Week 14 - Dumpster Diving

His wife had misplaced her new iPod that he had bought her for Christmas last year. He asked if she had looked in the cushions of the chair. She told him it wasn't there. He asked her if she had looked in the bedroom. She told him it wasn't there either. “What about your purse,” he asked. “I already checked there,” she told him, exasperated. She said she thought she dropped it into the trash. He was about to ask if she had looked there as well when he realized he had brought the trash out to the dumpster.

He could not believe what he was doing. The things that his wife had him do sometimes. He drove over and proceeded rummage through the dumpster, removing every bag and ripping them open. This went on for some time and with each bag, the mess became larger and larger. “This is revolting,” he thought as little bits of food stuck to his arms and hands. As someone with a mild case of OCD, he wanted so badly to wipe the grime and filth off of himself, but he knew that he would merely get dirty all over again, so he pierced a new bag and plunged in.

Suddenly, a car drove up and a man got out to ask for directions; and here he was standing amidst a strewn pile of trash and debris, looking like a lunatic. He told him how to get to wherever it was that he was going and the man went on his way, probably wondering if he could trust a guy who probably looked homeless, and apparently, very interested in that dumpster.

Just when he thought things couldn't get worse, he got a phone call. He took his phone out with his goop covered hands and answered with a frustrated, “What?”

“Jim,” his wife said on the other line.

“Yes dear.”

“I found it.”

Relieved, but furious at the same time he asked, “Where was it?”

“Just like you said,” she responded with a lovingly tone. “It was in my purse, way down at the bottom.”

The pastor just shook his head. Frustrated, but knowing this would make a great story to tell, he began to throw the mounds of trash back where it came from.

“How can I fit this into Sunday's message?”

Week 14 - The Blank Ticket

On a white table in the center of bright white room there lies a small piece of card paper. On it is what appears to be the likeness of a plane ticket. It says of its face, ALL EXPENSES PAID. Observing the entirety of the ticket, however, there is no note as to where this ticket is for. No destination. It is blank like the bright white room.

A pencil lies on the white able next to the ticket. Maybe to fill in the blank and complete the mystery. But what to write? Where to?

England? The rolling green countryside with its magnificent towering castles and quaint, tightly woven villages with clothesline strung up between the 200 year old homes. And its amazing rugged coastlines that harken to an age when the Royal Navy dominated the waves of the earth. Or London with its unlimited attractions including the Crown Jewels and Buckingham Palace. That would be nice, but England is too posh and western. It has to be more exotic.

The white pencil erases England from the ticket.

Italy? Much more exotic. A different language and culture, different food, and very different history. A more ancient land blanketed with ruins and fortresses. Roman cities and roads two thousand years old can still be seen and touched. From Venice to Milan, the choices are literally endless. And then there is Rome. The things you read about standing right in front of you, a breathing incarnation of early western civilization contained within a single city. Yet even Rome, the once greatest city on earth, in all its glory, still lacks that certain qualcosa di speciale.

The white pencil erases Italy from the ticket.

Isreal? A hotbed for violence and unrest, and yet a beacon that summons millions to its borders to offer patronage and receive spiritual renewal. A tiny stretch of the most historically saturated soil in the world. Its culture entirely different from the west its food even more unique, this land of divided religions has seen more wars and bloodshed than maybe anywhere else. Even so, it is a land where one man, two thousand years ago, sparked a flame that grew into a roaring inferno that shattered Rome and Uprooted England, and transformed the whole of the earth and its people. The very ground where his feet once trod, are waiting. The home to the world's largest religion; a country and its capital of Jerusalem; the bedrock of history itself. A singular, soul invigorating experience of culture, history, and religious pilgrimage all united onto one line of a single blank ticket.

The white pencil lays still on the white table, the blank ticket now missing. The white room empty.

Prompt 66 - Carnival Lights

Laughter breaks through the noise of the carnival. The brightly lit rides spin and twirl in colors of yellow and red as the faces of the children riding them turn a little green. I can smell popcorn being popped and cotton candy being spun. There are people all around my friends and I as we stand there in front of the shooting parlor, the operator heckling us to no effect.

I catch a glimpse of a girl I danced with merely one night before. The lights on the ride dim and the laughter stops. The rides halt and the man in the shooting parlor, finally quiet. I cannot smell. I cannot hear. I can only see her, smiling, looking at me with a look that could melt stone.

One crazy little thought. The first one of its kind to pop into my head. “Ask her out,” a little voice says through my ear. I start to perspire just a little as that one, unbelievable thought bounces around in my head like it was the only thing there. My hands start to tremor as my heart rate spikes. I miraculously muster the intestinal fortitude to take one step in her direction. That one step is followed by another, and then another.

Suddenly I am standing there holding her hand. Unable to recall even asking the question, though it is clear I did, I walk back to my friends with her hand shooting heat up my arm and into my chest. It pulsates throughout my body, slowing time down to a crawl. “Is this what drugs feel like?”

The lights begin to glow again and the laughter returns. The rides begin to twirl once more and the man in the shooting parlor is now louder than he ever was before. I walk hand in hand with her through the carnival that is now brighter than it ever was before. I am happier than I ever was before.

Prompt 65 - His Clues Are His Creations

How can you know a man you never met? Read about him? Ask his friends? Details about a mans life are easy to come by. But to truly know someone, to not only know the details about them, but know how they see themselves, is something entirely different. Men, unlike women, don't readily open the doors and let you into their world. They are often reclusive and mysterious in their emotions, keeping to themselves and rarely showing their true selves. A man gives clues however. And these clues are the secret to knowing who he truly is, no matter how small.

I didn't really know my great grandfather Sweet. He was my mother's grandfather and lived in Blue Hill for much of his life, if not all of it, on a dozen acre piece of property out on the secluded Parker Point. For the few years that he and I were alive on this earth together, I remember visiting his house and seeing all of his creations. Clues. There were all kinds of fun and fascinating things to look at and play with. As a child, visiting grandparents, let alone great grandparents, can often be boring, and smelly. But not grandfather Sweet's. I specifically remember a zig-zagging wooden trough that carried marbles from the top where you dropped them to the bottom where they shot out across the floor. Him and his wife lived a simple, early twentieth century lifestyle that was quite independent and self sustaining. A garden with many different vegetables. Clue. A few animals; some pets and others for harvest and eating. Clue. And a large barn full of wood and tools. Clue.

His wife passed a few years before he did. So often is it that a man or women advanced in years dies a short time after their spouse. Very much unlike my grandmother, who lived decades after her husband, and my mother's father, had passed. They all left behind their property to my mother and her sisters, and that included the myriad trinkets and tools that my great grandfather Sweet had made so long ago.

We made our way into the old, snow covered barn and uncovered much of the tossed wood and furniture that great grandfather Sweet had crafted. My family had come together for Christmas, this year without great grandfather Sweat. On every inch of the ancient looking gray walls hung interesting odds and ends. The dusty, old windows let in little light. Wooden dolls, tables and chairs, armoires, animal carvings, oil paintings, and even instruments. Racks and drawers full of chisels and saws. Metal parts and pieces everywhere. Larger machines like band saws and drills. It was akin to a very disheveled Santa's workshop.

Clues as to who he really was were everywhere.

It was clear that he valued hard work. It was part of life; waking up early and getting a little grease on your clothes. He owned nothing but blue jeans and overalls. And all the tons of lumber that lay ripped on the floor of his workshop had been hewn by him. He was independent. He grew his own food and made his own furniture; not wanting to rely on others, but to be a real man who provided and sustained his family, come what may. He was creative. He wanted to contribute something to the world he lived in. The piles of art and toys were evidence enough of that. He loved his family. Many of his artwork and carvings were made for his children. Owls, bears, the forests. He carved all kinds of things they could play with and enjoy. And now they were in my hands.

I have in my home many of those same clues that sat dusty and dark in his barn. A bureau. Just as fine as any you might find in a store, yet so much more personal, his name burned into its drawers. A chest. Large with brass fittings like the ones you see on the back of stage coaches. My TV now sits on its tattered lid. A violin. One of dozens he expertly crafted. I still cant play a lick, but know that great grand father sweet made it makes me want to learn more than ever. A tiny little nativity set, hand carved and natural. The little baby Jesus, much like myself when I used to visit the home of great grandfather Sweet, a man I now know well.

Prompt 63 - Snow Day

A giant somersault from the top of a rickety dresser. The expanse of a childhood caught away in the air of a single moment, frozen. Snow falls heavily outdoors, freezing to the bottom of the windows; no school. An imaginary crowd of thousands surround the queen sized bed that acts as our ring. I can hear them cheering as I float through air. The smell of pancakes and syrup filters down the hallway and through the door. My brother lays on the bed, bracing himself for impact in a pair of hand-me-down pajamas that are a little too tight. As I spin in the air, the bed floating into view I am unaware that moments like these don't linger. They are not frozen for all time. Circumstances change, people change. And I would not always be the big brother that I once was, only pretending to hit in a make believe wrestling match. Trust is lost far more easily than it is gained, and I've lost more than my share. Yet rebuild it I must. You only get one family, and as I fall to the bed, time unfrozen, I crush mine beneath a massive, flying elbow drop. My mother hollers unconvincingly down the hall to “cut it out and come eat.” We rush to the kitchen, warm in our home on a snow day.

Week 13 - Daydreaming

I have this certain proclivity of biting my nails when I am thinking. I only ever realize that my nails and cuticles are worn down to the nub until after my brain stops chugging along like a locomotive barreling towards a cliff. And this happens all the time. I daydream while at work. I daydream while at play. I daydream while I eat. I daydream in the bathroom especially (it is known as the thinking room for a reason). I am always dreaming.

Mindlessness is not my forte. In fact it is impossible. While at work, I don't just do, I think about what I am doing. I think about how I am doing it. Can I do this better? Could I be doing something else? Should I be doing something else? Do I want to spend the rest of my life doing this here, or do I want more than this?

Many people I have worked with barely think beyond the day thy woke up in. Only a few think a year ahead. Fewer still think decades beyond their current place in time. Most of the people I have worked with about sleeping with as many girls or boys they can instead of finding that one girl or boy that can give them what they are really looking for. They think about how they don't get paid enough, griping and complaining, instead of working to get a raise or plotting how they can get a better job.

Many of the people I have worked with think about how to get back at people who have wronged them instead of thinking of ways to help others and forgetting the past, allowing the control that hate has on their lives to break away. A few who think far ahead think of going to school, choosing a profession that with gross them a pretty penny, instead of choosing a profession that might fulfill them; “Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life.”

I confess that I have thought some of these same things, but I mostly think of who I want to be when I am old. How do I want to be remembered when I am gone. In the history of the world, few people are written about. Even fewer are truly remembered; taught about in school; history channel specials made about them. Will I be one of those people? Likely not. But living a life striving to be better certainly has other benefits. A life mostly free of conflict. Many friends and few enemies. A great memory for your posterity. A reward in eternity from a happy God.

I am a daydreamer, there is no way around it. Does it make me better than those around me who think of fickle and fleeting desires? Certainly not. But it does mean I am in serious need of a manicure.

Prompt 57 - Summer Vacation

Waking up at 10am with bedhead and in desperate need of a shower that last nights skateboard excursion helped bring about due to the hours of skating across town, tearing up the streets and having the time of our lives free to do as we please, go where we please; and do it all free of homework, tests, and often, fortunately or unfortunately, all without parental supervision to let us know that it was all quite dangerous and potentially adverse to our health; bumping into drunks and the homeless unaware if they were sane and realizing all too often they they were not as they asked to climb onto one of our boards and glide down the street just as one would expect a drunk to do, almost killing themselves while we stood nervously and laughed about leaving the house at 11pm to skate after eating so late; most likely pizza and a bottle of soda; imperfect fuel for a perfect day going out into the woods and playing guns, building forts; grass stains and mud on our faces, letting our imaginations not only run wild, but giving them a form and structure as we assembled our battlegrounds in the forests and fought tirelessly to take the next hill and explore uncharted territory, occasionally stumbling onto private property, or city property; all very exciting and dangerous to a bunch of stupid kids spending their summer day inviting friends over to play video games; cereal and milk in unending supply; TV's and consoles scattered throughout the house along with pillows and blankets, tangled wires and sore muscles, shouts of laughter filling every room, every space a memory and every person a story of a day waking up at 10am with bedhead and in desperate need of a shower.

Prompt 59 - Bathroom Humor

Have you ever pooped your pants? This isn't a joke. Really! Have you ever dropped a deuce in your knickers? You probably won't admit it, but I bet you have. All of us have likely, at one point or another, soiled our drawers. And I'm not talking about when you were in diapers. I'm talking about grown men and women doing what only babies and the incontinent do. You might have had a little to much Tabasco on that taco. Or maybe a roller coaster ride that went up and down a little to fast for your bowels to bear. Whatever it was, it probably wasn't pretty. But you don't have to live in the shadows any longer like some gravy thief. Today we exorcise some demons.

I'm sorry. Is this to gross and immature for your refined, one percenter tastes? Do I offend you and your penchant for sophisticated oratory and traditional literature? Well deal with it. Your distaste for the subject is a clear sign that you yourself have, in fact, pooped in your pants and you would care to forget the incident. You are far too transparent.

A friend of mine seemed to be almost proud of his number two tragedy as he iterated it to me one day, a huge grin on his face. He told he had been in a local pizza place eating with some friends. They were doing a little crop dusting on the people sitting around them when things went terribly awry. On his final attempt, he tried to fart and felt a little extra something sneak out. He didn't get up, however. He was afraid that whatever had happened, it might “happen” right down his leg if he stood up. So he just sat there until he was certain it was safe to abscond, his friends laughing the whole time.

It reminds me of a famous pant soiling episode that was unfortunately brought to America's attention when famous weatherman and Today Show anchor, Al Roker, confessed to his own diarrhea debacle. On live TV, Roker said that on a visit to the White House, he was walking down a hallway alone and felt that he had to fart. Now at this point I was thinking “terrorism!” Al said that he let one loose and accidentally pulled the brownies out of the oven before they were done. (My words, not his). He said that he ran to the nearest bathroom and unloaded the irreparably damaged underwear into the White House waist basket. Can you imagine the surprise the cleaning lady got the next day! He went commando for the remainder of his presidential visit. Al, however, has a “condition.” What was my excuse?

I was at school and in class. My stomach suddenly began to churn like an Amish butter maker. I tried to wait and just let it subside but sometimes the trash has to go out before the bag is full if you know what I mean. I asked to go to the bathroom and shimmied out the door and down the hallway with my butt clenched like a coke head at a drug bust. I made it to the bathroom and slammed the stall door and prayed that no one else would walk in. Like our friend Al, I had a clean up on aisle two. I did the best I could to repair the sail but this ship was going to have to stay away from the shoals if you know what I mean. It has happened a few times since but has been in the comfort of my own home, where a fresh pair of underpants is a dryer sheet away and there is no fear of a rickety stall door separating you from a very embarrassing nickname. My excuse? Crohns. It's the best explanation I can muster.

We have all done it. It's like slipping on ice. It's funny when it happens to some grandma, but when its your nana, not so much. But we don't have to be ashamed anymore that we may have fed the fish once or twice in a movie theater or a church service. It's OK. Al Roker said so. So don't be afraid to share your elimination expositions. Exorcise those demons and be free of the shame. Let that flag wave high. Just make sure it is cleaned first.

Prompt 61A - 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover

1. Dump them
2. Lose them
3. Tell them they stink and hand them a stick of deodorant
4. Jump out of a highrise window
5. Throw them out of a highrise window
6. Badmouth their momma
7. Go on a TV show and tell the world about their secrets
8. Go on a TV show and fail to say “I love you.”
9. Go on a TV show and embarrass yourself to the point that the episode becomes a viral Youtube video
10. Kick their pet dog
11. Yell “heads up” and toss them a kitchen knife
12. Wet the bed a few times
13. Steal their car and go on a high speed chase with police
14. Get caught on a Ballpark Kiss Cam and don't kiss them
15. Buy them a hotdog for their birthday (unless its an adorable inside joke)
16. Tear the head off their favorite stuffed animal in a touchdown dance
17. Find out that your boyfriend has stuffed animals
18. Play a practical joke on them by peeing on their toothbrush
19. Smack their butt in front of your church
20. Fart in church
21. Carelessly drop a Christmas candle and accidentally ignite the church
22. Crash the children's Christmas program by running on stage in a spandex onesie
23. Start your own church dedicated to them and create little clay statues with their face on it surrounded on a shrine in your living room by an assortment of demonic looking candles
24. Tell them you're gay
25. Crash their car into a sardine factory
26. Forget your anniversary (If they are female)
27. Forget their birthday (If they are female)
28. Forget the Superbowl (If they are male)
29. Tell them you are moving to china to work with children and then accidentally see them at the supermarket after you didn't go
30. Tell them your favorite movie is Birth of a Nation
31. Tell them you thought Schindler's List was a riot
32. Tell them your favorite President is Bush (if they are liberal)
33. Tell them your favorite President is Obama (if they are conservative)
34. When she asks you if she looks fat in a particular garment just say “Do you...!?”
35. Smoke crack
36. Drink bleach
37. Wash their favorite color shirt with the whites in bleach
38. Blow up the house by incorrectly wiring the water heater
39. Tie them to the bed and steal their credit card
40. Take dancing classes and enjoy the dance with the teacher a little too much
41. Suggest they get implants
42. Turn off the TV right when their favorite show has reached the climactic finale and tell them that too much TV is bad for your health
43. Buy them a weight loss DVD
44. Convert to Scientology
45. Enter a convent
46. Convert to Judaism and botch the circumcision
47. Duck tape their eyebrows and rip it off
48. Tell them you're a Lakers fan
49. Tell them you're a Yankees fan
50. Don't compromise; don't communicate; don't give them your time, your energy, or your attention; and for goodness sake, make sure you only TELL them you love them, not SHOW them you love them.

Week 12 - Outburst

Where do you get off? Who do you think you are? I'm not an idiot. I know when I being talked down to. You take most of what I say and throw it in the garbage like a moldy sandwich! Excuse me Zeus! Why don't you inscribe your forked tongue proclamations on a scroll and shoot them down on a lightning bolt from Mount Olympus?! I could probably do most of this myself. And likely far better than you ever could! Do I look like an infant that needs my diaper changed? The hubris you must have to think that your decrees are without fault, when the evidence of their unrivaled stupidity is right before your eyes! Is your name Ronnie Milsap!? Could you for just, one , moment, have the humility to admit your fault? No! My suggestions to you are the equivalent of a fart. You know it has to happen but you hate the smell. Well light a Yankee Candle pal cause there is more where this came from!

What a sorry excuse for a human being you are. If I had to choose between you and a steaming pile of cat feces, I'd go grab a pooper scooper. What goes through your mind anyways? That this whole thing would fall apart if occasionally I lent a hand? Well it's already falling apart and I have barely pulled my hand out of my pocket to scratch my butt! If it was raining and Noah was outside building an ark holding God's blueprints right in his hands, you would probably run out and tell him he's doing it wrong. Unfortunately for you, the boat you have made is so full of holes from the contradictory statements you have made that you would sink faster to the bottom than a “rat” in an Irish mob. There is literally no end to the asinine things that spill out of your fat mouth. I'll tell you one thing, If I could say what's on my mind mind I'd...

“Sorry about that,” says my coworker. “It was a stupid thing to say. Do you forgive me?”

Crap. What a jerk am I?

“Yes.”

Prompt 55 - In the Hands of the Blacksmith

The blacksmith compresses the billows and the dim coals of the forge come to life. He puts on his gloves and cloak. His tools are right where he left them. Unmoved, they sit neatly right next to the anvil. The blacksmith retrieves a bent metal shaft from a neighboring scrap shelf. The metal parts and pieces look rusty and old. They are misshapen and broken, unusable in their current state. The blacksmith doesn't see them as old or broken, however. He sees potential.

The blacksmith nestles the old metal rod under the hot charcoal. The fire burns brightly. It is almost hypnotizing as it shifts and flickers, heating the metal rod burrowed inside its heart. The fire purifies. It make the metal soft, malleable, moldable, changeable. The blacksmith carefully pulls the red hot metal rod from the furnace and goes to work.

Striking the iron over and over he begins to shape the once hard and rigid alloy. The hammer pummels the rod over and over. The blacksmith wipes his soot covered brow and slides the rod back into the fire. He does this over and over, compressing the billows; heating the furnace, molding the iron. He forces his will upon the metal rod, a specific purpose in mind.

Like a conductor, he crafts the rod according to his own vision. His anvil, his hammer, his tongs, his forge; all his instruments. Like the metal rod here and now, these tool had already bent. They had already been shaped and molded by the blacksmith. Once resistant and cold, the fire had made them pliable and weak. But the blacksmith folded them over and over, strengthening them again. Now stronger. Now they were merely an extension of the blacksmiths creativity. Once on the scrap shelf, now with a purpose.

The newly fashioned metal, red hot from the burning coals is plunged into a vat of cooled water. A billowy plume of steam pours out, clouding the air, as the water bubbles and hisses. The steel hardens, its final shape solidified. Shaped by the blacksmith, its purpose sealed. A tool. The blacksmith smiles and sets his newest creation down on the table. Down next to his anvil, his hammer, his tongs, his forge. Once on the scrap shelf, now in the hands of the blacksmith.

Prompt 54 - I Thought, I Said

I thought, “I want to accompany you so bad. You have no idea.”

I said, “I'm busy a I can't can't cancel. But if you would like to do something later...”

I thought, “I would love that huge piece of chocolate cake.”

I said, “No thanks. I'm full.”

I thought, “This is stupid.”

I said, “I'm in!”

I thought, “I'm never going to do that ever again. I swear.”

I said, “Just one more time...”

I thought, “That may be the ugliest thing I have ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on.”

I said, “It's beautiful!”

I thought, “Gimme, Gimme, Gimme!”

I said, “Oh no. Please. You seriously didn't have to.”

I thought, “I really don't want to talk right now. I just want to go home and sit and drool and eat.”

I said, “Yes? What was it you wanted to ask me?”

I thought, “What if something terrible happens. If it does, I have no idea what to do.”

I said, “Nothing is going to happen. Even in the small chance that it does, I've got this...”

I thought, “Right now, there is nowhere else I would rather be.”

I said, “Right now, there is nowhere else I would rather be.”

http://onemillionfootnotes.blogspot.com/

3479: He thought “,” and He Said “.”

Prompt 52 - Sign For Sale

http://maine.craigslist.org/bar/4177436867.html

A single posting on a private sale website. An orange sign leaned up against a white shed. Its face worn and weathered. “Stihl chainsaws, sales and service.” Three hundred bucks and it's yours. Years of service, good and bad, waiting to be sold off. How long had its old, flimsy hooks hung on? They very likely held far past their prime. But you can't hold forever; the sign taken down and put up for sale. The end.

Or maybe its a new beginning? Where will the sign be swept off to? A hosing down and some soap wiping away the grit and grime? Some new hooks and a nice new post? Maybe even decades more of vitality. The opportunity hangs out there, a click away. One page view from a fresh start.

And what will take it's place? The rickety post on which it once hung, empty. What will fill the void. Maybe the sign will be sold and the post torn down, never to return. Or maybe the post will get a fresh coat of paint and a new sign will be hung on its metal frame. A different sign. One without mossy stains on its facade and it's glossy finish completely faded from the driving rain and wind. The old one had held on valiantly , but sometimes it's just time for something new.

Week 11 - View From the Top

The climb begins with a dream. The trail is pregnant with expectation and mystery, yet varying little in its complexity or difficulty. What is more, a friend is by your side, in case trouble should arise. Signs along the well worn path warn of coming adversity.

You can see it up ahead as you begin to feel your blood flowing in your arms and legs. The dirt and gravel turn into stone and roots and you pay close attention to your footsteps as you walk so as not to trip. The full of the rock face reveals itself before you through the trees. You approach it and stop.

One foot, one hand; you climb slowly. Your arms and legs begin to pulse with blood and sweat now drip from your face. As the ground grows farther and farther away, the danger grows closer and closer. Potential energy. Halfway there.

There are no safety harnesses. No rock picks. No clamps. No ropes. No clips. No gloves. Not even a good foothold. Your brow drips. Your muscles tremble Your hands chafe. Your foot slips.

For a moment you feel weightless. Then Atlas; the weight of the world to bear. Fear takes control of your movements as you instinctively reach out for anything to avert whatever happens next. There is nothing there.

Suddenly a hand greets yours; gently seizing on to you. You hold tightly and look up at the light above. Your friend's face quickly turns from fear to joy as they pull you up. You both laugh as you collapse at the top. They say that that is what friends are for.

You wipe your forehead, you take a drink, and you stand at the zenith. The wind cools your face. It carries your thoughts with it into the sky. Staring into the distant horizon you see a mountain; ever so slightly taller than the one on which you now stand. You dream.

Prompt 46 - Gunfight

I squeezed through an alleyway between two abandoned buildings. Me and some friends were in the midst of a gunfight. Not a real gunfight, but a play one. We did this from time to time. I reached the end of the alley and peered out into the snowy street. The coast was clear. I scooted across the roadway and ducked behind a truck. Just then, a man from the other team lept from a nearby doorway and fired several rounds at me. These were not fake rounds, however. I laid there, bleeding, staring up at the the snow falling softly down from the sky and melting as it touched my face. My temperature dropped as I quickly began to fade into darkness.

Back to the beginning.

I chose my weapon and rushed into a dilapidated shed. I was careful. I slowly made my way out of the shed across an open street. The ground crunched beneath my feet as I walked; the snow freshly fallen on the gravel roadway. I pressed against the building and slid along its brick wall towards a iron gate. I heard a commotion beyond and peered around ever so slightly to see if I could catch a glimpse at the situation before I decided to charge in. Just then, a bullet struck me in the head. My limp torso slumped over and landed in the snow with a crunch. My blood dripped out, turning the white powder crimson red.

Back to the beginning.

I was determined. There was absolutely no way my team was going to loose this match. I sprinted over to a doorway and made my way inside out of the storm. Shaking off the snow I crept down the hallway and stopped jut behind a stack of wooden crates with some foreign language stenciled on its side. Hearing the boots of several members of the other team racing through the building, I retrieved a grenade from my belt. I pulled the pin and held on tight. I lurched from behind the wooden crates and raised the grenade, fully expecting to see a small crowd of the enemy taken completely by surprise. What I saw instead was a rifle pointed directly at my face and a single bullet exiting the muzzle.  My grenade fell to the floor.

Game over.

Prompt 47 - Animalistic

After a long day, I came home one evening pining for a chance to just sit down. I slapped together a leftover turkey sandwich and wolfed it down as quickly as I had prepared it. I poured a cup of coffee and finally collapsed into my easy chair. It was one of those nights where you don't feel like doing one single thing. You just want to watch a movie and become a vegetable. There seemed to be nothing on TV on this particular evening, (the football game was earlier in the day), so I did what I rarely do; channel surf. I clicked and clicked until I stumbled upon a program showcasing animals in their natural habitat.

The narrator ushered me through the details: A group of ravenous primates engaged in some kind of animalistic ritual. On a certain date and time these beasts all congregate in a single location and wait. They wait for some time. Days even. They wait s long as they have to in order to be first. Then, when the leader gives the OK, they rush in for the kill.

I watched as the animals stampeded one another merely to get to the prize. Males as well as females, all vying for their chance at victory. The ones in charge had all they could handle just to keep the frenzied gathering in check. In doing so, they were almost crushed themselves. There was no respect, no love, no sympathy. Just visceral aggression. It was a grotesque display as older were trampled by the younger. They had no regard for one another, but seemed to be the embodiment of pure selfishness.

The narrator explained that, in fact, an older one had died during the bedlam. They played the amazing footage back to me in slow motion. And sure enough, you could see as one older one was kicked to the ground and trampled underfoot. But what startled me the most is that these animals didn't even notice. It was as if they had tunnel vision. They could not see the chaos they were engaged in until it was all over and one of their own was lying dead.

The narrator made some quick commentary and then moved on. Something about the first day sales numbers. Despite the carnage that was wrought in select locations across the nation, stores had apparently done quite well. I sipped my coffee which was now getting cold and vowed never to attend a Black Friday sale.

Prompt 44 - Awake

I awoke in a hallway. My older half sister, my little brother and my niece all together. We had gone to the fair and had decided, while I was sleeping, to enter the scariest looking haunted house I had ever laid eyes on. Here we were though, walking through the creepy halls, waiting for the scare to jump out and frighten us right out of our shoes.

I became truly frightened, however, as we passed what looked like a tiny nursery with pink walls and filled with small kids and a singular caretaker holding a baby and teetering in a wooden rocking chair. The goosebumps all over me bubbled up. I tried to tell my siblings that this was a bad, bad idea. That we should not have gone on this ride. But they didn't even seem to acknowledge my appeals. We turned a corner to our right and entered a larger, dark room which had three circular crawl tunnels on its far wall. We stopped and discussed which tunnel to take. Screams reverberated through the pitch black passageways and I became as petrified as a Triassic forest.

I begged my sister and brother and niece not to enter the tunnels but to back out of the haunted house and go on another ride. They didn't listen, however. They didn't even look at me and dove, head first, into the tunnels, crawling into the darkness. I was left standing in that empty room, all alone. Suddenly I heard a terrifying noise and I didn't waist any time. I ran back down the hall.

I then heard large, lumbering footsteps behind me. The hall seemed to grow longer as I ran back toward the entrance. As I realized that I might not escape, I swung through door of the nursery and hid behind the doorway. I found all of this to be truly terrifying as just like my siblings, none of these children or their attendant even looked at me. It was as if I were not even there.

Then suddenly, through small slit at the hinge of the door, my eye captured a giant shape passing by and leaning through the pink door. It seemed to me like a giant minotaur, but I was not about to take the necessary steps to make that a certainty. I stayed there behind the creaking door, watching the beast with a single opened eye through the narrow crack. It's massive lungs quickly breathed out of its nose causing me to flinch ever so slightly. My heart pounded like the Tell Tale Heart, working so hard at giving my position away. I sat for what seemed like an eternity, curled up in the fetal position. The giant beast then leaned back out of the pink doorway and stomped away back towards hell. Immediately I jumped up an ran towards the exit.

I ran right to my mom and dad who were seated at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Why are you crying,” my mom asked she hugged me close.

“I had a dream,” I said, the terror of being chased down that dark hallway as my siblings were being devoured still lingering strong in my mind.

“Your first nightmare,” my dad said as my parents sat me down at the table with a hearty bowl of cereal.

I was simply glad to be awake.

Week 10 - Camping

When your drowning, you don't really think. You struggle and slash violently to reach the surface, not realizing that the thing that has hold of your foot could be merely brushed away with the casual tug of your fingers. But no. You aren't thinking. You are strangled by it. Suffocating. The 'thing' suddenly becomes the embodiment of fear. A starved creature from the deep, feasting on your foot. Then maybe your legs. Then perhaps once you have inhaled enough water to flood your lungs, sending you drifting not just into the current of the dark lake, but into eternity, the creature might carve into your bones.

In a matter of seconds, all these thoughts and more flash before you like the sunlight through the waves above you. Can anyone hear you battling against death itself? Where is your family? Where is anyone who could save you? Are they distracted, cooking hot dogs over the fire? Surely someone is on their way to pull you up out of the water like Peter amidst the raging storm.

Your chest tightens as you fight to not inhale. The one thing your body wants to do becomes the one most terrifying thing you could do. Your head becomes dizzy and light as your legs kick and churn. Maybe this is it, you think. You feel the greasy tentacles of mortality wound around your foot, dragging you down to the depths, and you push up towards the light one last time.

Breaking free you pull at the water and reach air. A gasp escapes out of your mouth and you crawl to the shallow of the shoreline. Your family is sitting around the fire, talking and eating. Your brother not but a few feet away in the water. You realize that in all your slashing and fighting, you didn't even make a peep. Not even a ripple on the surface of the water. And the beast that had come so close to devouring your waterlogged corpse was nothing but a simple grass weed. A small fish burrow had caused you to slip and get tangled up for just a mere moment. Coughing and hacking you hear the voice of your father saying to you from the comfort of dry land, “are you OK?”

“Yeah.”

Week 9 - The Concert

Sitting nervously on the torn seats of a Volkswagen Beetle, I rode shotgun with my music teacher to the University of Maine. The tiny windshield wipers of his puttering jalopy fought furiously to keep the glass clear from the pouring rain. An eyeball bobble-head bounced around on the dashboard as I prepared mentally for the Maine Allstate coral performance. In the meantime, my music teacher and I made small talk about the things that unite us all; like politics and religion.

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“I don't fit in here,” I thought as we waited in line at the University campus to enter the large auditorium classroom to begin the rehearsals. There were hundreds of kids from all over Maine, many of which were fantastic singers. Yet I, a sports loving, drum playing, video game addicted nerd who hung out with geeks and skateboarders, felt as if I was dropped on an alien planet. There were almost no boys that shared my common interests as far as I could tell. Let us just say that most of these girls could not have found a date here if they had tried. The boys were a little flamboyant and I felt somewhat at ease with this realization. After all, all these girls and yet so few who were interested? Great odds for me though. I avoided the distraction and focused on singing.

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I stood there amongst the tenors as the coral director walked on stage to the applause of the crowd assembled in the Main Hall. My family were among them, seated towards stage right. The director tapped that little plastic magicians wand on the music stand and the concert began. Three hundred of us all putting to practice what we had learned, working our way through the songs with expert precision. I marveled at how amazing we sounded. Accompanied by nothing other than a piano, and due to the masterful tutelage of the coral director, we sounded like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Seemingly without effort, our voices rose up and down, filling the hall with emotion in total synchronicity. The hall filled with uproarious applause.

Prompt 39 - Snow Fight

A billowy coat and stay puffed marshmallow man pants. A pair of goofy looking boots and some mittens knitted by my grandmother. A scarf that wont stay wrapped around my neck for long and a look out the window. We run out the door and through the freshly fallen snow; deep and blinding. "To the fort" we yell as we charge like mounted Mongol raiders sacking a village.

Up the embankment and over the hump. Teams are divvied up and bedlam ensues. Snow flies from every direction. Ducking behind a car. Hiding behind a snow bank. Diving into a snow tunnel. My palms became cold from squashing the wet snow into a ball over and over. I throw snow at this one and that one, leaping over embankments piled high from the snow plow. The snow banks are convex and hard on the front and piled high with perfect snowball snow on the backside. The blue hue that blanketed everything reminds me of the abominable snow man from the Rudolph movie.

Running, jumping, diving. Our energy limitless. Forming attack squads we patrol around the buildings searching for a person to ambush. Snow forts stacked and carved like ice sculptures. Buckets of water poured over the top to solidify the edifice. The structures a marvel of ingenuity. Our battles legendary. Caesar who?

One can only resist the relentless, piercing cold for so long, however. We saunter indoors, caked in snow and ice. It's stuck in my goofy looking boots. It has hardened my hand knit mittens. It has soaked my stay puffed jacket and pants. I stomp my feet over and over in the hallway, detaching every last nugget of ice from my loins. A cup of hot coco stirred up by my mom awaits. A warm heater. A change of dry, warm, yellow pajamas with Spiderman on them. The spoils of victory.

Prompt 42 - I Am A Jesus Freak

1. I am a Jesus freak (That means like I kind of like Him)
2. I am a coffee snob
3. I shop at Walmart for almost everything
4. I like living in a quaint neighborhood.
5. I like Boston sports.
6. I consider myself to be somewhat of a man’s man
7. I cried at the end of Gladiator and Toy Story
8. Plus most any other movie that has emotional climaxes
9. I am creative
10. I enjoy listen to and playing music
11. I am pleased to report that I am a news junkie
12. I hate tomatoes but love ketchup
13. I love the sound of baseball cards in bike spokes
14. If I were trapped on a desert island and could only choose one type of food it would be potatoes
15. I prefer blue jeans over khakis
16. I like computers
17. I sometimes shout at things I see on TV though I know that no one can hear me
18. I own a suit of chain mail
19. I have never gone hunting but desperately want to see if I can do it
20. I am afraid of heights
21. I am afraid of bugs crawling across my face
22. I am afraid of ax murderers in the dark
23. I prefer soft serve (because of the price)
24. I am creative
25. I like photography and graphic design
26. I cannot seem to keep my apartment clean
27. I like the cold over the heat because you can only take so many articles of clothing off before you are charged with indecent exposure
28. I once fell out of a tree and landed directly on my head

Prompt 41 - Crash

The sun is setting. Perfect light for photography. The grass and trees along the roadway on Cadillac are still without a wind to move them. The road twists and winds. Fall leaves cover that mountainside. My favorite season to photograph. I park my car at an overlook and cross the road. Climbing the lichen covered stones that have sat there for millenia, I spot a perfect shot. Kneeling down I frame my shot and, snap, take it.

I race up a hill and storm the lair of the dragon. He launches into the air and sweeps around behind me. I turn just in time to plant a blow into his neck. Reeling, he breaths a wave of fire at my raised shield. I hack and slice until his lumbering body falls permanently to earth. Running towards him I climb onto his back. He tries to throw me off but to no avail. I land the killing stroke and absorb his essence. One more for the trophy hall I have erected.

A new logo for a new Church mission. I search for inspiration and collect ideas. I sit down and start to craft and shape them in Photoshop. I work and toil rejecting and accepting different ideas. Then I stumble on one that sends my mind racing. Creativity pours in and I assemble them into the finished product. The triumph of a job well done and the satisfaction of knowing you have contributed to a worthy cause are my payment. It is worth it.

My computer runs slower than it ever has before. I run anti virus. Nothing. I uninstall programs. Nothing. Suddenly I get an error message in blazing red, flashing onto my screen. It is a hard drive error. Then, nothing.

Prompt 36 - My Street

I walk out of my apartment and cross the street to retrieve the mail. Pulling the mail from the box I sift through looking for anything but junk. Down the street I hear children laughing and playing. I stop for a moment and take it all in. The leaves are still green but the air has a chill that only comes after Labor Day. A big wheel rolls into the empty street. Then another. Chasing each other across the street and then onto the lawn, their imaginations have them on a dirt track in front of thousands, ripping and tearing towards the finish line.  They ride across the grass, chased by their little friends.

A cat saunters around home up the street. She sees me out of the corner of her eye and stops. She slowly makes her way to me but keeps her distance. She has no collar and appears unkempt. I bend down and slide my hand forward. She remains suspicious and stays put. I make a few “cht cht cht” sounds to help entice her to make a new friend. She stares and then turns, walking away.

The street is quiet as it always is (save for the laughter of the kids). The wind quietly shifts the trees as the sound of a mower can be heard afar off. I make my way back to the house. A car swings around the corner and drives down the street. They give a small wave of the hand and turning into their driveway. I walk back indoors, leaving the door ajar so to hear the wind in the trees.

Prompt 37 - Down in the Boondocks

The night was saturating. Haphazardly guided by the disembodied voice of a woman presumably from Great Britain, we weaved around each corner, trusting that we would be led out. The darkness seemed to close in on us from every side. The two dimmed beams of my headlights striking vainly into the blackness. Droplets of rain on the windshield obscured my view. I leaned in, peering through the crude swiping of the windshield wipers. The kind English woman reassured us with every passing directive that we were not lost. Turn left. Turn right.

The dense, midnight forest fed into the fear. We passed by an occasional home; windows dark, porch light off. Reminiscent of a canoe ride down white water. Deep in the Western Maine woods we searched for something familiar. Twisting and turning, blindly following directions from a computer hundreds of miles above our heads, whirling around the planet at thousands of miles and hour. No gas station. No convenience store. Not even a semblance of a downtown. There was only trees and rain and darkened houses.

The wind whipped and whirled, whistling as it squeezed into the crack and crevasses of my car. I half jokingly hollered and complained; arguing that a paper map would be far superior at this point of time. Cracking jokes about never making out alive and postulating how it would all end.

Then suddenly, a right turn and we came face to face with civilization. A popular summer lake front, complete with lakeside restaurants, motorboat rentals, and hotels. Most of all, streetlights. The night took a step back as we drove lazily down the long boulevard that seemed to come out of nowhere. The fear was swept away on the winds and the frustration washed away with the rain. Homeward bound and out of the boondocks.

Week 7 - "Pistol" Pete

During the day, there is a man who wanders the streets. Behind him he pulls a Red Rider Wagon full of Windex and window scrubbers, hawking his services to every business owner who will listen. After dusk, he checks the doors of every shop on Main Street, making certain they are not open wide for any enterprising burglars. Over the years he has built for himself a bit of a legend. Pistol Pete is what he is called by locals, but his real name is Peter McEldowney. He is somewhat of a local institution to those who know him; and believe me, they are numerous. Yet however notable Peter is, he has become so due to the many uproarious, and sometimes downright dangerous situations he has created, often unwittingly. Yet despite the setbacks, he rolls that wagon out every day, determined, and puts his nose to the grindstone. Or perhaps to store front window glass.

Pistol Pete lives just off Main Street behind a Mexican restaurant. I believe he has someone who is there to help him with the goings on of day to day life, but Pete is fiercely independent. All of this is because Peter has a mental disability. I would not say he is a severely handicapped, but he does get himself into trouble. Peter is a tall man. Probably around six five. He wears a graying beard and always has a colorful pair of suspenders that he likes to snap against his chest. When he is feeling particularly assertive, he enjoys flexing his arm or ballooning his stomach and then asks you to touch it. I have never been one to do so. He is loved by many, but every so often, a situation arises and you can't help but chuckle thinking, “there goes Pete.”

I used to work on Main as a barista at a coffee shop. While there one day, I was startled by water suddenly being sprayed at the windows. It was Pete giving what I thought was a complimentary hosing. A little obnoxious, sure. But I though, “well it's Peter. What are you going to do?” A lot it turns out. Once finished, Pete trotted in and asked for payment of his services that he had not been commissioned to undertake to begin with. Once he was told that he would not be paid, he demanded a free lunch in stead. My superiors, not wanting to start another World War, consented to his threatening demands and he ordered a bowl of soup and a juice, both hand delivered by me. Moreover, I can personally attest to a tremendous level of satisfaction on Peter's face as he sipped that last drop of lentil of the rim of the bowl. To top it all off, the windows were still dirty.

Amazingly, a similar thing happened that winter after a blizzard hit and dropped more than a foot of snow on our heads. I came in early in the morning to shovel only to find that the walkway was already clear; mostly. It came to my attention that Pete had come during the night and shoveled the walkway; over and over and over again. He said he should be paid three times over because he had come three times to shovel the snow. This time my boss refused. Pete had not been asked to do it and furthermore, instead of waiting until the snow stopped, he decided an easy way to stack the cash was to shovel four inches three times instead of twelve once. Admittedly a brilliant plan, but fruitless nonetheless. Needless to say, Pistol Pete never came back to shovel.

Perhaps the best story of all is the one that cemented the “Pistol” in front of the “Pete.” Legend has it that late one night, at the Citgo station that once stood midway up the street, Pete approached a Brinks truck that had stopped for an exchange. At that time, Peter carried a hand radio tuned to the police frequency (something the police knew about), and a plastic gun that happened to look very real, (I think you know where this is going). Peter, probably thinking that the two Brinks men might be burglars merely dressed as money transporters, pulled his gun on the duo. Predictably, they reciprocated and pulled their guns, both very not plastic. Peter then demanded that they drop their weapons in a brave attempt to thwart a non-existent robbery. Again, they did the same. The entire incident may have gone terribly awry if it had not been for a local resident who knew Peter and stopped what would have made a very tragic story, and not a staggeringly hilarious story. Thus, “Pistol” Pete was born.

Now that I have left Main Street for greener pastures, I only occasionally bump into Peter. And when I do, he snaps his suspenders and asks me to touch his muscles. I still have not.

Prompt 33 - We Gather Here To Remember

Every seat is filled by a friend. This is the very first memorial in a new church. The beautifully decorated stage with its flowers and sentiments is merely secondary to a single photo on a pedestal. An older man, smiling at the crowd that has gathered to remember a life fully lived. He is tall. About six foot ten, I believe; judging by where my head stood while shaking his hand every Sunday morning. I stand in the back for a lack of seats, just another friend.

Music begins and pictures fill the screen overhead. A newborn baby in his father's arms. A child posing for his photo high atop Cadillac mountain, knickers held high by a pair of suspenders. All of the images are black and white, taken many decades ago. Tears begin to stream down faces as they look at the passing memories, remembering the moments they captured.

The young boy in the pictures becomes a man, married with children. Photographs of family Christmas's and summer picnics. The man grows old until a final, lasting image remains on the screen. A John Wayne type character standing in front of his truck, the wind in his face. The music ends and there isn't a dry eye.

Singing follows. Not mournful, grief filled songs, but hope filled songs. They sing with an assurance of a future greeting at a pair of gates. The tears on his aged wife's face trickle down her cheeks to a smile below.

Week 8 - Bubble Pond

It all begins with a sudden gust of wind from the south, through the break in the mountains that leads to the Atlantic, and rushing across the water of this modest valley giving life to everything. The glass is dissolved, transformed to rippled waves that slosh against the small, pebbled shore. Water grass fans as the breeze runs up the pond and into the trees, shaking the red, yellow, and orange foliage from its slumber. A chill runs up my back as the winds breath upon my sun drenched face. I shudder and lean over to zip up my jacket.

The sun casts long shadows against the vibrant, dying mountainside. From where I stand, the top cannot be seen. I begin to walk along the thin gravel pathway that traces the water on its western shoulder. Gust after gust break the fragile leaves away from their birthplace high in the canopy and shower them like painted snowflakes down to the mossy, wooded floor. The dusty dirt trail twists through the shedding trees that now blanket the forest floor in a sunning palette of color. The ground crunches under my feet as I tread lightly, taking in the beauty of the scene around me through all my senses.

I come to rest near a small brook peppered with flat stepping stones. The breeze courses through the forest once more, bending the white birch trees and emptying their crowns of their bounty. The line of demarcation moves slowly up the mountain as the sun sets over the horizon. I turn and snap several pictures. A moment fixed for eternity. A windswept pond nestled like a baby, cradled between the long arms of the Fall mountains; for me, unchanging.

Prompt 34 - Poetic Graf

Thanksgiving is when you really hit your stride Uncle. Ohh! I can already taste that chocolate fudge. And the turkey is so moist it dissolves in your mouth. Did your wife teach you how to cook like this or was it Nana? If they are the King Arthur of the kitchen kingdom, you are certainly Merlin. The magic you put into the food is something to behold. And then quickly after beholding, eating. And then quickly after eating, watching football with the family; holding our bloated stomachs hoping they don't burst. I can't wait.

Your wrinkled face shows no signs of aging. You would think a trial like the one you faced in the second World War might have worn you to the bone. But no. In the past, you never did talk much about the war. Like a secret sealed chest, you kept it closed, afraid that like Pandora, it would somehow get out. But lately, I've heard that chest creaking open, breaking its rusted locks to reveal wondrous treasures within its tattered facade. Grampa, you're as sharp as a tack that has been filed down on a whetstone wheel. I've got an ear, waiting, if you ever want to share those tales with the world.

Chris, where did we loose each other? Was it right after high school when we both went our separate ways? I know you as well as anyone. We were best friends. I hope we still are. You always tried to fit in, not realizing our friends and I didn't care about that. I remember planning to start a business together. The plans we made and the dreams we dreamed were as good as done. Yet now, you are as far off as an untethered ship, loosed in the night by the rocking waves. I feel as if I should, sort of, climb into a boat, sail out and bring you back to the safety of the harbor. Back to shore where we dreamed about today and called it the future.

Prompt 30 - Her Eyes Convict Me

I have so many questions to ask her. “How are you doing?” That is the question I ask as I look at her profile picture she has uploaded to Facebook. She has a smile on her face, but it looks painted there as though when the camera's flash bulb breaks, immediately after that smile will disappear. Like a shooting star tearing across the black of space; that smile is gone as soon as it arrived. She lived out her teenage years in our home. An adopted daughter of my mother, but born to my father and a previous wife. My mother captained a tight ship, and my sister never could do as she was asked when she was asked to do it. Maybe that drove her away, maybe not. We all have our reasons. Most of them are not particularly good. Many of our actions seem admirable at the time, but we soon come to regret them.  We all harbor regret. The story of her life.

Her hair is dark as the night sky. Shimmering like silk and naturally curvy. Like the ocean, her temperament was restless. Always searching. Always running like she was being chased by a ghost. Never staying in one location, or with one man very long. Yet as I look at her photo, she seems to be finally settled. Like a shooting star, turbulent and volatile, but striking the ground and then laying for eternity at rest. I wonder. Has she found rest?

The endless searching led her straight into the arms of drugs. Hard drugs. The kind of drugs most people never come back from. Her arm almost didn't. She contracted hepatitis on a used needle. An infection caused doctors to come close to an amputation. But in her photo, I see determination on her face as well. She fought back. She has been weathered by the tempest, her face one of experience. And with experience, the ability to teach. Young girls need to hear her tale. Is she telling her story?

The room in which she is sitting in the photo appears to be a dorm like apartment. I believe she is in some sort of rehab center fighting to make a life beyond the one she has now left behind. She has gained weight too. Her face was once bone thin because of the drugs, but no longer. Her naturally tanned, Passamaquoddy complexion is evident. Once pale and gaunt, she now appears healthy. She may now be healthy, but is she happy?

We don't really speak these days. Haven't in years upon years. The anticipation of that awkward feeling one gets when there is nothing to say seems to great to overcome. To powerful to allow either one of us to move beyond just looking at photos on the web. Yet the words just won't come out. I want to ask her how she is doing. Ask her all of my many questions.  Her picture, more than anything else, says to me, “I am different now.” It says to me, “you will have to get to know me all over again.” Maybe someday I will put my fingers to the keys and ask her. I'd ask her all the questions shooting through my head.

Though her smile seems put on, her eyes tell the true story. They are deep and dark. Her body may be scarred and her face much older now than when I remember. Her eyes, however, have not aged a day, yet they carry a lifetime of knowledge. Those eyes reveal that she is still searching. Content, but still searching for a place to belong. A person who will be accepting. Those eyes convict me. My conscience asks, “will you be the one who will end her search? Will you quit being a coward and speak up?  Forget your silly questions and get to know her again!” Her photo online fades off the screen as quickly as it appeared.

Prompt 31 - Mum

When asked, “who is the first person you remember,” like avalanche, the faces of those I love pour into my head, crushing it into jam. But sitting pretty atop that mountain of wonderful people is more often than not, my mother. I never actually call her “Mother.” I don't even use the title “Mom.” As a little bit of a Downeaster, I simply call her “Mum.” My mother is far and above, more Downeast than me, so naturally, she is accustomed to such breaches of etiquette. She raised us children with a humility that matched her own beginnings. While there are many who I hold dear, she is dearest.

My mother was born and raised in the village of Blue Hill, Maine. Much like what you read in Charlotte's Web, White could not have penned the time in which my mother grew up any better; save for the talking spiders and such. Much like myself in childhood, she did not have much in the way of what the world deems as wealth. But the life she lived, and the things she learned were seemingly more than sufficient to supply us children with a very “wealthy” upbringing.

I remember her and my father getting a divorce. You already know the whole story as theirs was no different than the ones you read about. But after that, she had to work hard to keep us fed. Work hard to keep us clothed (though much of what I wore were hand-me-downs. A trick moms use). She had to work hard to keep us warm in the winter, walking miles a day to work and back on account that she never earned her license. She worked hard, plain and simple. Necessity dictated so.

Don't get me wrong, however. I remember plenty of times in which I thought none of these things about her. You try loving someone when they are whaping your hind end with a wooden mixing spoon you bought them for Christmas when you were seven. It's hard to do unless you know you deserve it. And much of the time I did. But when you are a child, you don't understand these things. Pain is only temporary. Spankings only last for the few minutes they are administered and until you mother asks you why you were spanked and gives you a hug and kiss. Oh kisses! Better than bandaids. If you could wrap them up and sell them you be sitting down with Bill Gates holding a pen and asking him “how much?”

When asked, “who is the first person you remember,” I really do have a hard time. There are so many people that have graced my life and played such enormous roles in developing who I am as a man. But few can come close to making a man what he is than a woman. And as it was for Lincoln, so it is for me. That woman is my Mom. I remember my mother first because I knew her first. I was buried in the darkness inside her womb for nine months, just getting to know her. I remember her first because she taught me the most. The importance of hard work. Not just hard work, but hard work without boasting. She did it all with quiet humility, something I strive to match. Maybe most importantly, however, she fed me first. As a tiny baby. And on the occasional Sunday when I drive over to her apartment, she continues to feed me. I shouldn't have to tell you how good her potato's and meatloaf is. She isn't my Mother, she's Mum. And she's first.

Week 6 - Our Dogtown

It was our sanctuary. After the sun had set, and the lamp lit streets grew silent, we grabbed our skateboard and flew down the hill toward the city. It was summertime. We had no where to go when the sun decided to rise, so we took advantage of our surroundings. During the day, we would be driven away by businesses and police alike, banned from skating most places due to some misplaced stigma that comes with the banished sport. So when those business people locked up, and the police went home, we came out of hiding.

It was like a movie. We would roll at about twenty miles an hour, carving our way down the largest hill in the city like a unbound dragon. Picking up speed we would turn sharply, cutting across the roadway and leaning into the turn. We would try and lean far enough to skid our fingers along the pavement, just like the original Z boys of Dogtown. Though in our fantasies, we were fearless, in actuality our fearlessness ended at around thirty miles an hour. That feeling of loosing control; the thought of impending injury or death slowed us down as we reached the bottom of the hill. In all of our days skating, only one of us ever conquered the whole hill, and when he did it, we almost hailed him as king.

At the bottom of the massive hill lay a bridge, and on the other side, one of our favorite spots. In a small town, particularly an old New England town, there are few places to skate. Unlike bicycles, a skateboard requires a smooth surface. A single crack or the tiniest pebble can end your ride and quickly. Brick, cobblestone, or crumbling concrete are like kryptonite for the small hard rubber wheels of a skateboard. Our city was covered in such places. We had to make due with a select few spots. And those spots were only accessible during the night time hours. The spot we rolled towards tonight was one of the best.

We skated over the three lane bridge. Its lines were worn and faded, built over a river that one hundred and fifty years ago was more logs than water due to the mills that littered the shoreline. Past the dam. It was an imposing monolith holding back the lake from before I was born, perennially making me wonder if someday it would break and destroy the whole town in a violent torrent not seen since Johnstown. It already had almost one hundred years ago. Around the homeless shelter. My sister had to stay there once, the inside walls covered in colorful paintings of children dancing over rainbows and beds around every corner of the building. Then down the street past the pub. You had to avoid the drunks that would stumble out and ask to ride your board; the red neon lights in the window alerting you to the nature of the business before you even saw the main sign.

This street was hundreds of years old. Horses once hauled lumber and ice up and down its muddy surface. Schooners constructed hundreds a year ago were built right on this very road which borders the shore of the river and were employed to to ship lumber to the West Indies. Even after the great fire, this street was a place of industry. And now, here we were, twenty first century, a group of hooligans rolling towards one of the town's larger businesses late into the night.

The tangerine colored streetlights illuminated our way as we popped onto the roadway and cruised down the center line. The smell of fish wafted into our olfactory glands, causing us to grimace in disgust.. Coming to a stop, we picked up our boards and walked up to our destination. The loading docks of a seafood company. The smell was bad at first, but after about one half hour, you didn't even notice. The concrete of the docks were so smooth. One push off with your foot could propel you the full distance if your bearings were good. Each and every truck port had a varying distance and height, making the loading docks a versatile location to practice a vast assortment of tricks. We did so with reckless abandon, giddily taking turns, one after the other, giving it everything we had.

The night waxed quickly and we soon found ourselves staring at a clock much later than we had expected to see. The old saying, “time flies,” seemed particularly relevant on these occasions. We made our way home. Past the pub, around the shelter, over the bridge, and up the gargantuan hill. The final crucible of a late nights ride. We would crash into our beds, like a drug addict coming down from a high; adrenaline giving its place to exhaustion. But we were free. Free to skate, free to go, free to be ourselves. Scraped knees, bruised shins, sore muscles. These were our battle scars. And those scars do not disappear, and neither do the memories. I often reminisce when I drive past those places where, in the early morning, we would consecrate the ground, building friendships on the cheers of a successful ride.

Prompt 26: Hospital Visits

I broke many bones as a child. I broke my right wrist jumping from my bunk bed, then a year later sprained it. I sprained my ankle causing it to swell up like a balloon. My left elbow was broken after falling out of a tree. I wouldn't stop poking an older kid with a stick apparently making him quite angry. He picked me up and threw me, and landing on my back, I broke my collarbone. Finally, to top things off, I was attacked and bitten by a chow; that's a big dog for those who don't know. To summarize, I was making headway for while on beating Evil Knievel’s record. I spent many an afternoon in the hospital back then. But after all of that, I did not return to the hospital for over ten years. Not one broken bone. Not one bog bite. I was as healthy as a hockey puck in a hurricane for over a decade. But then came the stomach pains, and I returned once again. This time without my Mom or Dad to pay for it.

I vaguely remember the times in which I visited the local hospital as a child. I can recall entering the ER and being ushered to a waiting room where I would sit in excruciating pain for what seemed like forever with a dozen other people who looked as bad as me. A lady with strings on her glasses sat behind a pane of sliding glass, a quizzical look on her face. When finally we were brought into the ER and sat in an exam room, we would have to wait even longer for a doctor to show up. I remember sitting their on a crunchy, paper covered bed, waiting. Most of your time in a hospital is spent waiting. Everything was so white. White floors. White walls. White ceiling. Even the pens the doctor wrote with were white. He wore a long white jacket and had short, white hair. You can almost go snow blind with all the white in a hospital.

My Mom would sit there next to me in a chair, comforting me as best she could. It smelled like plastic. Plastic and bleached linen. I would be taken to get X-Rays which were scary. A huge metal machine being brought to bear on your tiny little arm. And the people taking the X-Rays would take shelter in a dark room. If they are way back there, I thought, why am I out here? The doctor would set the bone and then a bright colored cast would be gooped onto my arm, wrist, or whatever, and over a month later I would return to get the thing chopped off. Not my arm but the cast.

I had not been to the hospital for a long time until over a year ago. Pains in my stomach forced me to return. Yet the whole place had been flipped inside out and upside down. I had met with a doctor and scheduled a colonoscopy to determine if the doctors tentative diagnosis was correct. Funny thing is, my dad showed up to visit with me. As a grown man, it was a little awkward to have your parent be there with you, but he wanted to come so I was not about to say no. Lucky for me though, he would not be allowed into the operating room.

The whole place looked different. They had renovated the entire building, adding on a massive new structure. The entrance was now different, the hallways were different. There were more windows, more light. But one thing remained the same. The waiting. And in the words of Tom Petty, the waiting is the hardest part. I arrived in the pre-op area after weaving my way through a labyrinthine maze of hallways that were totally unrecognizable from my past visits. I was ushered behind a light blue curtain, given a gown, and told by a very kind nurse to strip down. The curtain seemed like the flimsiest way possible to ensure that my dignity remain intact. It hung there like the drapery hiding King Kong from the theater audience, hardly an effective protection measure. I quickly undressed, putting on that gown as fast as I could. Stuffing my clothes into a tiny locker on the wall, I then sat down in a crunchy, paper covered chair. Everything you sit or lay on in a hospital is crunchy.

When they renovated, they must have realized that a little color never hurt anyone. They had added a dash of color here and there, mostly neutrals, making the whole place as least a bit more hospitable on the eyes. The doctor came in as the anesthesiologist placed the IV in my arm and explained what was going to take place. I was nervous having never been in an operation before. But nervousness soon gave way to delirium. They wheeled me through the double doors and into the operation room area. Immediately it was like being plunged into a meat locker. I instantly started to shiver in the antarctic like climate. I could feel the chemicals in my body start to take hold, making me a little goofy. There were around half a dozen people in the operating room. Each of them was calibrating something or wiring something; busy getting ready for the procedure. I stood up out of the crunchy chair and laid on the crunchy operating table. I was freezing. The temperature must have been forty degrees. Moments after I laid down, I was gone. I don't remember one single thing. It is like a thirty minute black hole in the span of my life.

I woke up feeling like a Monday morning drunk in the room where I began; that thin, blue curtain hanging in front of me. Wondering how I got there, I moved my arms to see if they were still functioning. The groggy delirium soon wore off and I put my clothes back on; quickly. The doctor told me that he believed that the original prognosis was confirmed but that a biopsy had to be done to confirm it. I left the institution feeling a sense of relief, winding my way back through the opal corridors and into the freshly paved parking lot. I had been dealing with this for some time and had waited for an answer. I hate waiting. At least now I knew what I was dealing with. It may be another decade before my next hospital visit though. I wonder what it will be like then. Maybe an espresso?

Prompt 29: Beethoven's Fifth

As my final project in an elective music class a few years back, I chose to attend a classical music concert and write a review. The concert was being held at the University of Maine Orono's Collins Center for the Arts and was to be a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Very Exciting. I had been to the Arts Center before as a member of the Maine All State Choir, a wonderful experience. But I had never had the pleasure of attending a classical music concert ever before. So as you can imagine, I had no idea what to expect. As the days grew closer to the date of the concert, I started to think like a high school girl after having just been asked to the prom. What would I wear? I need a haircut. I was prepared for a masquerade ball like the one in the Phantom of the Opera. But what I got was something a bit different.

I dressed in my best, and it should be noted my only suit. Fitted black charcoal with a blue patterned shirt; black tie of course. I was ready to be filmed. I looked good and I smelled good. I drove up to the Orono campus and began the Carmen Sandiago like search for a parking lot. Being it late November, the air was cold and crisp and a little snow covered the brown lawns and frost bitten pavement. I finally found a space what seemed like seven miles away. I locked up the car and began to walk in my shiny, black shoes toward the hall. I observed many of the other people walking in the direction I was, presumably attendees of the same show I was destined for. But what threw me off was that many of them looked like they had just left the gas station. Sure there were a few who looked the part; well dressed with a black overcoat and red scarf. Yet, many did not look as though they were attending a fancy shmancy orchestral performance, but a local McDonalds. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but the reality was not meeting my expectations.

I entered the Hall vestibule and presented my ticket to the two young college students in the booth. I then made my way through the large lobby that surrounded the concert hall in a half moon shape. Artwork plastered the walls. Everywhere I looked there were African tribal masks or abstract impressionist oil paintings. The place was borderline ostentatious. Yet the observations I had made of the attendees outside were magnified within the hall. I was comforted and reassured that I had not overdressed after seeing several individuals and families dressed in a manner befitting a classical music performance. Others attire, however, made me, a dude from Downeast Maine, feel like a first class passenger on the Titanic.

I took my seat in the hall next to a beautiful, finely dressed young girl. Now that's what I'm talking about. The show was amazing; everything I anticipated it would be musically. The infamous four note motif echoed through the hall, filling everyone with natural exhilaration. The second, third and fourth movements truly moved me as I closed my eyes, studying the music for my final paper. I let the music sweep me up and carry me with it. And when I finally came to rest, I knew I had chosen the right course. I was indeed going to have and amazing paper and presentation.

But the coup de grace, though not quite the grace part, was awaiting me just as I exited the main hall. As I made my way through the lobby and to the doors, I saw to my left what appeared to be members of the cast of Mad Max. I could not believe my eyes as I saw a couple, clad in leather, torn blue jean, and spandex, walking my way. They were speaking with someone, laughing, and generally having a good time. I thought to myself, “I never in my wildest dreams could have imagined this.” They were a living, breathing stereotype with dyed mohawks and giant earrings. I exited the building and made my way home with an entirely new paradigm. Did I judge them? No. Did I assume a little too much about who I might find at a swanky classical music concert? You betcha. And we all know what happens when you assume.

I earned an A on my paper.

Prompt 27: The Safest Place On Earth

It is not the within the historic ivory washed walls of the White House. Neither is it deep underneath Cheyenne Mountain where the North American Aerospace Defense Command resides. No, it not stacked on top of the piles of Gold in the vaults of Fort Knox either. The safest place in the world is most certainly my home. My dwelling is filled with the things I love. Books, sports, family heirlooms, and even what we will call here, “center-fired bad guy repellant.”. More than what I need to be happy. But according to Maslow, happiness requires safety first and foremost. The darkness is all around us these days. Every day, there are new stories of violence and crime. It is easy to just let the darkness in. But my home is full of light.

I have always felt safe here. My neighborhood is one of the safest in the city. Families here are mostly lower middle class. They mostly keep to themselves and no one causes trouble. All of this creates a slice of peace and quiet not to dissimilar to the fictional village of Hobbiton. Except without all the hairy feet; save for mine of course. The crime rate is almost non-existent and when there is crime, it is limited to domestic situations and family problems. Those things, while they can have an obvious adverse affect on the community in the long term, have no direct impact on my abode. My home remains safe and secure. More importantly, because my home is a basement apartment, if someone where to break into the house at large, it would likely be the house upstairs that would be the obvious target.

But my home is not safe only due to external circumstances, but internal ones as well. As one of the one hundred million in America who actively put the Second Amendment to use, I take my safety and the safety of my family seriously. I refuse to rely on other men, however skilled and professional, that are minutes away from me when an assailant is only seconds away. I am the real first responder. Due to the touchiness of the “G” word in our society today (especially in schools, the one place where, ironically, the danger is tragically the greatest), I will leave that portion of this expose where it stands. But I will say that the presence of such tools in the home do not make the home more unsafe. Yet when used with training, safety, and proper care, they make my home drastically more safe.

Lastly, my home is a place of emotional safety too. While my primary place of emotional and spiritual solace remains my church, my home holds firm at second. I am very busy. Between work, church, volunteering, and school, I look forward to finding my way home every day. It is a relief, most times, when I walk through the door and lay down my keys and bag. I often make my way straight to either my bathroom chair or living room chair, plopping down, kicking off my shoes and turning on the TV to see if the world has ended yet. I turn on my computer, see what my friends abroad are into, and do some homework or play a game before it's lights out. Sports populate much of my time at home. As does the news. Though both probably raise my blood pressure slightly, only one typically has a positive outcome.

My home is simple. It is more safe than anywhere I know. Cut out of the earth and crammed about five feet into the soil, it has truncated windows that serve just enough light to not feel claustrophobic, but not quite enough to dispel the darkness. I have adapted, however. I have lamps and lights that compensate, filling my home with light. Darkness has a funny way of creeping in, like with the dwindling intensity of a candle. It comes slowly with the setting of the sun, sinisterly working its way from the ground up to the points of the trees. It takes people who will lite a fire to scare the darkness away, sending it slinking back into its cracks and crevasses. It was Einstein, I believe, that once stated that there is no such thing as darkness, but only the absence of light. Which makes me think; I think I need to invest in bigger windows.