revealed what appeared as char on the outside. Steve was wondering if Lightning killed the tree as he worked his way to the end. When he reached the end, he peered into the large hollow section. The other end was covered with dirt, so it took a few moments for Steve’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. As they did, he realized the trunk had been occupied at one time.

Crude furniture occupied several sections of the hollow trunk. They appeared to be old rotten crates with crude timber boards on top. Time had deteriorated the furniture to the point it was hard to discern the original intent, but the crude comforts of home soon became apparent.

On one wall was a crude bed, with a shelf at the far end. Across from the bed was a table with a badly tarnished fork and spoon laid correctly as though they were part of a dinner setting. A large porcelain saucer sat in the middle. The remains of countless candles lay in a puddle on the bottom and the stub of the last candle stood only a few inches above the puddle. It was gnawed at top; probably by a hungry squirrel. Carefully stepping into the primitive abode, Steve examined the walls and floor for snakes. Finding none, he stepped further in towards the small shelf at the end of the bed. The metal box on top was the focus of his attention.

Before reaching for the box, Steve carefully examined the outside. He knew the shape, and the remaining writing indicated it was a surplus ammunition box. Badly rusted, he didn’t want to move it if it would fall apart. Satisfied it would survive being moved, Steve carefully picked up the box, made one last survey of the hollow tree and made a mental note to return in the near future. He had gauged his time and knew it was time to start the trip back to the house. Any unforeseen events could lead to being out without the proper equipment after dark. He knew better, so his curiosity would have to wait.

Returning to Bob, he tied the box to the back of the saddle, quickly mounted and they were off. The next few hours were spent with Bob’s mind in motion. Who was the inhabitant? Was it a former family member’s camp? Was it a stranger? Where did they go?

After reaching the stall, Steve removed the riding gear, gave Bob a quick brushing, placed a little feed in his bowl and left the door open so he could graze in the pasture. Steve would return before dark to close him in the stable.

Stepping into the workshop, Steve found a can of penetrating oil, sprayed the hinges and placed some more on the latch. He’d let the oil work while he prepared his supper. Returning to the house, he cooked and would occasionally look toward the workshop. His mind was on what was inside. He could feel it had something in it. What this something was now completely occupied his thoughts.

After finishing his evening tasks, Steve returned to place Bob in his stall and to open the box. Carefully, he pried on the latch until he had some movement. Working the latch a little more each time eventually allowed the latch to be released. A few minutes more and the latch came completely loose and allowed him to start on the hinges. Using a screwdriver, he pried a little on the lid, which allowed a tiny amount of movement. More penetrating oil, a little more force and Steve continued with successfully opening the box. Within a half hour of tedious work, he had enough clearance to peer into the box. Whatever was in there was wrapped in some type of plain oilcloth. He’d have to completely open the box before he could remove the contents.

As he continued to work on the latch, he wondered why he didn’t just use a power tool to remove the lid. It didn’t take him long to remember he had all the time he needed and to destroy something as rare as his find seemed unconscionable.  He needed to be patient. Within an hour, the hinges finally were free and he could open and close the box without the grinding restriction of the rust. It was time to examine the contents.

The oilcloth was almost brittle, but still in fairly good shape. Reaching into the box, he grasped the wrapped object and set it on the work table. Peering into the bottom of the box revealed a handful of tarnished silver quarters, some buttons and a badly deteriorated sewing kit. Turning to the bundle, he carefully removed the oilcloth and found a small leather binder. Opening the binder revealed a few pencils and what would soon occupy the majority of his night.

Steve cleaned up his work area and placed the box on a shelf. Grabbing his new found treasures, he returned to the house and placed it on the kitchen table. He decided the occasion called for fresh coffee, so he started a pot before he set down to his task. Within minutes, with a fresh cup, he opened the binder and started on the first page of writing:

If you’re reading this, either the good Lord has taken me, or I’ve been found once again. Either way, this journal is far from a culmination of my life, but there’s enough to where I feel what I consider important will not be lost forever by the passage of time.

I was born in 1931 in Illinois. I was raised on a farm, but the farm was not my goal, or my parents. They wanted me to obtain a degree from a university and have life with more opportunities. Through frugal living, and hard work, they saved enough and I studied enough to be accepted for higher education. My goal was to be an attorney, but the tragedy of a tornado took my parents during my last year of college. Without the resources, or the heart to continue, I struggled through and finally ended up with a degree in business. It was enough to start my life and allow me to forever be free of Illinois.

I landed a job with a medical supply company. At that time, a tremendous amount of money was to be made in Occupied Japan, so I was sent to work in the branch office in Tokyo. It was a learning experience and changed my view of the Japanese people. Where I hated them during the war, I found them to be far from the hideous monsters as portrayed in the war films and by reports. They were mostly the victims of the unbridled power of a cruel government. Their only fault was to blindly follow their leaders and they suffered tremendously from this error.

The big change in my life came after a tragedy at a local house of ill repute. A young sailor, inebriated on Sake, turned over a lantern, lit the entire facility on fire and managed to not only receive severe burns, but suffer a horrible cut to his leg. This is where I became involved.

The burns were in need of immediate treatment, but the cut had caused severe blood loss. I was at the hospital at the time, had the right blood type, so I volunteered a pint even though my work mates felt it was foolish. They cautioned the sailor would die eventually from the burns, so why waste a pint of good blood? I wasn’t raised that way, so the blood was given.

I didn’t think much of it and the matter eased from my thoughts over the next week. The young doctor that treated the sailor cornered me in the hall of the hospital and asked me to follow him to the room of the sailor.

When we arrived, I was surprised to find the sailor in good spirits, healing as though he’d spent months in the hospital and unbelievably strong for someone that had suffered such severe burns. Instead of hovering near death from dehydration and infection, he was talking of how soon he would be able to leave.

Within a week, the sailor took a turn that was even better. His skin was healing without severe scarring. This is when the doctor asked me to run a few tests, which I agreed to perform. That was my mistake. I should have denied the tests and run like my life depended on it.

Over the next few weeks, a multitude of tests were performed. Besides the tests, it seemed as though they drained at least half my blood, although I didn’t seem to suffer any problems from the loss. I felt like a human pin cushion and trapped by my surroundings. The doctors offered platitudes and encouragement, but as time went on, I felt like a laboratory animal and they seemed like they only cared for results.

I told the young doctor I’d had enough and wanted to leave. This was my second mistake. I should have just slipped away into the night and disappeared. Within a day, I was escorted to a transport and flown to the mainland. I ended up at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. There, I was kept under guard, while they continued with the tests.

Over time, I realized my blood was being harvested. For what I have no idea, but from the constant visitations of high ranking officials, I assume it was for personal friends or family members. My personal life was gone and I only had a few workers at the hospital I could call friends. This is what led to my escape.

One Christmas Eve, while most of the staff was gone, or drinking, I realized my guard was suffering from a bad meal. He constantly left for a few minutes to relieve the symptoms. That’s when I made my move. Through constant watching, I knew the mail truck would leave at 11:00 pm, the guards never checked the outgoing truck and my only opportunity might have just been presented. I escaped without a hitch, but I knew I only had a few hours to disappear.

I managed to leave the truck at the San Antonio post office, which started my life on the run. At first, getting by was tough, especially with the constant efforts to find me again. There was no massive manhunt, since they didn’t want to reveal the purpose. Eventually, I blended in, found a way out and made my way to Houston, Texas.

I worked on the docks for awhile, but soon realized it was too confining and would allow me to be found. I went from there to the oil fields, which were filled with people that had pasts that they hoped would disappear forever. Few questions were asked and nobody really cared.

One evening, while I was hitchhiking to a prospective job on a rig in East Texas, I found myself on the open road with a tremendous storm approaching. I hid under a bridge to wait the storm out and fell asleep. That was a mistake. The rain swelled creek caught me in the middle of the night and swept me downstream. I ended up caught in some trees, in complete darkness and without any hope of help. Morning brought a better perspective and I found a huge deadfall tree for shelter from the continuing rain. That’s where I made the decision to go “native” and live off the land.

It took some time to acquire the things I needed to survive. I had to find the nearest town and do my business without anyone noticing the stranger. I eventually accomplished this task and returned to my new home.

Now, I will journal my life; hopefully without notice and maybe be free from the constant worry of being found once again.

I would give my name, but it might only cause you to acquire problems you never would wish on anyone. If you must place a name to this journal, call me John Brown. It’s a name as good as any, without the stigma my actual name carries.

Steve continued to read the journal. From that point on, it was the daily reflections of the writer. Some entries were detailed, but most were only short descriptions of the weather and if the writer was successful in finding food.

Steve finally reached the end, which was dated July 16, 1961. It only had a few lines describing the heavy logging noises to the north and the need to run the limb lines in the creek. Closing the journal, he sat and sipped the last of the pot of coffee.

Steve’s mind churned with thoughts about the writer. Where did he go? Did he die? Was he captured? During his musings, the old caretaker’s name came to his thoughts: “Mr. B” He realized he never asked his full name or for any details. Could he be John Brown?

Steve realized he would need to turn over some rocks to find the answers. He, also, knew turning over those rocks could reveal things about powerful people that wouldn’t appreciate his efforts. He decided to take the journal, replace it in the box and return it to the tree. He’d make sure it couldn’t be destroyed by nature and leave it for some future explorer to find.  It was too soon to unravel this mystery. Only time would reveal the secrets, or not.  

Steve placed his coffee cup in the sink. He would read the journal one more time in bed. Tomorrow, he would return it to hiding. After that, he would only have memories for recollection. They would have to do.