Three Chapters

Chapter 1: Introducing the Fallen


"Amelia Sheppard, it's only second period. Not even fourteen yet and already well on the path to being a real troublemaker. Are you trying to break a record for the most visits to the principal's office?" Mr. Gerritt's secretary inquired.
"Just send her in please, Ms. Markwell," Mr. Gerritt called from his office.
Amelia entered the principal's office as she did at least once a week for the past three years, since her father had left.She shut the door behind her and sat in her usual seat across from Mr. Gerritt.
"What brings you to my office today, Ms. Sheppard?" Mr. Gerritt had already spoken with most of Amelia's teachers, he had asked about her behavior and attitude. All of her teachers had concerns, but Ms. Fererra was the only one that hadn't sent Amelia to the principal's office. In fact, Ms. Fererra hadn't sent any students to the principal's office in nearly a decade. For Amelia to be sent to the principal's office, something major must have happened.
"Nothing! I'm innocent! I was in my seat, sleeping peacefully, when Kayla Locke started poking me. So I turned around in my seat and poked her back. Then Ms. Fererra said I was causing a disturbance and needed to come here, even though Kayla poked me first. She's the one who should be in here, not me!"
"You know Ms. Fererra hates students sleeping in her class, Amelia. Just because she hasn't sent you here before doesn't mean you can use her class for nap-time,"
"Did I say sleeping? I meant sitting. Yep, I was just sitting and she poked me."
"Mhmm. And after she poked you, your reaction was...?"
"Like I said, I poked her back. That's all!"
"Okay, Amelia. And if I ask Kayla and Ms. Fererra, they would say the same?"
"Of course not! They'd probably say I punched her, just to get me in trouble."
"Amelia, if you kept your hands to yourself I'm sure we could avoid these misunderstandings. For now, wait with Ms. Markwell. I'll need to speak with Ms. Fererra and Ms. Locke, then we will see what disciplinary action is needed."
"Fine. Whatever. It's not like I'm ever going to need to know about buoyancy, anyway," Amelia said as she sauntered over to a seat in the secretary's office.
Amelia sat in the secretary's office, thinking about why she was really in trouble. She had been sitting near the back of the class, paying attention to the lesson on buoyancy. Ms. Fererra said they'd even have a project to see what made things float. Amy always loved projects, it was great to be able to work directly with what you were learning, instead of just hearing about it.
But Ms. Fererra had a very strict rule. Under no circumstance was sleeping allowed in her class. Projects were cancelled, discussions became lectures, and everyone had a dreary time if Ms. Fererra even saw a student with their head down. Everyone said that Ms. Fererra should have been a Catholic schoolteacher, complete with the ruler ready to rapp the students on the knuckles.
So when Amy saw Kayla sleeping, she had poked her to wake her up. It was never that simple, though.
"Keep your hands off me, airhead. I don't want to catch any of your ugly-germs."
Amy tried to swallow her pride and just ignore the insult. She was normally called worse, anyway. But Kayla's head was returning to her desk, and that would mean no project. Amy lost control of her temper, and Kayla would probably have a black eye to show for it.
So Amy sat in the secretary's office, twiddling her thumbs and letting her mind wander. It was a slow day in Ms. Markwell's office, barely any phone calls or students. A few parents were calling in late regarding their children not coming in to school, the normal everyday boring blah, blah, blah.
Yet when a call got Ms. Markwell's face to go pale as she ran into Mr. Gerritt's office, Amy took notice. And when Mr. Gerritt raced out of his office yelling for her to go directly to the gym, "no ifs, ands, or buts," Amy showed a willingness to follow the instruction with a blur of motion that was no longer hindered by the school rule of "no running."
"Everyone please report to the first floor gymnasium for a special school spirit meeting," boomed Ms. Markwell over the P.A. system.
Amy burst through the doors, trying to catch her breath. The other students already in the gym looked at Airhead Amy with their usual demeanor of disgust. Amy's eyes sank to the floor, and she made her way to the bleachers. First row, right along the edge. That way she wouldn't make too many people have to sit next to her.
The vice principal came in, and started speaking. More students filtered in while he spoke. Soon the bleachers were full, too soon, because they weren't intended to hold the full student body. Normally the faculty set up chairs for these sort of events, but no chairs were ready. Teachers were near all the doors, counting off the students, making sure none were missing. It was the little details that made it clear to Amy that this wasn't planned, and it was an emergency.
Then, when the flow of students seemed to be ending, yet before they had found seats, the room imploded. The roof came down, the walls buckled, then the bleachers collapsed and finally sank.
Until that moment, Amy hadn't even suspected that the school had a basement. Now she and four other students were stuck in it.
One light was still flickering in the underground room, the rest were probably broken. Amy looked up, but the rubble and broken bleachers blocked the way back.
Amy tried to stand, but she could only find support on one leg. She fell back onto the cold cement, gasping at the pain in her left leg. It felt broken, like when she let the dog out when she was in first grade. Her mom said she needed to be punished. And when the dog didn't come back, her mother's torment could only fall upon Amelia.
Amy looked for something to use as a brace, or at least as a crutch, but her eyes were drawn instead to the other students. Tabitha Almond, one of the girls all of the boys noticed, had her arms around her knees, her pink skirt even more immodest than it usually was. Tommy Tumbletub, the class clown, had the wind knocked out of him, but if Amy knew him half as well as she believed, he would still be thinking of a joke about the situation. Greg Milton was hard to see in the dark because of his all-black clothes, a habit that earned him the nickname "Goth Greg." He was pretty mellow, he'd sit in the back of the class and never raise his hand, but he wasn't really goth. Even now, in the school basement, it looked like he didn't notice, like he had checked out of his body, or was just relaxing and watching some boring tv. The last of the students that Amy noticed was the other Greg, but it was clear that he hadn't made it through the catastophe. It wasn't a student, it was a corpse, crushed by rubble, construction bars sticking out of places that they had no business being in. Now that Greg Morton wasn't around, Amy wondered if Goth Greg would just start being called "Greg."
Amy had to look away from the carcass of the late Greg Morton, it was simply too grisly to endure.
"Well. This day is a real downer," Tommy said, now that he'd regained his composure. Tabitha started crying, and Greg Milton scowled.
"Greg's dead and you're making jokes? Just how insensitive can you be?" Goth Greg asked.
"Greg's... dead??" Tabitha's entire world that seemed to be spinning out of control, so much so that she couldn't even control her tears.
"We fell into the basement. I called it a downer. Because we fell down. Get it? It's funny, don't take it so personally," Tommy retorted.
"Shut your face, Tommy," Goth Greg said.
Tommy opened his mouth to respond again, and probably make the situation worse, but Amelia interrupted.
"Both of you shut your pie holes! I doubt any of us want to be down here longer than we have to, but my leg is broken. So you two can either man up and help me, or get me a crutch so I can at least get away from all of your petty bickering." The rage in Amelia's voice silenced everyone, including Tabitha's cries.
"Wow. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed," chimed in Tommy. It only fueled Amelia's anger further. She began to make a fist, but before she threw the punch, noise could be heard from the gym above them.
Only pure and true terror could cause such awful screams to pass the lips of so many.
"Anybody else thinking maybe we're safer down here?" Tabitha mumbled.
"But safer for how long?" Goth Greg stated.


Chapter 2: Split Decisions


Goth Greg had used his overshirt and some pvc pipe he found to make a splint for Amy's leg. It was a bit mismatched and uncomfortable, but it was supportive enough that she could hobble away from the recently deceased classmate and begin exploring the basement for a way out, along with the others.
They had originally fallen into a room roughly the size of an average bedroom, it wasn't very spacious, but it would normally be comfortable for their very small group. With the rubble and glowing pale-blue rocks, though, it seemed too tight a fit, and the students were glad to find more space in the adjacent hallway. It was dimly lit, and went in two directions, right or left.
"Which way should we go?" Tabitha asked.
"Yeah, because I spend all my study halls down here, so I know the path," responded Tommy.
"Look! There's a sign. We can follow that if we get some light," Amy said, as the hallway was too poorly lit to read the sign.
"I've got it," Tommy said as he flicked open a lighter.
"Seriously? Why do you have a lighter at all, especially in school. I'm pretty sure that isn't allowed," mused Tabitha.
"I like to plan for getting stuck in the basement after the school is bombarded by alien rocks, of course. I mean, doesn't everyone?" Tommy retorted, his sarcasm running rampant.
"Who cares why he has it? He does, we can read the sign, and it says the stairs are to the right. So let's go already!" Greg advised.
"Wait, guys," Tabitha called out. "What if that comes out at the gym? I don't want to find out why everyone was screaming, least of all by experience."
"We'll be quiet. And if it's too dangerous or whatever, we can turn around," Tommy suggested.
"Besides, this might be the only way up," said Greg.
"I'm gonna keep looking, anyway," Tabitha said.
"I'm not leaving anyone down here alone. I'll go with her," Amy said.
"Whatever. You coming with or staying stuck down here with the ladies, Greg?" Tommy asked.
"The sooner we're out, the better," said Greg said, starting down the hall to the right, right behind Tommy.
"Tommy," called out Tabitha.
"What? You changed your mind already?" goaded Tommy.
"No, I just. Can I borrow your lighter? Just in case. I mean, it is pretty dark," reasoned Tabitha.
Tommy came back and placed the lighter in Tabitha's palm, curling her fingers around it. "Just make sure to bring it back in one piece. I mean it."
With that, Tommy turned and followed Greg towards the stairs, while Tabitha helped Amy along with her broken leg, and went in search of another way out.


Chapter 3: More Than Rocks

"It feels like this basement is even bigger than the school!" Tabitha groaned.
"Maybe it is. Maybe it goes under the football field or something," Amy said.
"Whatever. Explain to me again why we're only turning left?"
"It might take longer to get to a way out, but we won't miss it this way. If there's another way out, we'll find it."
"So... if you're smart enough to think of that, why does everybody call you airhead?"
"Mostly because Kayla is just a jerk and never let me outgrow it. I mean, last year you were called 'Tumbling Tabi' until your cast came off, all because you fell down the stairs of the second floor gym. But then once your cast was off, everyone just stopped. And you're Tabitha again, no nickname calling you a klutz anymore."
"I think you're wrong. I don't think it's because of Kayla at all. I mean, we need air to breathe, to stay alive. So, an airhead is someone that can save you from disaster. I mean, you did get us organized enough to make it out of that room, even with your broken leg. I mean, you're practically a hero."
"I really wish I could look at it like that, Tabitha. I really do. But I can't. Anyway, here's another door to check," Amy said with resignation. She turned the handle to the fourth mysterious room and hoped it would be better than the three previous dead-end storage rooms they'd found already.
The door swung open and the lights were off, but Amy couldn't make out much past the door frame, but she could barely make out some humming sounds that seemed far away.
"Tabitha, help me find the lightswitch."
"No problem," Tabitha said. "Wanna know where I got this lighter?"
"Excuse me?" Amy mustered, too confused to think of a better response.
"My mom was laying on the hospital bed. The lung cancer was finally just too much for her body to take, even with all the medications and therapies she was doing. She gave me the lighter and said it was her good luck charm, it helped her quit smoking before I was even born."
"Tabitha, I watched Tommy give you that lighter not even an hour ago..."
"What are you talking about? I got this from my mom. I've kept it with me ever since," Tabitha said with just a hint of confusion. She looked around, as though she was lost, finally reaching to put the lighter in her jeans pocket, only to realize she was wearing a pink skirt. "What am I wearing?? Where's my jeans?"
"Jeans? You mean what Tommy was wearing? You're acting weird, Tabitha, but we should be out of here soon. Aha! I found the lightswitch."
The scream that echoed throughout the room was Amy's, as Tabitha was still trying to shake off her confusion. Amy's scream was for a very different reason than fashion choices, though. No, Amy's scream was because inside the room she saw what could only be assumed were aliens, one staring at her while hovering, and the other falling to the ground, with a spaceship crashed down behind them. The second creature hit the ground and laid still as if stunned.
In the moment of surprise, Amy looked up and saw the large hole in the ceiling where the ship must have crashed down. Amy wondered why the room had been so dark a moment ago, despite the sunlight that was pouring in from the hole above them. She decided the aliens were a higher priority, though, and that the darkness was a mystery that would have to be solved later.
The alien that was still flying turned away from the door and went into the spaceship, making a humming noise as it flew. "Do you come in peace?" Tabitha called out to it from the hallway.
"Tabitha, do you really expect them to speak English? Even on Earth that isn't the most common language," Amelia said, growing frustrated that Tabitha didn't seem as afraid as she was.
"Oh. Umm... habla espanol?" Tabitha tried.
"Are you kidding me?? They're from another planet, Tabitha. They -"
Amelia's rant was interrupted by a mechanical whine that quickly grew into a dull roar before regulating into low whistle. Then the machine came into view. The bee-like entity from before was back, but now was riding a contraption that looked a bit like an octopus pretending it was a spider. It had eight appendages around a central bubble, and the bee-thing was inside of it. Most of the arms looked like fairly normal hose, but a few had weird tips at the end of them, or held tools.
The octopodium had a lumbering walk, like it wasn't used to getting around that way. It stopped about thirty feet from the door to the hallway, which was about midway from the spaceship. One of the arms rose about three feet off of the ground and began reaching for Amy. It looked a bit like barbecue prongs to Amy, but it was more squarish, and the material was thicker.
"Amy, what's it going to do with that tuning fork?" Tabitha said while the appendage continued to inch forward.
"What makes you think it's a fork? For all we know that's a death ray, communicator, medkit, and toilet paper all-in-one. Your guess is as good as mine."
"Well, I'm pretty sure it's a tuning fork," Tabitha re-emphasized. The arm, tuning fork or otherwise, seemed to have come as far as it needed, and stopped just ten feet from the two students. It flicked the ground like a whip with the strange instrument once, then the arm zipped back to the octopodium.
The tuning fork continued to make noise, and the bee-creature looked through it at the two young girls, first Tabitha, then Amy. After it peered at Amy for just a moment, all eight of its arms moved in a blur, then the entity turned, climbed on top of the spaceship, then reached and pulled itself out of the basement.
Amy began walking towards the spaceship, but Tabitha ran to the fallen alien. She picked it up and cradled it in her arms as though it was a baby, her hands resting on its chin.
"Tabi! What are you doing? It's probably dangerous!"
"I'm checking it for a pulse, I think it's hurt."
"Tabitha, they could want to kill us. This could be the start of an invasion or something. I mean, seriously, you saw that eight-legged thing that was just here! That did not look like something you wear to meet with friendly neighbors. Or what if it's poisonous or something?"
"Oh! I found its pulse! Well, I mean, I think I did. It stutters a bit. It must have been hurt when it crash landed or something, it's bleeding!" Tabitha was shouting now, upset at the small creature's suffering, even if the cut was little. "We need to help it, Amy," Tabitha continued while trying to staunch the bleeding.
"We don't know anything about its anatomy or biology. We'd do more harm than good. And since you didn't get it the first time, I'll say it again. It might not be friendly. As in, it might want to kill us. Do you understand that, Tabitha?"
"What I understand is that you're too afraid of it to help. You'd rather let it die than even risk it, even if it is friendly. I can't. I can't have that on my conscience. I need to wash out its cut. So if you're not going to help, just sit down and stay out of my way."
Amy didn't feel at all like sitting, and she definitely didn't want to get out of Tabitha's way, but it felt as if someone else had control of her body. She didn't even feel the pain in her left leg as her knees bent and she plopped down on the ground while Tabitha barrelled straight into the ship. Amelia did not like that at all! She tried to calm herself down, thinking to herself, "It's just a weird fluke. Whatever. Go get Tabitha before she does something stupid." She tried to get up, but still couldn't move. Even her jaw felt like it was wired shut, so she couldn't call out for help.
That put Amelia into full temper tantrum. Normally she would be flailing, screaming, flailing, sobbing, wailing, and a lot more flailing (yes, Amelia's temper tantrums involved that much flailing). But there was no flailing, the sobs were muffled by her closed jaw, the only thing making it clear it wasn't just a statue were the tears rolling down her cheek and the rise and fall of her chest while she cried. She imagined herself as it should have been, punching the air and floor, rocking back and forth, and she felt the concrete below her lurch, causing her to roll.
When she hit the next slab and slid to a stop, Amelia winced at the pain and let loose a string of curses at the concrete that has just bucked her off. Her hands went to her mouth, still cursing as it was, unable to believe it was doing something it had done so many times before. And then her hands, oh her hands! Amy couldn't contain her glee at being able to control her body again. The lack of control was the single scariest thing she'd ever faced. Even worse than anything she'd been through at home, and that was saying something. Her victory dance, she thought to herself, was just to make sure everything was moving like it should. Amy looked at the crooked concrete from where she was. It wasn't damaged, per se, it just looked like one side had risen about a foot.
Amy looked back at the spaceship, not knowing what to expect inside, but knowing she couldn't abandon Tabitha.

Here we go, (unedited) NaNoWriMo

     "Amelia Sheppard, it's only second period, are you trying to set a new record for how quickly you can be sent to the principal's office?" Mr. Gerritt's secretary inquired.
     "Just send her in, please, Ms. Markwell'" Mr. Gerritt called from his office.
     Amelia entered the principal's office as she did at least once a week for the past three years. She shut the door behind her and sat in her usual seat across from Mr. Gerritt.
     "What brings you to my office today, Ms. Sheppard?" Mr. Gerritt had already spoken with most of Amelia's teachers about her behavior, but Ms. Ferrera hadn't sent a student to the principal's office in nearly a decade. He knew something major must have transpired.
     "Nothing! I'm innocent! I was in my seat, sleeping peacefully, when Zak Locke started poking me. So I turned around in my seat and poked him back. Then Ms. Ferrera said I needed to come here, even though Zak poked me first. He's the one who should be in here, not me!"
     "You know Ms. Ferrera hates students sleeping in her class, Amelia. Just because she hasn't sent you here before doesn't mean you can use her class for nap-time."
     "Did I say sleeping? I meant sitting. Yep, I was just sitting and he poked me."
     "Okay. And after he poked you?"
     "Like I said, I poked him back. That's all!"
     "Okay, Amelia. And if I ask Zak and Ms. Ferrera, they would say the same?"
     "Of course not! They'd probably say he didn't do anything and I punched him, just to get me in trouble."
     "Amelia, if you kept your hands to yourself, I'm sure we could avoid these misunderstandings. For now, wait with Ms. Markwell. I'll need to speak with Ms. Ferrera and Zak, then we will see what appropriate disciplinary action will be."
     "Fine. Whatever. It's not like I'm ever going to need to know about buoyancy, anyway," Amelia said as she found a seat in the secretary's office.
     And so Amelia sat, thinking about why she was really in trouble. She had been sitting near the back of the class, paying attention to the lesson on buoyancy. Ms. Ferrera said they'd even have a project to see what made things float. Amy always loved projects, it was great to be able to work directly with what you were learning, instead of just hearing about it.
     But Ms. Ferrera had a very strict rule. Under no circumstance was sleeping acceptable in her class. Projects were cancelled, discussions became lectures, and everyone had a bad time if she even saw a student with their head down.
     So when Amy saw Zak sleeping, she had poked him to wake him up. It was never that simple, though.
     "Keep your hands off me, Airhead Amy. I don't want to catch any of your ugliness germs."
     Amy tried to swallow her pride and just ignore the insult. She was normally called worse, anyway. But Zak's head was returning to his desk, and that would mean no project. Amelia lost control of her temper, and Zak would probably have a bruise on his chin to show for it.

     So Amy sat, twiddling her thumbs and letting her mind wander. It was a slow day in Ms. Markwell's office, barely any phone calls or students. A few parents called in regarding their children and absences, but most probably had before second period.
     So when a call got Ms. Markwell's face to go pale and then she ran into Mr. Gerritt's office, Amy took note. And when Mr. Gerritt raced out of his office yelling for Amy to go directly to the gym, "No ifs, ands, or buts," Amy showed a willingness to follow the instructions with a blur of motion no longer hindered by the school rule of "no running."
     "Everyone please report to the first floor gymnasium for a special school spirit meeting," boomed Ms. Markwell over the P.A. system.
     Amy burst through the doors, trying to catch her breath. The other students already in the gym looked at Airhead Amy with their usual demeanor of disgust.
     Amy's eyes sank to the floor, and she made her way to the bleachers. First row, right along the edge, so she wouldn't bother too many other people.
     The vice principal came in and started speaking. More students filtered in while he spoke. Soon the bleachers were full, they weren't intended for the entire student body. Normally the faculty set up chairs for these events, but there were no chairs. Despite how they wanted it to seem to keep the students calm, this wasn't planned. Teachers stood on the sides counting students, making sure nobody was missing.
     Then, when the flow of students seemed to be ending, yet before they had found seats on the floor, the room imploded. The roof came down, the walls buckled. Then the bleachers collapsed and sank.
     Until that moment, Amy hadn't even suspected that the school had a basement. Now she and four other students were stuck in it.
     One light was still flickering in the underground hallway, the rest were probably broken. Amy looked up, but the rubble and broken bleachers blocked the way back.
     Amy tried to stand, but she could only find support on one leg. She fell back onto the cold cement, gasping at the pain in her left leg. It felt broken, like when she was in first grade and got punished for letting the dog out. The dog ran away, so only Amelia was there for her mother to punish.
     She looked for something to use as a brace, or at least as a crutch, but her eyes were drawn to the other students, instead: Tabitha Almond, one of the girls all the boys noticed, had her arms around her knees, her pink skirt more immodest than usual.

13 over par, but still swinging

It's been about a month since I last wrote anything on this blog. In that time, I've gone over my stories a bit, thought of new ideas, reorganized some of my existing ideas, and written maybe 2 paragraphs. Though this is nowhere near the goals I have set for myself, I need to quit thinking of it as failure.

Recently I saw a comic strip where the character wakes up, checks the clock, and says "I'm late. Guess I'll try again tomorrow." Then promptly goes back to sleep. This is far too comparable to my own actions of late, and I must stop. It is better to write just a few words a day than give up completely on my hour of allotment. I will take a small notebook with me to more easily scribble and such. As my phone's battery has been dying too readily and that's where I do most of my writing, the notebook would been a more stable way to write, anyway.

The Lion's Pride -- (short story included)

I am so proud of so much of the writing that I have done and created. Despite this, my shyness still makes me very apprehensive about sharing any of it. Worse, there are occasions that I share my writing, and then people say they like it, but leave it at that. It gives an impression of disinterest and insincerity. When I read a book I like, I look for similar books, I look for other books from the author, I latch onto the idea, and I think about how things could have gone differently. When someone is able to read what I have written and not feel a desire to ask about more, or to talk about it, I feel that I have failed as a writer.
My intent, when I write, isn't simply to help someone pass time. My writing is not to be read with the same level of disinterest as the weather report. Opening people's minds to the beauty of the world around them is a lofty goal, but it starts by opening their eyes. It starts by showing people that there are other points of view, that there is beauty and mystery and romance where they don't see it already. When I read (especially what I've written), I get goosebumps, my heartbeat quickens, my mind races, and I keep turning the pages until they become blank. And even then, I write more because there is so much that can be written.

When people read my writing as words, rather than ideas, actions, adventures, memories, and heartfelt feelings, I have failed at my task. I have not enthralled the audience, and I have not given them a way to relate to the story. Any feedback from someone that sees my writing as just words becomes that much harder to take, because I don't know where I failed to connect them to the characters, and they have a hard time describing it as well.
Part of me wonders if they just skimmed, instead of reading. Even so, this rejection by way of uncaring-ness is something that I have trouble getting over. Perhaps I simply need to share more, and my litmus tests for the reception of my stories has just been too small-scale. Having only a handful of people read something is sure to go less than hopeful for at least one. Perhaps I need to broaden my audience. Perhaps, though I lack the confidence at this time, I can borrow it from the future.

As such, I am sharing a story today, in an effort to bring interested parties to the fore.
This is not the complete story, and I am still writing more in this story. It will likely be the beginning of the collaborative work I discussed in previous posts.  Thoughts are not only welcome, but encouraged. Please leave comments.

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# !!Story!! #
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The first beam of sunlight came into the room and awoke Paul from his slumber.  He checked beside himself on the bed, still not sure what was dream and what was reality. There she lay, her silky-smooth legs rubbing enticingly against each other, reminding Paul of her femininity. As the blanket fell from her, Olivia's ivory skin seemed nearly luminous in the moonlight. Not an inch of her was hidden to him. He reached out to her, feeling her warm skin despite the cool morning air.
She stirred a bit in her sleep from his touch, and he removed his hand. Her jet-black hair outlined her face, causing a smile to cross Paul's. He had no intention of waking her from a much-deserved rest. He rose from the bed slowly, so as not to wake his fair-skinned goddess.
He searched the floor of the room with the sunrise as his only light in the unfamiliar territory. As his hands searched for his clothing, his memories of their past confronted him.
He had loved her for so long, before she even met the man that had yesterday broken her heart, yet Paul was a stranger to her bedroom. He had loved her since he first set eyes on her, he had supported her, and now when she needed to relieve stress, he allowed himself to be her plaything. It was crushing to him, to know all of his happiness was laying on the bed, dreaming of another man. A man who had left her for a woman less-worthy, some younger woman named Stacy.
As she slept, though, the truth didn't matter. While she slept, she was happy, she was free, and they were together. While she slept and hoped for happily ever after, Paul was nowhere in her thoughts.
He got his pants on, and buttoned his shirt. He wore the same clothes as he wore to work yesterday, when he had left work early to console her when she called him in tears. He came directly to her, not explaining to his bosses what had happened, too focused on trying to be her knight in shining armor. Now that armor was stained with her tears, and he knew he didn't deserve her affections. He had known for a long time, but that didn't make her less attractive. He knew he had flaws, despite all of her perfections, and that he would never be able to fulfill all her hopes and dreams, but he wouldn't give up, if only she would be his.
He had never told her he loved her. He relied on his actions to speak the volumes of feelings he had. It wasn't the big, sweep-her-off-her-feet actions that many men took, but simply caring and thinking of her. He'd ask her about her day, invite her to lunch or to pick up something for her. She was always in his thoughts, but he tried to limit the conversations he would start with her. Though he loved her and wanted her every moment, he wanted her to have space and freedom. So today he would give her the space she needed, along with support.
He went to the kitchen and began to make breakfast. He wasn't much of a cook, but wanted to be sure she was cared for and eating healthy. Still, a bowl of cereal would not suffice. He turned on the stove to prepare the bacon and eggs. Scrambled eggs were simple enough to make, and he seemed to remember her saying she liked them. It wasn't exactly five star dining, but it was enough to show he cared. He heard a sound from the bedroom, and went to check on her, moving the pans from the burners just in case.
There she sat, still on the bed. She was turned away from the door, her head in her hands, crying. He knew the tears she shed were not for him, and he fought the feelings of jealousy that brought.
"Olivia, I've got some eggs on the stove for you. Toaster is going, too. They should be done pretty soon. Any special requests?"
"Paul?"
"Yes. I'm here for you."
"I need you, Paul. I feel so alone."
Paul moved to the side of the bed and knelt in front of her, looking deeply into her deep-blue, tear-soaked eyes. His thoughts raced with the possibilities of what to say, but all seemed too intense, like they might scare her away. How do you tell someone that you've loved them for years? How do you say that on the far side of forever, your love will still hold strong?
"Olivia. I am here for you. If you need anything, if you want anything, just tell me," he spoke plainly, no need to burden her with his own hopes when she already had enough worries to weigh her down. She was looking back into his eyes, as if looking for a tell in poker, or really seeing him for the first time.
"Why?" It was just one word, but it took Paul off-guard.
"Excuse me?" He asked, hoping for he knew not what.
"We've known each other for half a decade, Paul. You've never been this kind to me before. It's just because he's gone, isn't it?"
"I'll be in the kitchen, I don't want your food to burn," he said. He knew the food would be fine. The reason he left the room was to hide his own tears. He had always tried to be a gentleman. She was with someone else, even if he was no good for her, so his affections hadn't been very pronounced. The one exception was within a few weeks of meeting her, when he asked her on a date and she told him she had a boyfriend. The months that followed included conversations about how her boyfriend didn't get along with her successfully, yet these same converstions brought she and Paul closer. Yet she believed Paul's kindness was new, that he hadn't made her happiness a priority. But one worry outweighed all the rest: what if she thought that he was doing this for selfish reasons? He shouldn't have slept with her last night, it only complicated things.
He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and wiped away the few tears that had fallen. He filled a plate with eggs and bacon. Adding some toast on top and a glass of orange juice, he went back to the bedroom.
"I made you breakfast, because you had still been asleep. The reason I did it is because you deserve to be treated well, and because I'd like to be the man to treat you well. I've known this for a long time, but you were with someone else. You aren't, and I don't want the regret of never having told you, of never having tried. So eat up, I'll be washing the dishes I dirtied. When I'm done, if I haven't been asked to do otherwise, I'll simply leave. But if you want to be happy, if you want someone in your life who wants you to be happy, then I am right in the kitchen. You deserve to be happy, the question is only if you want to be," and with that he turned and began to leave her bedroom.
"Paul!" She called out, and he stopped in the doorway, turning slightly back. "It's... now's just not a good time, you know?"
"No, Olive, I don't know. Because if I find a twenty dollar bill in my pocket, I am thankful to have such a great thing fall into my lap. I don't look at it and say that I've got too much on my shoulders. I let it help me take some of the weight. I hope that you allow me to be more helpful than money found on the street. I hope I mean more to you than money from the street. But again, the choice is yours, I'll be in the kitchen."

He turned on the faucet to drown out the sound of her crying, so he wouldn't have to face the fact that he had caused it. He felt guilty for it, and it had probably come off as condescending by speaking in such decisive terms, but it was a point that needed to be made. If something is a good thing, why not hold on to it? As he washed the dishes, Paul hoped she found him worth hanging on to.

She sat on her bed, thinking about what he said and the implications. Had she really been blind to his interest? Or was it that what had seemed like acts of friendship simply had ulterior motives the entire time? Was she out of a relationship that lacked trust, only to be offered another?
He was right, though. Like her father used to say, "You've gotta strike while the iron is hot." No matter if you're distracted or it isn't a good time for you, you need to take the opportunities you're given, or risk losing them forever. Yet he had waited so long for her already, why rush now?
She knew what she needed to do.

The dishes were on the drying rack, and Paul was checking Olivia's drawers for a dish towel. Her arms slid around him before he even noticed she'd entered the room.
She undid his buttons, and caressed his chest. He wasn't muscular, but he was in fairly good shape. Her arms tightened, and she pressed herself against him. She leaned her head down,pressing her ear onto him. He slowed his movements, and she listened to his heartbeat. Stable, reliable, and supportive, it was exactly what she needed more of.
"Come back to the bedroom, Paul."
"I've gotta finish the dishes, Olive."

"It's God's turn to dry. There's no rush," she said. She took his hand and led him back to the bedroom.

Collaboration Step 1.

Today we organized our stories and aligned them for what we would need to do. A collection of short stories that tell a larger story. They can be read individually, or as a set. So far we have 13 stories mostly written, and we have outlined a few more stories we need. I was apprehensive about seeing we had only 13 stories, because I didn't think I had written many, but upon review, I found I had created 7. This is not said out of pride, but out of a sense of relief. I am doing better than I though. And my favorite story that I wrote is 9 pages on an 8*10, when double spaced. So when (sticking to when, not if, because I am motivated to see this through) this is published, it's going to be quite a chapter in the book.

Still, though I need to make a few corrections and retune a few details, all in all I am feeling much better about my ability, though these were mostly some of my early works.

Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month)

Just got wind of a thing called Nanowrimo that happens each November. Joined up and they had a few more tips which I'll leave here.

1) It’s okay to not know what you’re doing. Really. You’ve read a lot of novels, so you’re completely up to the challenge of writing one. If you feel more comfortable outlining your story ahead of time, do it! But it’s also fine to just wing it. Write every day, and a book-worthy story will appear, even if you’re not sure what that story might be right now.

2) Do not edit as you go. Editing is for December and beyond. Think of November as an experiment in pure output. Even if it’s hard at first, leave ugly prose and poorly written passages on the page to be cleaned up later. Your inner editor will be very grumpy about this, but your inner editor is a nitpicky jerk who foolishly believes that it is possible to write a brilliant first draft if you write it slowly enough. It isn’t. Every book you’ve ever loved started out as a beautifully flawed first draft. In November, embrace imperfection and see where it takes you.

3) Tell everyone you know that you’re writing a novel in November. This will pay big dividends in Week Two, when the only thing keeping you from quitting is the fear of looking pathetic in front of all the people who’ve had to hear about your novel for the past month. Seriously. Email them now about your awesome new book. The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.

3.5) There will be times you’ll want to quit during November. This is okay. Everyone who wins NaNoWriMo wanted to quit at some point in November. Stick it out. See it through. Week Two can be hard. Week Three is much better. Week Four will make you want to yodel.
And we’re talking the good kind of yodeling here.

Now, that's some good advice, especially when it seems they want 50k words within just 30 days. But that's still a month and a half away, and I have a different story to be working on. And a collaborative book. So I'm going to focus on the now, but also use some of the advice and tools that the website is giving.

If you have questions, a great website is right here: http://nanowrimo.org/en/about/

And the best advice from the above, the part that stands out and resonates with me, and the thought I will end with today is this. "your inner editor is a nitpicky jerk who foolishly believes that it is possible to write a brilliant first draft if you write it slowly enough."

Tips and Tricks

Lately, along with continuing to write, I'm also looking for ways to improve on my writing. So to start, here are some places that I found advice and insight, which I've collected in an effort to help other writers as well.

http://www.openculture.com/2013/02/seven_tips_from_ernest_hemingway_on_how_to_write_fiction.html -- Ernest Hemingway. My biggest takeaway from this is #4, to read over what I've written. My mind never seems to shut off, so I am constantly imagining things to do with my writing, and things I could have done differently. It's getting to the point where I do have chapters, but I don't have them labelled, so I just turn back a few pages to catch myself up. But I have also created a sort of "character appendix" that details some of the key features of characters, so their hair color doesn't randomly change or something.

http://www.iuniverse.com/ExpertAdvice/20WritingTipsfrom12FictionAuthors.aspx Tip #20 is a biggie in this site, but many others are also resonant with what I've already started doing. But the simply idea of "Get on with it" is one that cannot be given too much emphasis.

There are a lot more links that I could share, just look up "tips for fiction writing" or similar in google.

But the most powerful and most moving that I found was actually even before I began writing. From the company that brought us Toy Story, Wall-E, Cars, and more (actually from Emma Coates, but w/e):
The 22 Rules of Story-telling
http://io9.com/5916970/the-22-rules-of-storytelling-according-to-pixar

Just in case the link goes bad or something, I'll just leave this here.

#1: You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.

#2: You gotta keep in mind what's interesting to you as an audience, not what's fun to do as a writer. They can be v. different.

#3: Trying for theme is important, but you won't see what the story is actually about til you're at the end of it. Now rewrite.

#4: Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.

#5: Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You'll feel like you're losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.

#6: What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?

#7: Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.

#8: Finish your story, let go even if it's not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.

#9: When you're stuck, make a list of what WOULDN'T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.

#10: Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you've got to recognize it before you can use it.

#11: Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you'll never share it with anyone.

#12: Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.

#13: Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it's poison to the audience.

#14: Why must you tell THIS story? What's the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That's the heart of it.

#15: If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.

#16: What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don't succeed? Stack the odds against.

#17: No work is ever wasted. If it's not working, let go and move on - it'll come back around to be useful later.

#18: You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.

#19: Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.

#20: Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How d'you rearrange them into what you DO like?

#21: You gotta identify with your situation/characters, can't just write ‘cool'. What would make YOU act that way?

#22: What's the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.

Stop! Collaborate and Listen!

Today I was reading the writing of a friend who has been helping me with some of my own. At some point they came up with the idea of a collaboration of some of our short stories. Short stories are actually how I started writing and grew an interest, but they are simply not something I am prepared to show publicly at this time. My problem with short stories is that they never really give me a sense of closure. Even Edgar Allen Poe's works always leave me wanting more. Of course, that's beginning to be something I'm starting to accept. After all, make a reader content and why would they bother turning the page?

If I get at least 5 comments on this post requesting I share my short stories, I will give in to the pressure and share. Otherwise I'll stay my shy self and keep them hidden away until I gain more confidence. Are you brave enough to ask?

Falling behind

It's been far too long since my last update. Which is not to say that I'm not working, just that I'm not communicating the work I'm doing. I have gotten a bit more done, but still doesn't feel like enough, of course. And sadly a bit of apprehension concerning how I want the story to end is causing some hesitation for me, but I shared quite a few of my older stories with some friends the other night, and one requested me to share more. Out of the 4 people paying attention, even 25% interest is taken as a compliment. And the fact that the others still at least listened without ribbing me too much was also nice. Definitely puts some wind in my sails.

The Violin

Got a new and better journal to write in. Lined pages, leather-bound, and big enough to write comfortably. Already breaking it in and fluffing my story a bit more, so don't look too closely if you don't want a mini-spoiler. In fact, don't look too closely even if you do want a mini-spoiler. I'd rather not ruin anyone's eyes, so I'll just rewrite it here for you.

SPOILER!

I brought the entire theater on a tour of hope, with my violin as their transportation.  I was Helios, the sun god, and my violin the chariot, carrying the sun into the sky to start a new day with endless possibility.  My violin was the Ark, and I was the dove sent by Noah to find proof of solid ground after the sins of the world had been washed away. My violin was Pandora's box, and my music was the hope left inside, alone. It was the tree that became paper used to fold a thousand paper cranes in order for a wish to be granted. And it was the seed that made it through a bitter winter to become Bette Midler's Rose.

My uncle passed away yesterday morning. I've lost quite a few people to death, 4 in my family now. No more grandparents, parents, and only one blood-related uncle is still around from previous generations. The rest are my generation or later, or married in.  Makes me wonder about my own genetics, perhaps a bit more than I should.  I wondered about this while I ate, and I wrote the following.

7 billion people
All marching in a line
And if you ask how they are
They all say they're doing fine.

7 billion people
All marching one-by-one
No time to chat nor make new friends
No time to learn what's fun

7 billion people
All following the lead
And on the path they march and march
And march until feet bleed

Seven billion people
All follow off the cliff
But some don't end their journey
Before their legs fall stiff

Seven billion people
Rarely happiness is found
Yet all too soon another one
Is buried in the ground

Seven billion people
All need to catch a breath
Just stop and smell the roses
Before they meet their death

I'm sure there's more to be written about it, perhaps even warm it up a bit, because it seems so cold. But at this time, so are my thoughts.

Back in the driver's seat

When I was a child, I was taught to pray. Before the "pleases," politeness required one to say the "thank yous." Before you asked for something, you first needed to remind yourself what you were thankful for, how much life had given you. A commonly phrased way to think about this is to count your blessings. And though a prayer tends not to take very long, in its short and sweet way it teaches us to be patient for the things that we want, for the help and guidance we need, and to bring complaints to those more able to fix them than ourselves.

I have been patient, but today is the day I get to the requests and concerns. My writing tonight, which has already gone over the hour I try to do every night, is not a story. Though just yesterday I stated I would be solely focused on writing towards my book, the events of the day have caused me to question what steps are necessary to be where I wish to be in life, and to be the man I am training myself to be. Today I found out that the person I had been requesting help from, been trusting for guidance, and been going to for support seems to have given up on me. The lack of belief in me and my ability was daunting and hard to comprehend. I am still shocked at how deeply it goes.
And though I have had similar moments previously in my life, at this time I am writing my concerns and desires for change to be more easily managed so that, like a prayer, I have brought my attention to the problem, labelled it, and set a goal.
Another phrase with a strongly religious connotation is "Let Jesus take the wheel." The idea is that sometimes a person needs to stop trying to control everything and just take a moment to see where life is headed. Unfortunately, in my life I had been driving in cruise control, and it is clear I have lost too much time. The wheel gripped tightly, I am putting the pedal to the metal to get my life back on track.

My writing today is personal and is in large part heartfelt concerns. As such, it will not be shared in so public a medium as a blog. Today's writing, now roughly two hours in the making (and still going strong), is more like a diary. Though some people may be shown a portion if it is directly tied to how they fit into my life, it is unlikely most people will even know how much frustration I have released onto the page.


Today I leave you not with a question, but with a joke to lighten the mood. Due to the somewhat religious connotation to this blog post, a joke about prayer and opportunity.
~
A man is in a horrible ship wreck, and seems to be the sole survivor. As he climbs onto floating wreckage to save himself from hypothermia, he begins to pray that he be saved from the situation. He prays that he make it home to his family and safety. And while he prays, a ship comes along. The crewmen see the man on his knees, hands clasped, and call out to him, but he does not answer, instead continuing to pray. They worry for his life and safety, and throw him a life preserver so they may bring him aboard their ship. He ends his prayer and sees them.
And the victim of the shipwreck calls out to them, "Thank you, but God is coming to save me."
~

Perhaps a bit pre-emptive, but today I spent quite a bit of time working with someone to verify grammar, etc on my work. Realized just how far I've come, and how much I still have to do.

I currently have begun writing perspectives from four separate characters. One of these will probably just be a short story, but the other three I would like to see as standalone books. Of these three, the largest are only probably 3 chapters, and the main characters are just starting to come to the main conflict of the story. They then will need to attempt to overcome it and face obstacles along the way. This is the real "meat" of the book. I fear that it may also be the reason that I have so many starts, and so few middles... Though it may also be that as I introduce new characters I work on their backstory to try to figure out what drives them and it starts turning into its own book... But I will be writing exclusively on the story of Candace, separated from her family by the quarantine, until I have a sufficient body to call a book.
Though I do state I will be exclusively writing for her book, that is not to say that I won't have other ideas and jot them down, etc. But it'll be like throwing clean clothes in a hamper while I iron out and deal with Candace's story. Once done with that, I can deal with the rest, but you can't iron all of your clothes at once.



But enough about me. Let's turn this camera around and look at the readers for a moment. Today's question for you: Does someone get called a supervillian because they are selfish, or because they do not adhere to the local laws? If someone used their powers to stop an atomic bomb, but killed 1/10th of the people it would have in the process, are they a hero or villain?
If they find the cure for cancer, but it requires body parts from a cat, would they be a hero or villain for being prepared to pay that price? If they were more ethical, and used animals that would be put down, would it require a PR campaign calling it "Animal Organ Donors," or would they still be a villain for killing the few to save the many?
That is your question for today. Is it the action that makes them villainous, is it the motivation, or is it somewhere between?

Third time's the charm

Computer is back up and running. Wasn't cheap, but definitely a notable improvement. Still sorting out some of the bits and pieces like they were battle scars of a pretty messy fight, but I'm able to sort out enough to basically pick up ahead of where I left off.

Over the weekend I had some personal time away from work, and spent it away from tv and computer screens, so backed up quite a bit of my story onto my phone (can email it to myself to get a copy on the computer). While I was doing that, I was also editing it, and shared it with someone who gave a lot of insight and I improved some areas to make the story draw people in better. Didn't end up writing today, but that happens when you drive 5 hours and then have to get everything ready for day-to-day life again.

wrote three pages today with some help and insight from my sister. and i have been making backup copies due to the recurring computer issues. but i promised not to give up, so i will not. wrote more about the mother outside of quarantine, who is now getting details of those inside of the quarantine. and it only hardens her resolve to get back to her family. but as this is by cell that wont let me capitalize or use symbols, i will end todays blog here.

Bouquet of Regrets

Didn't end up writing tonight, but was introduced to a new friend that gave me some insights into a few things. And even read a few chapters of a book which gave me some perspective.  Yet on the drive home I was once again thinking about my own writing, and may have come up with a title for one of the books (see post title).

Reasons I like the title Bouquet of Regrets:
It has the same number of syllables as Butterfly Effect. This is doubly good when used in conjunction with someone that is amending their history to make the world around them a better place. But trying to avoid spoilers, so perhaps more on that later, and definitely not more on it now.
It ties together the ideas of something beautiful and romantic to the idea of being imperfect and bettering oneself. Regrets are not things we accept about ourselves, if they were they would just be decisions. Bouquets could also be for funerals, I believe, but are most often found at weddings, proposals, etc.

Anyway, just a thought for the night. That's all. No questions, no long and lengthy monologue about words or whatever. Just a title, and a step in the right direction.

Two pages and a prophecy?

Writing in the moleskin again. Seems to come most naturally, other than the hunched over angle. Some personal stuff has me a bit distracted, but I won't let that get in the way of upholding my promises to myself about writing. When writing about being outside of quarantine got too hard, I changed tactics and wrote about something else I've been tossing around, and wrote a prophecy for the books. Not a huge one, I'm sure I'll fluff it out some later when I know more about what the books will include and such, but a pretty good start. And I'm likely to change some of the wording, perhaps make it a little less rhyming, since languages and such would change over time... especially when the language isn't even from Earth. But whatever. I'm cool with sharing the prophecy as it currently reads.

~~~~~~~

Far in the future; Millennia three
By forging truce, a hero he'll be.
Though we yet war with the Brethren Swarm,
Six orbits lasts the eye of the storm.

Ripened by tragedy, the hero grows strong.
Yet none shall hear his silent song.
Though called abomination by those in his clan
All doubt dissipated when he comes back a man.

When unity is found, then the hero will rise.
For he brings truth to a thousand lies.
Facing the gauntlet he shall not falter.
On the trail of justice the hero canst alter.

New galactic order the hero shalt bring,
For he shalt teach the third planet to sing.
The truce is short lived, for a hero will fall,
The reigns are seized by who answers his call.

The war of Swarm ended, an empty throne,
A false hero rises while the true rests alone
The balance of power may swing evil or good,
But the bringer of balance sings the song of wood.

Baby steps.

Wrote a few more pages regarding the quarantine story line. The hardest part is making the military seem firm and strong but keeping them relate-able. Also have to avoid using any military ranks right now, as I don't really know enough about them, but I'll edit them in after I find someone who knows that sort of stuff. Speaking of; anyone know about military ranks? Information would be greatly appreciated.

This being my first blog about activities, I can say with confidence that it's harder than I expected. Toeing the line between doing writing I can't post or writing just on here, choosing what to disclose about what I wrote, or giving spoilers about it.  Chapter 1 from the other day doesn't seem like it was very well received. Possibly due to date it was posted, time, etc, but my money's on it just being too long.



Oh well. Time will tell. Keeping my chin up and my pencils sharp. I'm going to continue to write because I like doing it. I will be looking to make the page a bit more interesting though, so I'm open to suggestions. Currently I'm thinking something like stationary, if I can find it and get it to fit right. Not sure how (or if) that'll work out how I envision it, but all the more reason to get some audience participation.

So. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is:
1. Find out about military ranks.
2. Make blog look better.
And most importantly: 3. Just keep swimming writing.

Freyr's day, A day of peace and pleasure

Friday.
A day to leave all your worries at the door, and not pick them up again until Monday. Yet I have a blog to maintain, and I no longer have the excuse of technical difficulties. As part of my computer issues, though, I did back up the files that I had on my hard drive onto a USB. Both good and bad to have them this way, I think, as I can take it with me to work on w/e computer... but I really have one main computer and if traveling, should I really be writing? If I'm traveling, it's normally to see family and such, and so it would be rude to be writing. That's a worry that can wait, though, as I have no plans to travel soon.

What I do have plans for, though, are to back up more of my files. As part of that, though, and as part of going through them, I am typing up things I've already written. Yet I am writing and editing while I do this, and want to give a little taste of what I've been working on.
Last thing before I go into that, though. Does anyone happen to know basic information about military ranks? Just stuff like what outranks Private, and what rank or title is the person in charge of a base, etc.

Anyway, back to the show:
I am issuing a very big spoiler alert right now. Because I will be posting spoilers. Right here. Right now. So if you are the type to not like spoilers: stop reading. Now. Because there will be spoilers.

I'm posting the first chapter I wrote. I think there is some very slight editing I may do to it, in order to clear some stuff out of the way for chapter four. But here goes. And, just in case, and one last and final time.

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓SPOILER ALERT!!▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

Chapter 1

     I remember it as if it only happened yesterday. I was in eighth grade, and science class was as boring as ever. Ms. Fererra was talking about buoyancy or dispersion or something else long and unexciting. I wasn't really paying attention to what she was saying, though, because I was watching a cardinal in the tree outside. It was hopping along a branch, probably as interested in us as we were in it. It would take a few hops, then turn its head. Then take a few more hops, and turn its head the other way.
     I didn't notice when the class got quiet. I didn't even notice when she called my name at first, to ask what was so interesting outside. But when I looked back to her, I saw the hallway was full of other kids, and then the principal came in.
     "Ms. Fererra, I'm glad to see you're doing well," he began. "Now, as you know, we have a scheduled drill for the entire school, and you're running a bit behind. So if everyone would please go into the hall, and make your way to the gym..."  We all looked at Ms. Fererra, who raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to hear about the drill, but she went along with Mr Gerritt's lead.
     "Okay everyone, let's go to the gym. Respectful and quiet in the halls. Single-file," she stated the instructions like it was a normal day and we were scheduled for gym. The class began to stand, and I saw Mr. Gerritt whispering into Ms. Fererra's ear, and her eyes widening. The class was already walking to the gym, when I looked back out the window for the cardinal. The only red I saw, though, was the streams of the comets... or meteors... or meteorites... the giant rocks falling from the sky.  Like I said, science was NOT my best subject.
     The next few moments were a blur of action. I'm told it took a few minutes, but it seemed like seconds. I think I called for Ms. Fererra, to ask about the red streaks I saw in the sky.  Mr. Gerritt lifted me by my mid-section, and ran like I was a football and the gym was the end zone. I heard him yelling to Ms. Fererra, but I didn't hear what he said.

~~~~~

     My psychologist, Ms. Kylan, says it was just fear telling me we'd be hit, but I KNEW that the school would be.  She says I couldn't possibly have known, because even the military was expecting all touchdown to be downtown, but were just taking precautions and getting everyone away from windows and external doors. I'm not superstitious, I'm not paranoid, and I do not suffer hallucinations... though these are all things Ms. Kylan has listed as possible causes of my epiphany.

~~~~~

     I remember that I looked up at Mr. Gerritt, and I told him we'd live. I wanted to tell him we'd be okay, but I knew it would be a lie.
     And as he ran with me in his arms, I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, I could hear his labored breathing. I remember Ms. Fererra running past us, rushing to the gym, her high heels clip-clopping as they hit the tiled floor. I was relieved to know she made it into the gym, because the door was just closing as it came into view.
And then the explosions started.
     Mr. Gerritt lost his footing when the blasts came, and we both fell to the floor. The walls were crumbling around us, and something fell and knocked him unconscious. I didn't see the brick fall, because the lights were flickering, but I nearly tripped over the bloodstained rubble when I went to him.  I was barely strong enough to drag him to the safety of a doorway, hoping it would be more sturdy.
     As I sat in the doorway with Mr. Gerritt's still-bleeding head in my lap; dust filling the air from all the debris; my ears pounding from the explosions; I began to hear the screams and cries from the gym.                    Strangely, it gave me a sense of peace, of hope. Someone must be making those sounds, and that meant someone was in there, even if they were hurt.
     I adjusted Mr. Gerritt's head, and sat him against the doorway, so I could help in the gym.  By this point the flickering of the lights had stopped, and the hallway was full of dust. Thankfully some light was coming in from the windows of the classrooms, but I still had to put my hand on the lockers to make sure I didn't get turned around.
     My hearing was slowly returning, and I hear the sounds from the gym more clearly. Some were yelling for help, some yelled names of friends and students, some were just pain. When I opened the doors, well, I would still have nightmares about what I saw then in the gym, but what came later was even worse.
     The first thing I saw was the dust. It covered everything. There were no colors other than the grey. Just different shades of grey.  Then the stench got to you. A mix of blood, fear, and being so afraid that you lose control of ...well, basically everything below the bellybutton. And as my eyes began to water from the overpowering odor, I saw my friends, classmates, and teachers. Beaten and bruised, it was amazing to see how they handled it. Some of the teachers cried, sitting with their arms around their legs, some were trying to dig out other teachers and students. Students were mostly crying, largely in groups. Some of the students helped to clear debris, and some of the teachers nursed some of the wounded.  The ground had puddles of blood and dust forming, and some of my classmates weren't moving.
     It still chills my bones. The knowledge that just half an hour before that I was sitting and watching a cardinal in a clear blue sky. Now I saw plenty of red, and despite the roof being blown off, there was too much dust to see they sky.
      I looked around the gym, hoping to see Alyssa safe, but fearing how bloody she could be. Or if she was stuck under rubble... My knees began to quake at the thoughts, as I looked at so many wounded, each which could have been her hurt instead. I ran through the gym, screaming her name, asking everyone if they'd seen her. The entire time wishing I had reacted differently last night. Tears began to flow, creating little streams along my cheeks, while my throat was already hoarse from all the yelling. But I kept searching.
     Someone told me Alyssa hadn't been in class that morning. I was so frantic by that point I didn't even notice who it was that told me. I was glad she wasn't in the brunt of the damage. I still wanted to make sure she knew that I was safe, though. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my cell phone. I had zero bars. Probably some kind of interference from the... space rocks. I put my phone back in my pocket, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and started to focus on helping others. Lifting debris off some people, helping others to the nurses, and all too often finding a lifeless body.
     "Harm!! Over here! Harm!"


~~~~~

     Harm, by the way, was short for Harmony. I really wish it wasn't, sometimes, because it's almost as bad as being named Calamity. Okay, so maybe I was a little superstitious.

~~~~~

     I turned to the people yelling for me by the nickname I never outgrew. There sat a fallen wall lying on top of one of the faculty. Some of the students were using boards and debris to try to pry the wall off the unconscious adult. I was walking towards them, and I recognized Ms. Fererra, the pool of blood around her staining her white turtleneck. As the students were able to lift the slab of wall a few inches from her, Ms. Fererra's eyes began to open.
     "Ms. Fererra!" I yelled as I ran. I ran to her, so I could pull her out from under the wall, for it couldn't be held up very long.  A single beam of sunlight made its way through the dust, and it seemed like Ms. Fererra was in the spotlight, and everyone was watching the action. When you have enough adrenaline pumping, everything seems to go into slow-motion. It was as if everyone in the gym was watching me run to her, but by the time I got to her, she had pushed the slab off on her own, and stood.
     As the slab fell back on the ground, the resounding thud seemed like a gong, beckoning a new passage in the story of my life, and the lives of those around me. The gym went silent. After a moment of awe, some people began backing away in fear, some went towards her, hoping she could protect them.
     Looking back at that moment, now, I'm glad Ms. Fererra was the first. We didn't know it then, but her actions were the dawning of a new era for our city. If not for her, if not for someone responsible to rally around, I fear things would have gone even worse.

~~~~~

     Ms. Fererra didn't notice what had just happened, at first. "It's impolite to stare, class," she said as she adjusted her hair. She turned around to see what caused such awe, and saw the slab she had just lifted. "Oh, dear," she sighed, "this must be some kind of trick." She bent and began lifting the slab, without even straining. "Oh! Styrofoam," she said as her grip created fingerprints in the brick wall, "But this is no time to be playing around. Let's get to the wounded, everyone!"
     Ms. Fererra walked away, as if unconcerned with the mass of students that couldn't lift the section of wall she had proclaimed styrofoam. Some of them tried lifting it again, and none could make any progress. There were probably seven of us that tried to lift it before we all got distracted by the burst of light and heat.
     His name was Duncan. He was in my science class, but sat a few rows ahead of me, at the front. He was the kid that always raised his hand, always had something to say. He hadn't been helping other students in the gym, he was on of the ones crying in the corner. And currently, he was the kid literally on fire.
     The doctors and scientists later would call the gym a powderkeg. They'd say things about how it was like some kind of beacon of energy that shined on everyone and radiated from there. They used beautiful words, scientific words, I've even read a few poems about it. But anyone describing it as anything less than a nightmare clearly wasn't there. They didn't see the people's bodies tearing themselves apart. They didn't see the student turn into a puddle of flesh, or the teacher that ran into a wall so fast she splattered, and they didn't see the carnage of people suddenly realizing that the laws of physics had forgotten everyone in that gym. Everyone but me.

~~~~~

     I ran out of the gym, out of the room that reality forgot. I ran towards where I had left Mr. Gerritt, and he still sat there, his eyes barely open. I clung to his chest like someone grabs to driftwood after a shipwreck.
     "...Harmony? ...What happened?" He asked, the words barely coming out.
     "Mr. Gerritt... I... I just..." And with that, for the third time that day, it was just too much. I just wished I could have Alyssa telling me everything would be all right, like she used to. Stroking my hair while my parents argued, giving me support when I couldn't stand on my own anymore.
     "Stay right here, Harmony," Mr. Gerritt said soothingly. When he started to heading to the gym I tried to stop him.
     "NO!! Mr. Gerritt! It's not safe in there! Your body will... I mean, their bodies were... but..." I realized I couldn't even describe what I'd seen. There simply aren't words to describe such trauma, such massacre.
     "Just stay here, Harmony. I'll be right back." And with that, he went into the gym, despite all the screams, despite my warning, perhaps despite his own fear.
     I looked into the room I was in the doorway of, then, for the first time since dragging Mr. Gerritt in. It was the boys' locker room, painted blue, and pristine compared to the rest of the school. I threw up. Maybe it was because I finally could catch my breath enough. Or maybe it was because of all the dust and gore filling my lungs. I threw up again. I was exhausted. I turned my head, realizing I was laying down just beside the puddle I'd made. The school mascot, a blue jay, was standing just inside the boys' locker room, where it hadn't been moments before. That was the last thing I saw for three days.

War, what is it good for? (Absolutely nothing)

Well, I've definitely been falling behind on my writing goals lately, though I did do a bit of work outside of this blog. In order to make up some of the lost time, though, I will be writing about something I'm rather passionate about.  I can't go into a lot of the details surrounding it, but I recently found out that when asked what their values were, someone I wouldn't have expected it from answered, among other things, "Integrity." This threw me a bit, and came across as blasphemous. So I'm going to go ahead and write about why, etc.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Integrity is an impressive word.
It looks a bit like "Integer," which is another word for a number without anything after the decimal. Another word for these kinds of numbers is "Whole," which implies they are full, missing no pieces, no dents, bruises, or scratches. Integers are clear, with no hidden meanings or data.
It also looks a bit like "Integral," which means necessary. Without any integral component, the system simply falls apart. This is, in barest terms, a need. So breathable air is integral to you being able to stay alive, for instance, but that new iPod isn't. Having a working internet connection is integral to you getting online, but having a working mouse or keyboard isn't... though you might not be able to do much without them.
The reason why I bring up these other words is because of their similarities. Like Integer, Integrity is clear-cut and whole. Like Integral, it means something is so important that even bending on the issue could cause complete system failure.

Integrity is not a line in the sand.
Integrity is the hull of the Titanic. One does not bend another's integrity, it must be breached or broken. This is not a chain link fence that you can go under or through. Integrity is the Berlin Wall, and the guns are loaded and pointed before anything can cross it. When it comes to integrity in your morals, it goes beyond your willpower. If Batman has a choice of shooting the Joker with a gun or dying, he will die, because he doesn't use guns. No rationalizing about when it is acceptable, no excuses, just no guns. Because yes, to sacrifice one's integrity is to sacrifice your sense of self.
Integrity is the woman that during war time grabbed a knife to defend against the armed enemy soldiers. And when the witnesses laughed at her and asked "What are you going to do with that," she stated "I will show them whose side I'm on."
If you have moral stance of pure nonviolence and are offered $10 to punch a clown in the face, and your concern is about the amount of money offered for it, then it isn't a stance you hold with integrity. If you are the President of the United States of America and publicly state that you will not negotiate with terrorists, but you do when you can see the faces of the hostages are your own children, then you lack integrity. If you say that you like banana nut muffins, but will eat a blueberry muffin if no banana nut are available, then that's a preference and not a question of your integrity. But if you tell people you would rather die than eat a blueberry muffin but you eat blueberry muffins, integrity is possibly a trait you lack.

Integrity means it's worth the time every time. Integrity means 100%. Integrity means that you do not bend on the issue, but may try to make way so that the issue doesn't come about. In a situation of do or die, you would literally rather die. This is what makes the SAW movies so thrilling to so many people, the question of how far people will go off of their moral path. Because after the first step is taken, it can be nearly impossible to get back.

According to Webster's dictionary, Integrity is uncorruptible, unimpaired, and complete. When the integrity of the hull of a ship is breached, the ship sinks. If a bucket of white paint has a single drop of black, and becomes a shade darker for it, the paint lost it's integrity of being white. Which is not to say that you have a can of black paint, but there are no shades of grey with integrity. Either it is pure, whole, and uncorrupted, or the integrity is lost.
One especially emotional situation dealing with integrity are rape victims, or victims of other assaults. In a perfect society, your body is your own, and there is never any question about it. When this one simple truth is put under question by someone else forcing their will upon you, it is hard (if not impossible) to recover from. You lose your self-worth, your sense of purpose, your innocence and your confidence. You hold your integrity and who you are, and how you define yourself. If you lose it, you've often lost yourself. And no matter how many times you wash your hands after it, a part of yourself will always see them stained.


~~~~~

Now, after that little tirade some of you may wonder what caused me to be so passionate about it. What sort of person could list it as a value and cause me to be so worked up? Well, issue one would be that it wasn't a person so much as a group of persons. And issue two would be that it's the same group of persons that yesterday in writing expressed to me that I should care less about what the rules are, and more about what people say.
So, last comment on that is this: Doing what is right isn't always popular. Doing what's popular isn't always right.

Anyway, I usually like to end with a question, just so it's clear that's there's room for audience participation. And I definitely encourage you to respond if you would like. But instead of a question, I'll leave you with something I understand if you don't want to make public. It's a bit more somber than my previous posts, but I think it's a memory worth having.
Think of the last few times you felt guilty. Think of why you felt guilty. Take a moment and just ask yourself "What did I sacrifice to cause the pain of guilt?"