It Runs In The Blood

Just something to make you wonder.

                Sometimes you just gotta go for it.  The simple thing would be to stand by passively.  The simple thing would be to sit by, saying, “This is not my time.”  The simple thing would be to pass it off until tomorrow.  The simple thing would be to continue, as if nothing extraordinary has happened and neither does it need to happen.  The simple thing would be a number of things that require no effort on your part.  But if the whole world stuck to doing the simple things, we would have died off a long time ago.

                Besides, I was raised to avoid the simple things and pursue the not-so-simple.  The not-so-clear.

                So when I heard the screech of tires and turned to see a Jeep Wrangler spinning out of control at seventy miles-per-hour, I didn’t hesitate a moment to start sprinting towards the vehicle in order to aid in any way I could.  And when the driver lost all control entirely, and the vehicle flipped and rolled down into the canyon, I didn’t hesitate to pull out my phone, call 911, all the while still running as fast as my body allowed.

                And it was this decision to act instead of hesitate that changed my life forever.

                The Jeep had rolled off the highway and into the canyon only a hundred meters away from where I had been, so it was only fifteen seconds or so before I was making my way down the semi-steep terrain to the wreckage below.  There was no fire, and I took that as a good sign.  I wasn’t even sure if I should expect fire, but Hollywood had taught me that nine times out of time, a vehicle in a terrible accident will catch on fire.  On the other hand, I couldn’t hear any shouting of any sort coming from the Jeep.  I decided to count on the victim or victims to have been in a daze or shock, rather than dwell on other possibilities.  I recalled a car accident I had been in about a year earlier.  It had been minor enough that I didn’t even suffer whiplash, yet I had been dazed for several minutes from the initial impact and the subsequent airbag explosion.  Point is, I had every reason to hope for the best.  But even if I hadn’t, I still would have found some reason to view the situation optimistically.  That’s the best way to do things.  That’s what I’ve been taught.

                The canyon side wasn’t too steep here and leveled out for a distance after only about a twenty meter decent.  It was here that the wrecked Jeep had settled upside-down.  The person or persons had been traveling without the top on the jeep on, which certainly had worsened the situation.  As I neared the vehicle, pieces of wreckage and glass became semi-frequent.  Scanning the area though didn’t immediately present anyone to me which kept me hopeful that no one had been thrown.

                The Jeep itself was terribly battered.  No side or angle appeared untouched.  The windshield seemed to be missing entirely and the steel support beam for the missing topper had completely caved in.  One glance at the driver vanquished any illusions I’d had that this would all turn out okay.  There was blood.  Lots of it.  There was no doubt that he, I think he was a he, was dead.  His head was split open and something stuck out of his chest.  I didn’t take longer than a couple seconds to take him in.  He was beyond my help and quite, frankly, the sight was making me want to hurl.  And cry.  That too.

                There was a woman in the passenger’s seat.  My heart skipped a beat, as I couldn’t immediately tell if she was dead or not.  There was still a chance.

                I was aware that if she had suffered injury to her back or neck, that moving her could do more damage if I didn’t know what I was doing, which I didn’t.  But she was bleeding heavily from a head wound, and seeing as she was upside-down, I thought she needed to be out.  Besides, the Jeep was leaking gasoline and as previously mentioned, Hollywood had taught me many things about what that could lead to.

                There was very little room to maneuver in the squashed cab, but I managed to get my hand on the buckle to the hopefully not-dead woman’s seatbelt and release it.  Supporting her, I carefully lowered her down and out of the vehicle, laying her on her back.  Kneeling next to her, I put an ear to her mouth and listened for a sign of life.

                There! Soft as it was, she was breathing.  Quickly, I pulled off my shirt and applied it to the wound on her head.

                I could hear sirens.  Good.  When I had called 911, I had quickly explained what I knew of the situation and where I was.  I had been planning to keep them on the line, but cell signal in the area had already been sketchy at best, and I lost signal entirely almost as soon as I had started my decent into the canyon.

                A fire truck pulled to the side of the highway.  I yelled to the first person I could see, informing them that there was a woman alive but in bad condition.  Returning my attention to the woman in front of me, I tried my best to keep the bleeding at bay.  Suddenly, her eyes flashed open.  They were a deep hazel, nearly golden.  She stared straight into my eyes intently and I found myself unable to tear away.  And then she spoke, “Yes.  You will have to do.  I need you to carry a burden.  I’m sorry, but you have no choice in the matter.  Ready yourself.”

                “Ready myself for wh--?”

                Before I could finish, a wisp, like a small cloud or a bit of mist, left her lips and entered in my mind.  It was warm, despite its appearance, and seemed to slither down my throat and into my lungs, proceeding to spread throughout my entire body from there.

                She sighed with relief.  “Good.  It’s all gonna be okay.”  She closed her eyes.

                Alarmed, I shook her, and then pulled back, remembering the whole thing about not moving a person with a potential neck or back injury.  “Yes!”  I yelled at her.  “It is all going to be okay.  You gotta stay with me!  Stay awake!”  The paramedic firefighter showed up then and told me they would handle it from there.  I had no choice but to trust them.

                Several hours later I sat by her bedside.  She had gone into surgery and survived.  She was stable now; asleep and slowly recovering.  They had failed to identify her or her deceased companion, but maybe something would turn up later.  For now, I was all she had, and to be honest, I didn’t mind.  I would watch out for her.  I knew I should and I knew I could.  It may not be the simple thing, but doing the hard thing runs in my blood.

                Especially now.  Now that I carry It.

                Oh, and the Jeep never did catch on fire.

Lewis and Ron

Admittedly, I got lazy today.  It's fall break.  I'm allowed.

Once upon a time there was a rabbit named Lewis.  Lewis had a brother named Ron.  The two of them were loved very dearly by their human, Taylor.  One day, Lewis and Ron were roughhousing and broke a few dishes.  Taylor’s roommates were angry and threw the two rabbits outside.  Lewis and Ron were very upset, not because they were thrown out, but because they broke the dishes.  They never meant to cause Taylor or her friends any grief!  Realizing their mistake, they hopped away, ashamed.

When Taylor got home, she saw that her rabbits were missing and cried and cried and cried.  Then she got up and looked for them in the cold, cold night.  After half an hour, she tracked them to a nearby garbage bin.  Lewis and Ron didn’t want Taylor to see them like this, so they shrunk away, but Taylor swept them into her arms and cuddled them close.  She told them she loved them no matter what and to please not run away again.  She also asked them to stop breaking things.  They promised with kisses on the cheek.

The next day, they broke a lamp.  And so the cycle continues.

This super-short story references a friend of mine and her two rabbits.  This particular event has never happened (as far as I know), but I know that her two new furry friends cause her a lot of trouble, haha.  But she truly does love them.  Plus, I admit, they're adorable.  Taylor has a lot of interesting insights on, well, a lot of stuff, and you should check out her blog.  If anything, you get to see pictures of Lewis, haha.  =D 
Linky: http://kansastypewriter.wordpress.com/2012/09/07/a-new-friend/

Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer

                “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.  Ninety-nine bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around!  Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall!”  An older fellow sitting a couple stools to my right had started up the familiar tune.  A few others joined in with poorly-tuned voices, laughing and cheering all the while.  I took a sip at my beer, not being one of the merry-makers.  It only took a few minutes for everyone to tire of the song, and the voices died down.  All the voices, that is, accept for that of the old man who had stuck up the song in the first place.  “Ninety-three bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-three bottles of beer…”

                Thinking back, I can’t remember a time I’d ever before heard someone sing past even ninety-six.

                My reason for being there in the bar that night is vague in my memory these days, being so insignificant compared to the rest of the night’s events.  I don’t figure on dwelling on it anymore.  That’s what the night was for, and that night is no more.

                A short, stocky young man sat down on the stool to my left, ordering up a draft beer.  His hair was shaved, but not as if he was on leave from military duty.  His look; his demeanor signified a guy who shaved his head by choice.  He probably did many things by choice.  More to the point, I imagined there was very little in his life that he did not have control of.  But that was just my impression.  I could have been completely wrong.  It just so happened that I wasn’t.

                “Seventy-eight bottles of beer on the wall…”

                By this point the singing had become background noise, and I hardly registered it.  It didn’t seem to grab the attention of the shaved-head man either.  Rather, his attention settled on me.  A little uneasily, I broke the silence, “Er, hi.”

                “You aren’t going to want to remain here.”

                “Say what?” I asked.

                “Tell me, what vice do you think you harbor, greater than any other?”

                I looked at him blankly, or at least, I feel like it was a blank look.  Sometimes you give people looks and you realize that the picture you have of yourself is nothing like that which the person is actually seeing.  But at the time, I think I was giving him a look of, “I think you’re crazy, but I’m going to talk to you anyway.”  What I actually said was, “Well, I drink a lot.”  And as if to reiterate my point, I asked the bartender for another beer, even though I had been about to ask for another anyway.  I guess I did reiterate my point, but what’s that matter?

                “Sixty-one bottles of beer.  Take one down, pass it around…”

                “Do you harbor any rage, Mr. Parker?”

                My name.  He knew my name.  “Who are you?” I demanded.

                “Do you?  Do you have a built up anger inside you?”

                I couldn’t help myself.  My mind flashed to her. It flashed to the previous day at work.  It flashed to three days earlier.  It flashed to my boss.  It flashed to my mother and step-father.  It flashed to the doctor at the town hospital.  It flashed to the incident earlier that very day.  And many other things.  It couldn’t stop.  It flashed to everyone in this fucked-up town.  It flashed to it all.

                “Forty-five bottles of beer on the wall!”

                Suddenly I was seething.  I was ready to blow, but experience and practice allowed me to contain it.  I finally answered the man’s question.  “Yes.”

                The man nodded, sipping at his beer.  A minute of silence.

                I asked again, more politely this time. “Sir, who are you?”  At that moment I realized the strangeness of the word.  Sir.  He had to be ten years younger than I, and I had no reason to call him by that.  Yet it had seemed natural.  Right.  Is this what had been beaten into me all these years?  Again, the anger flared.

                As if he was aware of my internal distraction, he had waited to answer.  When I looked back at him, he stated simply, “You called for me.”

                “I didn’t call for anyone,” I replied, draining the bottle in front of me.  I asked for another.

                “It’s probably time you stop drinking those.  We should be leaving soon.”

                “We?”

                “…twenty-three bottles of beer!”

                “Well yes.  After all, I have to take you with me.  Otherwise what would be the point?”

                “The point of what?”  The situation was getting stranger, but then, so too was my mind getting cloudier.

                The man looked at me and smiled.

                A couple more minutes passed.  I started on the beer that I’d been told not to drink.

                “Fourteen bottles of beer on the wall!  Nine bottles of beer!”

                “What’s his role in all of this?” asked the man, pointing at the drunk old man who had been droning on for all this time.

                “I don’t know him,” I said, shaking my head.

                “Ah yes.  I suppose you wouldn’t.  That’s right.  Anyway, it’s time to go.”

                I knew it didn’t make sense.  I knew it was foolish.  Probably even dangerous.  But I couldn’t ignore his pull.  I followed him out of the bar.  He led me to a black limousine, and opened a door for me, where I promptly climbed in.  The engine quietly came to life, and the limo left the parking lot, headed in the direction out of town.  The old man’s tune was in my head, and I felt I needed to finish it, seeing how it had come so far along.

                “Three bottles of beer on the wall. Three bottles of beer!  Take one down, pass it around!  Two bottles of beer on the wall!” I sang.  “Two bottles of beer on the wall!  Two bottles of beer!  Take one down, pass it around! One bottle of beer on the wall!”  The grand finale.  I turned to stare out the back window at the town I had lived in all my life.  The town that I hated.  “One bottle of beer on the wall!  One bottle of beer!  Take one down, pass it around!  No more bottles of beer on the wall!”  The flare temporarily blinded me and nearly simultaneously, the sound deafened me.  The limo shuddered from the shock.  A great explosion.  Knowing I shouldn’t, but feeling no remorse, I laughed aloud and stared with great joy as I watched my town burn to the ground.

From Small Beginnings

To me it's still Saturday.

                 A short, muttered incantation brought forth a sphere of water the size of a golf ball.  With his complete focus on the conjuration, Timothy held it floating there in the air for a second longer before allowing it to drop and splash onto the wooden floor beneath where it seemed to immediately evaporate.  Next was fire.  A similar whispered incantation came forth from his lips, and flame of the same size of that of the water also came forth from seemingly nothing.  Timothy reached for it slowly, deliberately, never once glancing away.  Upon touching it his eyes widened and he pulled his hand back, sticking his finger into his mouth.  Simultaneously, the fire burst, creating a small heat wave that warmed Timothy’s face.  He smiled, pleased and yet also awed.  “Always amazing,” he said to himself.

                Again, water.  Confidently, he spoke the same incantation as earlier, and again the sphere of water came out from nowhere.  This time Timothy held a bowl underneath the orb and continued the ritual.  “Permaneo.”  The water dropped into the bowl, but this time did not disappear like it had earlier.  With obvious familiarity for what he was doing he poured the water into a pot in which grew a single flower with yellow petals and three green leaves.

                Nicolas took a moment to pause and put a hand to his forehead.  Several droplets of sweat made steady progress down his young face, despite the low temperatures of the particular February afternoon.  After getting up and walking around his room a couple times, he sat back down in the same spot in the middle of the floor.  He glanced at the analog clock next to his bed, and nodded to himself.  This time it would be the extended ritual for fire.  The initial incantation.  Out of nowhere came the fire.  Then the second step, “Permaneo.”  The fire stayed in place as Timothy continued to keep it in his gaze.  He brought a candle up to the steady flame and lit it.  Smiling, Nicolas set the candle down and took a deep breath, still with complete concentration on the flame.  “Accelero.”  With that word, the flame sped forward, straight into a sheet of metal that Timothy had earlier set against the wall about five feet away, visibly heating the surface of the sheet as it disappeared.

                “On track so far,” he muttered to himself.  Now it was time for today’s test, what he had been preparing for.  First, water.  The miniature globe of water once again floated in front of Timothy.  “Permaneo.” “Disiungo.”  Bringing up his left hand he pointed at the orb and as if it was attached to the end of a tethering pole, moved it closer to the sheeting.  With his right hand still pointing at the water, he refocused his gaze on the space directly in front of him.   One last time, he brought forth fire.  “Permaneo.”  He took one last, deep breath before softly, but eagerly whispering, “Accelero!”  The fire shot into the water, causing the two items to combine, creating a great cloud of steam accompanied by a shrill hissing.  “Yes!” Timothy yelled, flinging his arms into the air.  “I did it!”

                A minute passed as Timothy sat there, satisfied.   Then came the recognizable sounds of his dad’s car door slamming shut and moments later, the front door opening.  “Timmy!” his father yelled, “Time to get you to basketball practice!”  Quickly, Timothy wiped the sweat from his face, blew out the still-lit candle, and shoved the candle under his bed along with the bowl and the metal sheeting.  Already dressed for practice, he ran down the stairs to the main floor and out the door, climbing into the back seat of his dad’s Ford Focus.

                “Atta boy, Timmy,” said his father enthusiastically, “Excited for practice?”

                Timothy took a moment, considering his words, and finally simply said, “Actually, Dad, I don’t think I much like basketball.”

                Glancing at his smiling son through the rear-view mirror, he chuckled as he replied, “You’re a funny boy.  You get that from your mother, I reckon, heh.  Anyway, what else is a boy of your age going to do with his free time?”

                Timothy smiled to himself.  “You’re right Dad.  I can’t wait.”

Perfect Bliss

Two days and counting, haha.  I like this.  It's interesting what you come up with when you just sit down and write.  With little to no idea of what you're gonna put down.  I encourage trying it some time.

                He doesn’t seem to like that flavor of ice cream.  His girlfriend, Erin, had bought it and left it in his freezer.  Now Jeremy was craving something sweet and the ice cream was just sitting there.  Unfortunately, that look across his face is clearly one of distaste.  Oh well.  Erin likes it anyway.  He’ll just leave it in the freezer for her next time she comes over.  If she comes over again.

                They’ve been having trouble.  The arguments are frequent now.  Sure, most of the time it’s no big thing.  Most of the time it’s actually the same thing, over and over again.  The arguments come in different variations each time, but narrowing them down to their cores, it’s always just the same thing.

                I think Jeremy is pretty aware of the deteriorating state of their relationship.  He doesn’t bother himself with it now, though.  He just got off work and he’s exhausted.  Well, he’s late actually.  Probably worked late.  Too bad the ice cream is no good.  A glass of tea will probably do the trick.  Yep, there.  He’s poured himself a glass and settled down with a book.

                TV used to be a sort of vice for him.  Day in, day out, he would work, eat, watch TV, and sleep.  So he sold the TV.  Sold it for her.  Not Erin, but for Victoria.  I like Victoria, personally.  She’s a good friend.  She pays more attention to me than Erin does.  She likes me.  She slaps me on the back sometimes, kinda hard.  In a playful kinda way though, I can tell.  It’s in her voice.  She’s gentle though, too.  And she listens.  She worries about Jeremy.  That’s the thing.  And she’s not afraid to speak her mind.

                Victoria is one of those points of argument between Jeremy and Erin.  Erin gets jealous, and it’s understandable.  Jeremy is emotionally just as close to Victoria as he is to Erin.  But he’s not a two-timer.  Jeremy is a good, trustworthy guy.  Erin is a wonderful girl, and he knows that, and he loves her.  But I don’t think they’re going to last.  Not at this rate.  And when they finally break up, they will both hurt, but they will both end up happier for it.

                Besides, maybe Victoria will be around more after that.  Jeremy has been a little bit hostile towards her lately.  Because of the arguments, of course.  It’s not his fault.  Not entirely.  He’s confused and he doesn’t know what to do.  Someday it will be clear to him though.  I believe it.

                Jeremy just laughed at something in his book.  He’s got a funny laugh, like he tries to hold it back, but not too hard, since laughing feels good.  He laughs at me when I laugh.  He knows I’m laughing, but he thinks its funny cus it sounds a lot like when I’m grumpy.  Heh, its kinda funny thinking about it now myself.

                I walk up to him now.  He’s finished the book.  He was really closed to finishing it last night, but he just couldn’t keep his eyes open.  He kept nodding off in his chair.  It was cute.  I think he’s cute sometimes.  He wouldn’t like that, but it’s true.

                He looks at me.  “Hey bud,” he says.  He’s calm and collected, but I can see it on his face.  I can see what happened.  I guess it makes sense.   That’s why he was late coming home.  And he wouldn’t have eaten her ice cream otherwise.  He leaves her things be, normally.  “Hey, so Erin and I broke up.  We met after work.  It’s a good thing.  I’m sure of it,” he says.

                I look at him sympathetically.  He’s sad.  But he already realizes it, he’s also free.  I’m happy for him.  He pats me on the head.  “I’ve been mean to Vicky lately.  Think I should invite her over for dinner?”   I jump up into his lap, purring in response.  “Haha, yeah, I know you like her.  It’s decided then.  She’s a good friend and I need to make sure she knows that.”  Settling down, curling up into a ball, he pets me and I purr.  He’s happy and so I’m happy.  His lap is warm and he’s relaxed.  Victoria will come soon.   It’s a good moment.  Perfect Bliss.

Potentially Yours

Two things.  One, I haven't uploaded any comics cus my scanner was broken.  I now have access to a working one, but I've been out of the groove of that kind of thing, and, well you know how that goes.  Second, in order to work on my own potential, I'm trying to write something every day.  This one's a bit dark, but you may find it interesting nonetheless.  Or maybe you'll just find it boring, haha.  Go on, read it.

Charley,

    I feel like our potential is limitless.  “Our” potential being that of yours and that of mine and every other person’s.   Be it applied individually or in a group, it doesn't matter.  We’re all so capable.  So very capable.  That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.

                The will to follow through with this potential is something else entirely.  Some of us don’t possess that will at all.  At least, it doesn't seem that way anyway.  Many of us are perfectly content with moving along day to day at the same steady pace, living normal, relatively-happy lives.  We may not ever reach a fraction of that potential we possess, and we may not go down in the history books, but we die happy nonetheless.  Or, probably more commonly it seems, we die having forgotten the names of the people who kneel beside our deathbeds.  Dementia and that sort.  Perhaps we die from a bullet in the heart, an innocent (or not so innocent?) victim of a drug cartel.  Maybe we die by our own doing.  I hope not, but I watch the news.  I’m not ignorant.  I know how things go.

                Besides, I don’t blame those who take their own lives.  I wouldn’t.   Take my own life, I mean.  I wouldn’t do that. But I don’t blame them.  It’s a fucked up world out there, full of liars and cheats.  The selfish types, you know.  The world is full of those.  So, sometimes, how are you to trust anyone?  Even your family and friends.  Hell, say that one particularly bad day, a day when the selfish nature of all those damned people out there was made quite clear to you through various instances, large and small.  On that particularly bad day, I wouldn’t be surprised if you looked at the adoring eyes of your dog, who only wants a pat on the head and perhaps a little chow in the food bowl, and saw only evil in the poor little thing.  I wouldn’t be surprised if you convinced yourself that the canine was plotting against you as well, like every other mutherfucker out there, and you picked the poor thing up and dropped him over the banister in order to mutilate him, perhaps kill him.  Maybe you’d finish the job.  I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.  If the day was bad enough.  Hell, I might not even be upset by your act.  Who can expect something else?  Who can?

                Well, it seems that plenty of people do.  Including yourself, I’m sure.  Admittedly, including myself also, but at least I tend to keep an open mind.  On some things.

                We all have such great potential, and we nearly all tend to waste it.  Perhaps I do too.  My potential, I mean.   The tools I keep in my closet are cleaned nightly, but that doesn’t erase the acts to which I apply them.   I guess I feel as if what I do is the right thing.  The proper thing.  I believe it, rather.  Is it wrong that I take advantage of my own potential to end the potential of others?  Probably, but who is going to stop me?  Certainly not you.  Cus I know you, just like I know every other person who will ever read this note.  You don’t have it in you.  You don’t have it in you to hunt me down and slit my throat.  Maybe you just don’t care.  Maybe you’re afraid.  Maybe you don’t have the means or the ability.  But the simple truth is that I allowed myself to foster my potential.  And you, you choose to squander yours with every passing moment.

                So take this note, take it and remember that you failed.  That you will continue to fail.  That the person who lies dead in front of you also failed.  And that I, well I will continue to prosper.  There’s nothing I can’t achieve now within my chosen walk of life.

                Turn away, turn away and bury the person in front of you.  Bury your potential.  Bury the victor, the champion, the conqueror that lives inside you.  Bury the killer that continues to try and claw its way out of your pacified and civilized brain.  I know it’s there.  Oh, I know it’s there.  But you’ll bury it.  You won’t catch me.  You won’t find me.  Truth is, you got it in you, but you won’t.  Live on.  Live your mediocre life.  Without that person in front of you, of course.  But live on.   I promise I will be.

                                                                                                With all sincerity,

                                                                                                The Killer of Your Wife