Have fun with this one!

Upriver

Water flowing. Out of the side of the raft I watched the shore move by from above to below, people standing sideways on the world. The fever raged through my cells like a California wildfire, leaving me paralyzed and hallucinating.

At one point I was convinced I was Willard, moving up the Nung River to find Kurtz - only he was a grocer and I was collecting a bill. And had to be paid in fish.

At another point along the river I screamed. I think it was just one scream, but it's very possible that I screamed for three days, I don't know for sure.

And at one point it all fragmented and broke loose. My hallucinations lost all grounding in reality and became completely abstract: enormous hexagons sang blue songs of heat, sound burned my eyes. Smells moved and shapes touched me.

I don't know how long we moved upriver before we arrived at the village - and village is the most generous possible description of where we landed. A dock that was little more than two boards nailed together and thrust out over the water. Two twig-built shacks that provided the barest shelter from the perpetual afternoon storms that blew in off the open Pacific. I suppose there must have been more to the village, other habitations hidden futher, deeper in the jungle but if there were I never saw them.

They carried me up onto the shore there, my companions from the raft. By that time my fever had diminished enough for me to recognize speech, though I could not understand the language they spoke. But it was apparent from the looks they gave me that they were asking for help, though they expected none and would not expect any assistance to do much good even if it were offered.

Here is an odd one for today's ten minutes

The bar

Jenny jogged down the stairs to the cool main room. She loved that magic line which appeared every summer between street-level floor and basement; where the warm air and cold air maintain an uneasy truce. Mmm, and that cool smoky bar smell and better yet, this place actually served up some decent food too.

"Hey all!" She called out. Her name was chorused out in response by friends lurking in various parts of the bar. She had already hopped through a couple of bars that night, but this was a favorite joint and tonight it was noisy and packed. Jenny saw her best friend Sarah at a small table near the back corner and sidled over.

"Hey Jenny, lively crowd tonight."

"Yeah, these Friday night contests always bring people in. Everyone loves to watch a trainwreck." About once a month the bar would hold these eating contests and like those reality TV shows, people loved to come in and watch other people stuff themselves. The neat twist was that it was a different food every month.

The table next to them could barely contain three very large, very loud men. Clearly they had started drinking early and were making no effort to conceal it.

"That little weany Paul Newman. I bet I could eat sixty eggs. Hell, seventy even!", said one.

"Yer a lier!", said the second, "You couldn't eat seventy eggs in a whole day let alone in an hour."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Well, I can eat anyone in here under the table."

"I'll punch you in the nose if you try to eat me while you're under the table", said the second with a wink to the third. The first turned scarlet at having walked right into that one and he proceeded to bluster about nothing for a few minutes.

"Sarah?", said Jenny.

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm gonna give this one a try. I've never done an eating contest before."

"You are nuts girl. There is no way you'll win."

"I'm not doing it to win. I just want to try it."

"Jenny you are nuts. Tonight's contest food is anchovies and they always give me an upset stomach and awful dreams."

"Whatever. I haven't eaten any in a long time. Maybe they won't affect me that way."

"Famous last words girl...", said Sarah.

The Ghost Screamer

I tell people I can see ghosts, and they get all dismissive and snooty. That, or they get kinda freaked out and back away slowly. I don't know, maybe they really believe me.

The funny thing is, I really can. Except they're not ghosts like everyone thinks of ghosts, as in the spirits of dead people who don't know they're dead, that kind of thing.

What it is, ghosts are just people. They live somewhere else, but it's somewhere else that is in the same place as where we are. The difference between them and us is that they can see us all the time; they know we're here and what we're doing. They can move right through us like we're whispers and shadows, but really they're just normal folks. And some of them like to play jokes.

Now there's some of us - people on this side - that can see them almost all the time. It takes a little effort, a little concentration, and after doing it for a while I tend to get a headache, but it's not much different from trying to watch something without looking directly at it. Then there are some folks who occasionally get a glimpse, and it's usually really right at the corner of their vision - they see something off to the side, just enough to make their hearts jump right straight up into their throats, and they turn to look but whatever they saw is gone. Only it isn't, of course - it's still there, they just can't see it anymore.

Only there's one other way us folks can see them: when they really WANT to be seen. I guess they can do some little push thing that will make them visible on this side to anyone. I think that's what happens when people talk about seeing ghosts, they're seeing someone from the other place who's trying to be seen.

So anyway, I was talking to this lady and she starts telling me about this thing that happened to her a month or so ago. She got out of the shower and was sitting down to put on her makeup or whatever it is ladies do when they get out of the shower. And all of a sudden, she looks in the mirror and there's a guy standing directly behind her - and he reaches around and slaps his hands over her eyes and mouth - only she can still see herself in the mirror, right through his hands. She can see her eyes bulging, her mouth opening to scream, everything - but she can still see the guy's hands over her eyes!

I tried to act shocked but really the only thing that surprised me was that one of them was doing something so blatant. Usually they just show themselves for a moment and disappear. What the hell was he trying to do?

Jumpy

"You sure you want to do this?"

Derek was looking at me with that usual wry grin on his face, but I thought I detected an undertone of real, genuine concern. I replied,

"Sure, no sweat."

Dammit. Little quaver in the voice there, and Derek's grin got a little wider. He turned and theatrically looked over the edge of the cliff.

"Hell of a long way down, you know?"

"I've done 'long way' before, plenty of times."

"Shyeah," he laughed, "not like this. I don't seem to recall you jumping down into clouds before."

He was right. Down below - way down below, to be honest, a cloud bank covered the ground I'd hopefully be landing on. No, scratch that - I'd definitely be landing, one way or another. It was HOW I landed that was the tough part.

"Just fog, man."

He didn't even grace that one with a reply, just turned to finish checking my gear. After a few moments he stood back up.

"That's it man, good to go. You ready?"

I tried to come up with a snappy response but suddenly I found my mouth was dry and my skin was getting clammy. What the hell? I'd done this hundreds of times before, maybe not from so high but really the only two parts that matter are the first step off and the last few feet that determine the landing - the rest is just in-between space. My heart was racing too, shallow little bip-bip-bip beats that throbbed in my ears.

Suddenly I needed to sit down, like right now.

As I dropped to the ground Derek hunkered down with me.

"You really don't have to do this, you know?" He looked at me sourly.

"Right, like Coke is just going to say, 'Oh, that's okay, no harm no foul.'"

"Dude, you give them back the money and tell them the site was squirrely or some shit. They don't make the calls up here, you do."

I thought about that for a moment. He was right, I do make the calls up here. And I sure as hell wasn't going to back down from this jump.

Clarity

Tim looked out over the edge. Above was a vast cloudless blue. Below there was a solid expanse of green decorated with a ribbon of water. He was up high enough that he could see small flocks of birds wheeling through the air beneath him. This was not new because he had been in places like this before and he always came back to find himself again on the edge of a precipice. The honest truth was that he had never been able to find the courage to jump.

Behind him was a wide flat space that dropped off on either side every bit as much as that which was in front. There were trees farther back, grass, ...people, and the trail leading to this place. Even now that path called him. It would be so easy to just go back. And yet, there is something about standing on the edge of a precipice that brings extraordinary focus. The danger of being on the edge removes everything extraneous except that which is happening. The moment is in perfect balance. Some people call this moment of absolute clarity "stopping the world". It is when all thought stops and that person just IS.

He stood there motionless for many minutes and found himself in the right place and the right time with himself and everything around him. There was no wind and no sound. Tim jumped. It was his first base jump.

Back to work!

Yes, Mike and I have fully-realized stories due today. No, mine's not done. Yes, I'm posting a 10-minute pic anyway.

Listener

There's a fine art to listening in on conversations, and Jacob was a Picasso in the field.

He had plenty of opportunities to practise his art; on the bus to and from work, in the elevator going up to his office. Restaurants were ideal. He'd even started playing a new little game with himself, listening to people talking on their mobile phones and inventing the other side of the conversation.

The trick, he'd discovered, was making yourself invisible. As long as you weren't noticed folks would talk about anything. He'd heard confessions of love and hatred, he listened in on plans for secretive rendez-vous. He learned about shady business deals and worried parents of sick kids. He'd heard it all.

The funny thing was, when he walked into the tiny grocery store he actually hadn't been planning to get in on anything - he'd really just come in for a pack of smokes and some aspirin.

He came through the door and immediately recognized the couple - he didn't know them, of course, had never even seen them before. But he knew that stance, he tweaked right off to the look in their eyes and the body positions that told him they were deep into it. Whatever it was they were discussing, it was heavy stuff.

Jacob moved to the back of the store and started to look for the aspirin when the two began talking again, in low, urgent voices. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying - he had to get closer. This would be tricky; it's one thing to pull it off in a busy diner, but there was no one else in the store and he'd have to put on a great act to convince them that he was absorbed in his own world, enough for them to keep talking openly.

Still alive too!

I'm taking a more outline-drive approach, on the assumption that once I've got the story charted out from start to finish I can sit down and bang it out in one shot. At least that's how it used to work for me when I was writing papers back in college...so very long ago...

Anyway, I've settled on my Samurai story. The essential conflict is that the protagonist is going to die, and must achieve inner peace before his end. The setup will be three parts: a beginning, where the situation is established - I'm still hashing details, but the upshot is that the protagonist is taken prisoner by the Shogun's men. The protagonist's family has been killed and the murderers are still at large, but for complicated reasons the samurai has either been framed or is being held for dishonoring the Shogun (I'm working towards a situation where an advisor of the Shogun is a traitor and caused the protagonist's family to be killed, but in defending his family the protagonist killed several of the Shogun's better men. He's brought dishonor on the Shogun and must be punished, even if we know it's bull).

The second phase of the story will take place as the samurai is in prison. This will be shorter, but will build the tension: will he be pardoned? Will he escape? Will he be rescued? This will end with a definitive "no" to all of those question: he will either be executed in shame, or may choose the honorable alternative and take his own life.

The third section will bring the climax of the conflict: not whether he can escape death, but rather whether he can face it with dignity and calm. The tension will build here as he realizes there is no escape and tries to compose his thoughts, but is torn by all the things yet undone, including avenging the murders of his family. I am thinking about whether or not to have a friend (probably his second) promise to avenge his family, but have to mull that over: I don't know if I want to have an external motivator for him to finally reach his inner peace. The story will end with the samurai commiting sepukku in a state of transcendent calm.

My challenge as a writer will be to build tension in the reader, but avoid the false tension of "will he escape" and focus instead on the turmoil in his head, and whether he will die in a state of chaotic despair, or die with calm and peace in his mind.

Should be fun!

Snippet 2: The Wolves of Kilgaryn

As welcome as the wisdom is that comes with old age, the tradeoff is in aches and pains. I shaded my eyes from the morning sun to scan again for the shepherd and, though I had not been resting long, the creaking in my bones ensured that I would soon be using the stick to leverage myself to a standing position. I was a bit peeved at having to shorten my stay on the hilltop. Dashing about the countryside was young man's work and I fully intended that the shepherd should get an earful on that point. Honestly though, part of my gripe was realizing that my earlier thought regarding the comfort of wet breeches was quite correct. Dew, warmed to body temperature, had not only made my clothes sticky, but also collect in various and private crevasses which were sure to be thoroughly chafed by the time I reached the bottom of the hill. It was with heavy muttering on my tongue that I began picking my way back downhill.

Snippet from "The Wolves of Kilgaryn"

Here there be raw verbage and my telltale runon sentances. I didn't want our page to get stale so I'm throwing this out to show we are indeed going to finish a short story this week. Since this format would get long over the course of the week, tomorrow I'll likely just throw a paragraph or two up rather than the whole kit and kaboodle.

The Wolves of Kilgaryn

It was a cool, comfortable morning, but I had worked up a sweat nonetheless. The hill was steep enough for a young man and that had not described me for many years. Indeed, the climb made my left knee throb a bit, though not too badly. All in all I felt quite well and even stamped about some where it was more of a gentle rise rather than an incline. Being none there to say otherwise I was king of this hill and proceeded to survey my domain. Small stands of browse were leafless, showing that small herds of goats had already crossed this hill. The grass itself was yet ungrazed and sparkled in dew left from fog that was thinning as it slowly made it's way through the valley. It had already left the upper pastures and was flowing slowly past Castle Kilgaryn and the small village of the same name. Small white spots contrasted verdant green in the area that surrounded the castle proving the prosperity of the land and herds of sheep.

Not caring that my cotton breeches would soak up dew and be later uncomfortable, I tossed my macintosh and cudgel next to a likely spot for a seat. Early, yes, but a pipe smoke was what would be the thing right now. The short-stemmed meershaum had been pre-filled with a favorite blend in expectation of an old man's pleasure, and the breeze moved just enough to bend the flame and carry off the ensuing cloud to mingle with the misty ocean down below.

Pleased with my forethought in preparing for the hike I sat in perfect contentment. The fog still slightly obscured the village, but the range to my left was in perfect view. It was beautiful the way the forest flowed around the larger hills, seemingly leaving them as islands in a tide of gently swaying green. The trees had made an attempt at covering the smaller hills, but were thin near the rocky crowns. It was on one of these sparsley covered hilltops that I noticed some dark shapes moving in the direction of the valley. They were several hills and miles from the open pastures that were near the castle, but I knew what they were and so also knew that it would not matter just yet because it was still morning. These were wolves and they would probably be content to lurk just inside the forest until nightfall. I looked back to the pastures to see if a shepherd was present. Often blending motionless with the landscape near his charges, a shepherd would be difficult to spot from my current location.

Wasn't sure whose turn it was, so I'll jump on it...

Down and Outside

"Yeah, who is it?"

I could tell right away she was mad, and not just "you woke me up in the middle of the night hitting the door buzzer" mad, but righteously pissed.

"Hey baby, it's me."

"What the hell do you want? It's the middle of the goddamn night."

Woops - she never swore. This one was going to be bad.

"Come on, let me up. I just want to talk to you."

"Like hell I will. Get the hell away from my door or I'm calling the cops."

As if. All the guns and dope she had scattered around her place, cops were the last thing she wanted to see. Lucky for both of us they pretty much stayed out of this part of town, otherwise we might have gotten a little more attention than we needed with our yelling at each other.

"Come on, baby, you know you're not gonna call them. Just let me in, I'm alone now. I promise I won't start anything."

She positively shrieked back,

"It's a little late for that! Bastard!"

This was getting out of hand. People in this area knew to keep their noses out of other people's business, but much more yelling and someone else likely would get around to calling the police. I needed to get in, quick.

"Honey, listen. There's something I haven't told you about the deal, but I can't tell you from out here. You gotta let me in and hear me out. I swear, you'll understand everything."

Silence, but I could hear the hum of the intercom. She was at least listening.

"Listen," I said, leaning in close and lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "All that stuff I said back in the bar, that was just to make those guys think we were on the outs. I WANTED them to think that! Think about it! This'll go so much better for us if they don't know we're still working together!"

Still no reply, but I was pretty sure she was just about hooked. Finally a small voice spoke,

"You mean that? You didn't mean any of it?"

"Of course not, baby! You know I could never think any of that stuff about you. Come on, let me in. I'll prove it to you."

Another silence, then finally a buzz as the door lock opened. I was in.

"So Doc,Here I am in a windjammer stateroom on the Mediteranean and it
sucks."

"Why is that?", said the Doctor.

"Well, there are people out there who throw C-notes around like water
balloons. You know the type. They make a splash wherever they go and
live it up; champagne and caviar for breakfast and all that. Then
there's the other half, ninety-something percent really, who work hard
and still struggle to pay the mortgage or make a car payment. A vacation
is a luxury and it had damn well better be worth it when you take it."

The doctor said nothing and continued his ministrations. "So here I am
running a fever on a boat. What the hell did I do to deserve this? I
pay my taxes, most of em anyways, and what do I get? Crapped on. And
it isn't just here, it's all the time. You'd think the Archangel Michael
himself said 'Yer a sinner Jimmy, and God's gonna fuck ya.' And for
what?" The Doctor hesitated for just a moment, but remained silent in
the face of the tirade.

Jimmy looked out the porthole and muttered something under his breath.
The doctor thought he said "Still fucking me aren't you big guy", but
couldn't be sure. "So what's my temp at anyway?", he asked. The Doctor
really did not want to answer and winced involuntarily as he said,
"99.2 degrees and still holding sir."

"So What you are saying is that I'm still sick? Right? Well you're fired.
I didn't buy this scow expecting to get the service I'm getting. Now get
out of my room and send in that punk steward. I think I want some
champagne and caviar for breakfast.
word.

POV

I just posted a new link in the sidebar to a good article on narrator's perspective and the Point of View of the writer. I'm interested to hear what you guys think, especially in light of what we've written and some of the stuff we've talked about.

Apologies to John D

McGee woke after the sun had reached well above the horizon. He lay still in his bunk for several minutes hoping the pounding in his head and roiling in his stomach would pass, but he knew better: after last night, working this one off was going to be an all-day affair. He sat up - too quickly; the room began to swim lazily like a dashboard compass. Combined with the rocking of the boat it was too much for his stomach and he knew he was on a short countdown until his system broke out in open rebellion. Just for a moment he considered trying to make a dash down the passageway and up the ladder but he knew his boat well enough to know there was no way he'd make it; instead he twisted the dog holding the porthole closed. Through clamped teeth he cursed the tight brass fitting until it came free; he threw open the port and thrust his head out just in time, as the rancid contents of his stomach emptied onto the blue waters of the Carribean.

After it was done he hung there for a moment, head poking ridiculously out of the side of the ship. It crossed his mind that to an outside observer the side of his boat might look like some pregnant whale giving birth to the most awful-looking calf in creation - one that looked like a hollow-eyed, unshaven boat bum who, in spite of his deepwater tan, still managed to look green and pale.

The fresh air outside the cramped cabin helped unfog his head a bit. After clearing his throat and spitting a few times he withdrew back into the cabin. The air in the cabin was starting to clear but still smelled of stale cigarettes and alcohol, blended with ocean humidity and sweat.

He sat hunched on the bed and tried to remember anything about the night before, but they'd all run together - little memories tickled at the edge of his mind but nothing came into focus. What little he could recall, he wasn't sure if it was last night...or the night before that, or the one before that. It could have been last month - or last year. What he did know is that like every other night, he'd blacked out and at some point had made his way down here, down to the tiny cabin with the smallest bunk on the boat. Down to where she had slept.

Resting in peace?

You ever think someone or something was dead?

I've had it happen before: gone in to check on the kids or maybe look at one of your pets, and you're trying to be really quiet and still and not disturb them. And they're laying there, not moving and not making a sound...and it crosses your mind: what if they're not sleeping - what if they're dead? And at first it's nothing more than a weird sick thought that flashed across your mind, but then you start to really wonder and your mind kind of pricks up its ears. Wait a minute, you think, they really AREN'T moving at all. And you really DON'T hear any sound. No breathing, not even a little nose-whistle. And you start staring really hard at their chest to see if you can make out any movement there, even just a little rise and fall. And pretty soon you've gone and really freaked yourself out, and you do the only logical thing: you poke them to see if they react. Oh, sometimes you cover it up by smoothing the hair back off their forehead or gently stroking their cheek or rubbing their shoulder, but you know what you're really doing: you're poking them to see if they move around and maybe mutter a bit or turn over or whatever. And then you can laugh at yourself for being stupid and go back to whatever it was you were doing and forget about it. Except that somewhere down deep, part of you knows you actually weren't being stupid, you were just being diligent.

That's how it was with the guy on the subway. He was there when I got on, slumped over against the window with his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open just a bit. My first thought was that he was a student crashed out after too much studying; he didn't show any signs of partying (like what, I don't know - maybe barf stains down the front of his coat) or anything like that so I didn't figure he'd passed out from booze (though the usual stink of the subway car certainly would have concealed any alcohol reek). The side-to-side motion of the car moving covered up any body movements so I couldn't see any signs of breathing. And as I sat there I started to really wonder: was he really sleeping, or was he dead?

Evil Youth

"Another cup of coffee ma'am?", asked the waitress. "Yes and thank you", replied Mrs. Robinson. The shop had been there for over a year, but this was her first time in. It was really too late to be out for a woman at her station in life, but she felt she had earned it. The Women's League had by all accounts succeeded in influencing three representatives and not one, but two state senators. They now had enough votes to pass the measure intended to help all those poor women across the state. Feeling satisfied at the thought, she turned her attention back to the coffee. "I don't know why people rave about the coffee here." She was a fixer though and after tonight a cup of coffee was no match for her; nothing that some creamer and a pack and a half of sweet-n-low couldn't fix.

She wrapped her hands around the cup savoring the warmth and glanced around the shop. Late night always brought out the ne'er-do-wells and tonight was no exception. A loudly conversing couple were sitting on high stools at the counter. She could see a twisted tatoo circling the woman's ankle. "I bet they've been out drinking", Mrs. Robinson thought, "and that boy will try something when they get back to the car. Not that it'll have been her first time in the back seat." she sniffed in disdain and looked away.

Her eyes landed on tuft of black hair at a table near the window. The angle was odd enough that she straightened her posture to see better. It turned out to be a man's head and a very pale-faced man at that. He seemed to be in such a deep sleep that his head was almost horizontal with his neck. Lifting her head more, she could see that he was clearly one of those Goth types. He was wearing a shirt as black as Satan's heart and Mrs. Robinson was sure that if she was one table closer she would be able to smell where he had been that night. A shudder arrived as her imagination brought the scent of sour sweat, smoke, and sex. This guy was a bad one all right. Who knew why he'd be sleeping off a binge in a coffee shop. Maybe he had beaten someone up and was hiding in the shop. What if that someone was a woman?

Mrs. Robinson's cheeks flushed with anger. This was exactly what she had been working for. Her group's legislation would keep this kind of worthless punk away from society. He'd be behind bars long enough that even a dumb jerk like himself would learn not to hit women. On top of that he shouldn't be using public areas like this as a flop house. "Where is that damn waitress," she thought. "Any place that lets drunken punks sleep it off on the premises won't get any more business of mine." She seethed as another minute passed with no sign of the waitress. Furious now, she decided to not wait on the check. Mrs. Robinson thrust her hand into her purse and grabbed some bills. Not caring that she was over-tipping the bad service, she simultaneously slammed the bills on the table and loudly scraped her chair back as she stood up. The commotion jolted the Goth awake and the waitress stepped back into the dining room to see what was happening. The waitress could see the two people staring at each other. One from having been rudely awakened and the other from the no longer obscured white clergy collar.

The second assignment...

Threshold

Myers slogged through the mud, between the toppled walls and timbers of the abandoned village. "This place looks like it was a real shithole," he thought as he paused to scrape off some of the thick, tarry muck that clung to his boots and continually threatened to turn them into platform soles.

When they were as clean as he could get them, he pulled a scrap of yellowed paper from his pocket. The creases where it had been folded were so thin they almost represented more of a concept of coherence than any actual physical bond. He opened the note gingerly, then looked around to get his bearings. He squinted at the paper, trying to make out the faded pencil lines and make some connection to the decrepitude around him.

Finally it clicked. A hillside fell into place, then a tree (much larger now than in the spidery illustration on the paper) and suddenly all the wreckage lined up with the image, and he knew where to go. Around the remains of a few houses and through a surprisingly-intact wall, and he was at his destination: a section of wall built into a low embankment. A thick carpet of grass stretched before the base of the wall, sheltered from the worst of the downpours that had turned the rest of the area into a vast mudbowl. And in the middle of the wall stood the weathered remains of a door, one side broken and gone. Where it had been an opening yawned.

Myers stood uncertain. He felt no apprehension about crossing into the dark hole - hell, that's what he'd come thousands of miles to do! But he was pretty sure something was supposed to happen before he could go in. Something he was supposed to do before he was ALLOWED in.

As he hovered at the door, a small cat suddenly emerged from the darkness. It glided into the light and rubbed itself sensuously against the battered doorpost, then sat down and began to groom itself. Myers stood watching the cat for a long moment, until at last the cat looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and said,

"You gonna stand there all day, asshole, or you gonna give me the stuff?"

That cat and Stefan were a study in contrast. Where the cat's fur had a shiny, clean look to it, Stefan's hair was dirty and matted. His clothes were dirty too and bruises were visible through the holes at the knees and elbows. The cat stepped in Stefan's lap and proceeded to prepare a comfortable spot with her claws. It hurt the little boy just a little, but not like some stuff. Besides in another moment he knew how good it would feel to have the cat curl up on his lap and that closeness was the best thing in the world.

The tree he had chosen to sit behind had rough bark and it dug into his skin. There was no way he would disturb the cat though. This felt too good. Both his hands were alternately stroking and scratching favorite places. He worked his way up to the ears and as he moved down to the neck, the cat lifted her chin to allow greater access to that place. The big eyes were half closed and looked lovingly into Stefan's own. Somewhere close a screen door slammed and the cat's eyes went wide with fear, mirroring Stefan's own. Frozen in place, he held his comforter close enough to feel the quick beat of her heart against his cheek. Drunken footsteps went past his hiding place and as they went around to the other side of the house he dropped the cat and they ran into the wooded area.

The cat outdistanced his own little legs quickly. Hurrying and desperately hopeful that he would catch up to his friend Stefan could see the old stone farmhouse through the trees. It was a place that he had been told to stay away from, but there were so many places and rules like that he just couldn't remember them all. As he came into the cleared area near the building he could see the cat had stopped near the opening of an old basement and was looking back at him as if to invite him in. She disappeared into the darkness and the fear began building again to the point that tears started rolling down his little cheeks and crumbled to his knees. It was so dark in there and bad things happened in the dark. He was six and knew all about bad things.

Peace

This weekend my son and I argued incessantly. He would do or say something and I would respond, or I would ask him to do some chores and he would reply with a complaint and questions about unreasonable parents. He is clearly manipulating me out of a desire for attention whether positive or negative. He and his brother compete constantly for my attention and that is a dynamic that has thrown me out of sorts.

My mistake has been not thinking out the problem, defining it, turning it over and looking at it. I have not only allowed myself to be drawn into a child's battle, but also let the child choose the type of combat and the weapons we would use. The escalation of words and anger becomes tornadic and the end result is hurt feelings all around. This is a lack of control that I should have and retain as the elder participant in the relationship. I have resolved that when the situation arises that I will use an image that is soothing and will help me remember why the drama gets played out.

I close my eyes and see myself walking down a stone path. up ahead there is a place that is shaded, colorful, and inviting. I walk at a pleasant pace and the path meanders around a group of smooth-bark trees with large leaves. The sun is shining above, but the leaves soak up most of the light leaving a canopy of yellow and green above me. Ahead there is a wooden bridge. Looking at the perfect arching lines flowing from one side to the other, the craftsmanship is obvious and it is something that I can appreciate. I can see that the bridge is the entrance to a Japanese-style garden and at the far end of the bridge the stone path picks up again. It is flanked by small trees that have magenta blossoms and a sweet scent. I can't see much beyond because the path gently winds out of sight into the garden.

All this I have seen from the near side of the bridge and I want to go into the garden and see, smell, and experience the beauty that a nameless gardener built for my enjoyment. I walk up to the bridge and to my left I see a small sign on top of a wooden box. The sign says that the garden will be here whenever I need it and I am welcome any time. It also says that I must leave disquieting feelings in the wooden box. When I have enjoyed my visit in the garden I can come back to the box and pick up those feelings if I still feel a need for them.

In the garden

A whispering breeze sighed among the leaves, bringing a blush of chill to his cheeks though the day was warm. The soft sound of the wind and the crisp tumble of the water below the bridge were the only sounds in an otherwise quiet afternoon.

He paused to savor the moment. Listening to the duet of wind and water, he sought to calm the pounding in his ears, the sound of his furious heart raging.

Beside him, his friend stood respectfully waiting. It was unbecoming to make him wait; the man in white robes opened his eyes and walked across the weathered timbers of the bridge.

In the garden where his life would end stood a small table with a simple meal of rice and fish. Seated nearby under a plain pavilion sat a small group of men, their faces neutral.

The man in white walked slowly to the neat mat before the table where he would eat his last meal. He lowered himself carefully to a kneel; his muscles threatened to rebel and loosen, and it would not do for him to fall awkwardly. He arranged his robes and then looked up to take in the vista before him: a wide pond covered with lilies, surrounded by gently arcing willows. Once again he sought to calm the chaos in his mind: so much left undone. So much vengeance unrequited. But now the chance was gone; now he must calm his heart and meet his end with dignity and serenity.

After his meal was eaten his plate was removed and a small wakizashi placed naked on the table except for a wrap of paper around the blade - there to allow him to grasp the blade without cutting his fingers while he opened his belly.

Now: now is the moment. Not to escape, not to move, but to embrace his life - and its end. He closed his eyes and breathed a quiet, calming prayer.

As he opened his eyes and reached for the blade, he felt his friend move into position behind him and heard the katana being drawn.

Assignment the first:

Commence la deluge!

Here there be dragons - and weepy women, time-traveling bandits, megacity duct cleanerwomen, and other products of desperate minds. At the outset, this is the location in which Mike and Sean will publish our daily 10-minute writing exercises.

We've been sending each other a pic a day with the directive that we should spend a solid ten minutes writing a short piece on the picture. Aside from that there are no real rules; the snippets have been exclusively, but not restricted to, fiction. At the outset we began writing immediately after looking at the pic, but by consensus we've began to mull over the image for a bit before writing (personally, I think that has led to more depth in the pieces - well, as much depth as you can get in a ten-minute, four or five paragraph writing!).

Eventually we hope to invite others into our writer's circle (though I don't think two points can be used to define a circle). For now, it's just our playroom where we share our little creations with each other...