Spilt Milk

Well this piece I wrote after pouring myself a glass of milk and sitting down to write. It all just sort of came, and then later I went and polished it up for my Creative Writing Class. Unfortunately my first editing attempt resulting my computer eating my story, so I had to edit it all again the second time. So I hope you enjoy.

Jason pulled open the refrigerator door. The little light flickered on, illuminating shelves of deli meat, a bowl filled with last nights chicken Alfredo, the last bottle of a Budweiser six pack, and a gallon of milk.Scanning the shelves lightly for anything he might also like, he pulled the milk out of the fridge, closed the door with his knee, and put the jug on the counter. The kitchen was roughly three meters, by five. Just large enough to contain one full sized fridge, a sink and counter combination, some cupboards, an oven, and small table with three wooden chairs. The floor was speckled green linoleum that reminded Jason of vomit, and the light bulb cast a dinghy yellow light across everything.

Running his hands through his hair Jason cast another glance at the digital clock on the oven. “Where is that boy?” muttered Jason to himself. The clock read 12:33, proclaiming Jason’s son Nick a full thirty-three minutes late for curfew. It wasn’t uncommon for Nick to come home late, but he normally called to say he wasn’t going to be home on time. Jason knew something was up with Nick, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. In the past month he’d become more and more elusive. He was never doing anything that Jason could mark as wrong, but he seemed to be constantly busy. He was off to school before Jason, and it was becoming a growing routine for Jason to fall asleep on the sofa when Nick came home at night. Tonight, when Jason woke up to find Nick still hadn’t come home he decided it was high time to talk with the boy.

The dishes chimed against each other as he pulled a cup from the middle of their dish rack. Holding the cup up to the light he inspected its cleanliness. He slowly rotated it in his hands, watching the light refract off the glass. He then held it up to his eye, and closing the other one looked through the glass. There were some water spots on the bottom, and as the light penetrated them the glass turned into make shift kaleidoscope. Enthralled at his discovery Jason tilted his head back to get a better angle on the light. He tipped his head farther and farther backwards. The light continued to play off the water spots, beckoning him onwards. He followed, the little light show becoming more magical with each degree. He eventually had his head horizontal, and he held it there for a moment before gravity took over and he lost his balance. He took two choppy steps backwards, and would’ve fallen flat on his back if the counter hadn’t of stopped him. The drawers chattered under the impact, and Jason chuckled in reply. He’d had enough funny business and besides, he was angry with his son.

Turning around he unscrewed the lid off the jug, and tilted it over the glass. The milk slowly pooled to the bottle neck. There it waited until it had enough followers in one spot before it went tumbling over the brink. Down it fell towards the lip of the glass. At first it would be nothing but a downward stream. The first splashes would circle the bottom before the sheer weight of the rest smothered it into a suitable drink.

“Damn” whispered Jason under his breath. The milk hadn’t made it into the cup at all, but instead was now spreading in every direction across the counter top. Some of it pooled around the base of the cup, but the majority flowed over the edge and into a puddle on the floor. Putting the empty cup into the sink he snatched a rag and began wiping up the milk. It took a few tries as the milk refused to be absorbed into the rag, and every time Jason wiped his hand across the surface the milk only spread farther(most of it onto the floor). He eventually used the rag as a make shift bulldozer and was able to scoop most of it into the sink. Getting it off the floor was a bit harder, but that was solved after a matter of time. Some fifteen minutes later Jason had a full glass of milk in his hand.

Coincidentally enough, it was also at this exact moment that Jason saw two headlights through the kitchen window. Peeking through the small curtains he could make out a pair of never-winking eyes that made their way down the road towards his house. The make and model of the automobile was undetectable at first, but as it rumbled closer Jason began to make out the outline of a rickety Chevy Blazer. As it pulled into the driveway the engine quieted into dull roar, and Jason could see Nick’s silhouette step out of the car. He waved goodbye to his friend and swinging a backpack across his shoulders walked towards the house.

The living room where the front door was situated was only a few meters away from the kitchen. Close enough the Jason easily got there before Nick. The living room had blue-stripped wallpaper. Something the realtor said made it appear larger than it was. In the end though it still only had enough room for a sofa, coffee table, and a TV wedged into the corner. Even with the lights off Jason could still see the piles of magazines, plates, and beer bottles scattered across the room. Taking a swig from his milk he made himself comfortable by leaning against the wall. Nick’s footsteps echoed across the wooden porch, coming to a halt before the door. His keys rattled as he pulled them from his pack, and after he was able to find the right one it ground its way into the lock. The deadbolt squeaked as Nick slowly unlocked the door.

Jason pretended to have found a keen interest in his glass as he heard all this. Pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger he twirled the bottom in a lazy circle. The milk swirled slightly, but it didn’t move much. It knew that it wasn’t what Jason really wanted in his cup. The door opened and a slice of light slowly widened across the sofa, and coffee table. Nick’s silhouette filled the door frame and he walked through the door. He didn’t turn on the light immediately, but he instead put his keys on the table, and began untying his shoes. His effort to remain quiet was so painfully obvious that Jason felt his face begin to warm with blood. After Nick turned off the porch light and had the door halfway closed Jason flipped on the light saying “Don’t bother being so quiet boy. You’re not half as sneaky as you think you are.”

Like a criminal caught in the act Nick swung around his mouth open. “I’m sorry Dad, we lost track of time. We didn’t mean to be so late. I swear.”

Jason stopped leaning on the wall and took a step into the room. ”You know the rules boys, you’re too be ho…” he paused for a second. He’d only progressed a few feet into the middle of the room. He seemed to steady himself and then continued, “you’re to be home by midnight. Those’re the rules.”

“I know Dad.” Explained Nick “and I’m sorry, Greg and I were up by the River talking and we lost track of time. I swear it won’t happen again.”

“What’s so important that it needed talking about?”

“Well….” Started Nick, unsure of what to say.

“Well what?” probed Jason

“Well…Greg’s parents split up over a year ago. So..I feel like I can talk with him.”

“Why can’t you talk with me?”

“Well Greg and I understand each other.” said Nick shrugging his shoulders.

“And we don’t?” asked Jason “We always talked. What’s so different now that she’s gone?”

Nick didn’t look Jason straight in the eye when he replied. “Not much I guess.”

“Well then why do you need to be out talking till dawn?”

“Just cause it helps.”

“You think now that mommies gone you don’t have to come home at night?” Jason’s voice got louder with each word. “That your daddy ain’t gonna tell you what to do? Well listen here. Rules is rules, and you’re gonna be home by midnight or else I’ll belt you like I did when you was young.”

“I already said it won’t happen again.” Protested Nick.

“Won’t happen again!” Jason’s voice had risen to an all out yell “Darn right it won’t. You’ll be a good boy from now on.”

“Yes sir” said Nick. He crossed his arms in front of himself and his eyes were scanned the room, trying to focus on anything but his father. “I’ll be home by Midnight next time. We seriously just lost track of time.”

“How’d you lose track of time? Eh? Were you drinking? You trying to drown out all your troubles?” Nick shook his head vigorously. “You were drinking weren’t you? You dump stupid boy. Don’t you know drinking ain’t good for you.”

“What makes you think I was drinking?”

“I smells it” said Jason pointing to his nose.

“I wasn’t drinking at all. What proof do you have to accuse me?” Nick spread his arms wide, daring Jason to find an empty bottle on him.

“I smells it.” Stated Jason again

“Why the hell would I resort to drinking Dad? I’m not like you! Look at you. You can’t even stand up straight without wobbling. I don’t drown myself every night in scotch, rum, and beer! What you smell is your own breath.” Nick pointed to all the empty beer bottles scattered around the room. Jason vaguely remembered drinking them, but they couldn’t all have been his. “I’m going to bed Dad. We can talk about this tomorrow.” Nick slammed the door shut, and started making his way past Jason towards his bedroom. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight Dad.”

To this day Jason still doesn’t remember what demon possessed him at that moment, but the second Nick had passed him leaving his back exposed, Jason lifted the glass and slammed at across the back of Nick’s head. The glass shattered into dozens of pieces, milk spilled across the floor, and Nick dropped like a dead bird. At first the blood only darkened his hair, and then it began to drip, then flow onto the floor. It mixed with spilt milk, changing it from ivory white to a dingy red.

“Damn” muttered Jason to himself and as he gathered rags to clean up the mess a phrase his mother used to tell him went through his head. He couldn’t remember all of it, but it was something about spilt milk, and crying.

hope you enjoyed it and if you're still interested here's what my teacher had to say about it.

Great work here-- you've really polished this up since your generative writing. I think you describe Jason's behavior precisely and interestingly. I love the attention to detail-- great. The setting is nicely developed, too. I did think that I'd get a better idea of who Jason was if we heard a little bit more of his thoughts at the beginning. It's great that he's worrying about Nick. Maybe he could also be thinking about his hard day at work or something. For some reason it surprises me later in the story that Jason is so "blue collar" and colloquial in his conversation-- if this could be established earlier, I think his character will feel fuller.

On page 4, as Jason and Nick interact in dialogue, I thought that you could incorporate a little more of Jason's thoughts here, too. Maybe we could get a little more about how he feels Nick slipping away from him. Maybe even some memories of Nick when he was younger would be appropriate here. We see Jason get angry on the surface, so it will give him more depth as a character if we see what motivates that anger underneath it all. That will also help keep Jason from becoming too much of a stereotype, I think.

I think you did a terrific job with the "twist" here. Now instead of the story feeling like a gimmick, it feels like an accurate and thoughtful observation on a character's psychology. Jason is defensive, displaces his anger and guilt, and this feels just right. A strong piece, Seth! Thanks for your hard work.

Morning Ride

This is a short story I wrote in my Creative Writing class. We were working on creating a setting, but it sort of took a life of it's own and here's what I got.

Peter and William’s bicycles rattled along the narrow cobblestone road. Walled in on both sides by a continuous stream of buildings the road weaved down the hill. Standing up off the seat they whizzed onward with gay abandon. Opels, Skodas, Volkswagens, and Smart Cars were parked bumper to bumper on either side. Hugging the curb they left barely enough room for the boys to ride side by side.

Germans love the weekend, and not many of them were likely to be awake at this hour on a Saturday. Most windows were still shaded, and only the shops of the bakers and butchers had flipped the signs on their doors from closed to open. The streets were still in shadow, but it the sun poked it’s head down every alley, laying warm golden bars of sunlight across the street. Every time Peter crossed one he felt the urge to let go of the handlebars and spread his arms wide. He envisioned soaking every particle of warmth that he could into his windbreaker. Building, he hoped, a large enough reservoir to carry him through the next block of shadows.

Puffing heavy balls of frozen air into the morning he wished the day would hurry and warm up. The evening news had reported a steady rise in temperature all week, and even though spring hadn’t quite arrived yet Peter fancied it had. He could taste the ice-cream sold at the gelato shops when the Italians returned for the summer season. He longed to be able to ride down to the swimming pool with nothing but shorts on, and a towel tossed over his shoulder. He counted the weeks left till summer vacation began, and then imagined them at only half that number.

The cold wind sweeping back his hair, and the rusty chains chattering on dirty cogs brought him back from his sunny day dream. Tossing a playful look to William he shifted two gears higher, the chain clunking onto a smaller cog, and spun his legs as fast as he could. Peter caught the hint and matched William. He pedaled as fast as he could but William was the younger of the two and his skinny legs didn’t have the weight Peter’s did. It began slowly at first. An inch, barely noticeable, but it grew into two inches, then six, and a full foot. In the space of fifty meters Peter was a whole bike length in front of William. Spurred by his quick success William pedaled harder. Glancing back over his shoulder he affirmed his climbing lead. He now had three full lengths on William, and his lead was still growing.

The road took a sharp bend, and Peter mastered it wonderfully. Pulling himself tight to his rickety ten-speed he tilted the bike into the turn. He’d watch the Professionals closely the last time they’d come racing through. They always took the turn wide, bending outwards before cutting across the street to the inside of the corner. When done properly they didn’t have to break, and they sped through the turn at full speed. Peter had watched them closely, and he couldn’t help but smile even bigger at turning so perfectly. He did tap his breaks once, but it was only for a second and even the Pros needed to tap their breaks on occasion.

The road straightened out, and the buildings opened up into an intersection; bathed in golden light, and framed in traffic lights it made the perfect finish line. The light was green, and Peter sped towards it. At five meters from the white line the light flashed yellow, but Peter was going too fast to stop now. Cranking down he blared through the intersection as a blur, holding his breath as the light switched to red, and then sighing in relief as he fell back into the shadows on the other side.

Hands raised in victory he basked in the cheers of the unseen crowd. Before him lay the city center; A haphazard panorama of square buildings squeezed into a circular ring. A large road encompassed the center in a large black wheel; shooting spokes at every degree towards a large cathedral. It was the hub of the city, and it dominated the landscape. Towering above every building in the proximity it bathed in the sun. It stood in contrast to itself, one side glowed gold in the morning sun as the other half still stood in the darkness of the night. Pigeons took flight from the bell tower as it rang out long wavy greetings, and Peter shouted back cry of good morning. Peter’s muscles felt warm, and the cold no longer bit at his hands. Squeezing his brakes gently he began to slow down. His heart slowly lessened its tempo on his rib cage also. And then it stopped all together.

The tires squealed first, and then came the sickening crunch of metal against metal. Peter slammed on his breaks, and fish tailing his bike sideways he looked in horror behind him. A silver BMW stood stopped in the middle of the intersection. Its waxed hood was slightly buckled and the wheels bit at the twisted metal of William’s bike which was lodged under the bumper. William lay prostrate a few meters down the road. His eyes were wide in shock, and his mouth gaped for air. One arm was tucked under his body and the other sprawled out across the rugged cobblestone. The sun shimmered off the blood in his hair, and his only movement was try and to curl into a ball. A tall man in a suit slammed his car door and ran towards William. The cell phone in his hand already dialing for an Ambulance. Peter dropped his bike and ran to his brother. It’d been such a wonderful morning.

I couldn't get started

The hardest part about writing is that it’s so damn hard to get started. That first sentence is always there. A first impression that you can never get past. You never even know who this written piece will become, but in the end what does it matter. It will be who it is, the perfect person, never compromising itself for who ever might glance across it’s black and white features. It’s the writers prejudice that always gets in the way. We think that the words should be what we want them to be, but it is almost every writers folly, and a lesson that every writer must learn; Which is that no good piece of literature can be forced into something it’s not. Just as a tree grown under the constraints of an ax and pruning clippers cannot reach its natural majesty, so must the written word come from some source unknown to the logic of man. For if it is logical it is capable of being fully understood, and the moment it becomes fully understood is the moment that we can manipulate it into what we wish it to be, and it becomes a jar of dry chemicals found on a laboratory shelf.
Where is the mysticism of our scientific world. In eons past Magic was a reality, and miracles something of the mundane. When the world was still in it’s childhood it saw things with a different light. The stars told stories, and opened worlds to the faint of heart. Men would sail until they were past death, and would continue on, pushing their limits farther and farther into the dreams of possibilities. But the world has grown up now, logic makes sense of everything and yet problems are in abundance. What was the price of growing up? Why couldn’t we have held onto feeble dreams of magic, power, and gods? Why did the unknown have to thrown onto a cold metal table, and cut apart with scalpels until it was no longer something unique, wonderful, or amazing to behold? Why must it have been that way? Did it have to be? Must we grow up? Must we see the world with eyes wide open, and brain half closed?
Why do we still keep trying to go back? Why do the aged become more childlike as they get older? Have they remembered something that we’ve forgotten? The Grandfather no longer seems to wonder how regal his beard makes him when it’s pulled upon by the darling granddaughter. All those years of stress, work, and disdain for the world melt away into rolling chuckles and life becomes something wonderful again. What did he remember? Or was it something he forgot? Did he go write about his profound experience or was he too busy living it to care? Why do the poets write? Is it because they’ve lived? or is it because they can’t? So they seek to fill that empty slot with something strange and incomprehensible. Something that seems to be found in mass abundance among the coffee shops and smelly sofas. In places where umpteen year old girls rant over the microphone about the deep meanings of their useless tantrum. Why? Who cares? It won’t feed you, clothe you, or provide anything other than a mini sensation of something not quite understood. You try to understand it, you try to pick it apart, and in the end you give up and resort to some story about a man carrying a ring to mountain. You don’t know why it’s so captivating, but it is, for an ethereal moment you’re somewhere else. Somewhere beyond the limits of the page, someplace only you can imagine and dream, and you wonder to yourself. How did he ever get started?

Abendbrot

Like the dull flash of a camera lighting briefly lit up the room, followed only a few moments later by the rolling rumble of thunder. In awe I gaze out the window watching the clouds wrestle each other for dominance of the sky. In a powerful struggle they heave over the tops of each other, striking with lightning, and then demanding submission with thunder. I wonder if this is where Hilter coined his infamous Blitzkrieg strategy.

The lights flicker once, and then the room drops into darkness. “Looks like the power’s out.” I say to myself. The room still has some translucent glow, dimly lit in shadows of gray. Oma Neuendorf is sitting on the sofa trying her best to ignore each thunderous roar by re-arranging the assortment of breads, cheeses, pickles, and spreads sitting on the coffee table. “Why was it that older Germans never enjoy watching thunder storms?” I ask myself “Don’t they enjoy the chilling sensation of watching monumental giants battle across the sky. Why it’s almost Godlike in power. Was it the booming in tender ears, or the bright flashes against sensitive eyes.” The very moment clouds formed on the horizon, laundry was gathered, windows were closed, and the shutters were battened down tight.

“Come sit.” She says patting the spot on the sofa next to her. “Abendbrot is ready.” With a sigh I leave the theatrics by the window and carefully pick myself across the dim room. Oma has lit a candle, but it scarcely casts a shadow across the Gouda.

“What do we have?” I ask, gesturing towards the spread.

“Tonight we have…” and pointing with a withered finger she lists off “…that loaf of heavy bauerbrot I was baking this morning. Nothing like that cake you Americans eat. For cheeses we have Gouda, Swiss Brie, Hazelnut, and that Garlic spread you like. Salami, Cervalawurst, Blutwurst, and deli ham should go well this those. We’ve also got dill, and sweet pickles if you’re still hungry, and the Karo Coffee should be done soon.”

“Looks great.” I exclaim, rubbing my hands together. Whoever thought up the idea of Abendbrot, which literally means Evening Bread, was a genius. Comprised of the simplest of farmyard fodder one could place whatever he wished onto a slice of bread. It was a rudimentary sandwich, but so flexible in the making that you never had to taste the same thing twice. Plucking the largest slice I can reach I spread a thick layer of garlic cheese, and begin stacking. “How would the swiss brie go with salami and pickles? Do I put the pickle on the bread or do I eat it on the side? Is Blutwurst really as bad as everyone says it is?” my mental dialogue rolls through my mind. Combining and rearranging every possible way I can enjoy my dinner.

I’m not sure how long I was in realizing it. I think I was in the process of stacking my third or fourth piece of bread when I notice Oma Neuendorf had stopped eating. Her silhouette faced away, and only the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders hinted any movement. A flash of lightning revealed her face, and her feelings for a brief second. Was it her I saw or was it her soul? The lightning faded as quickly as it came, scared away into hiding by the sad empty eyes that watched the air. “Is something wrong?” I ask reverently, not wishing to disturb anything a youth shouldn’t know.

“Hans” she whispered, holding her brother’s name on her lips, asking it to stay longer, before she continued “Hans was my brother.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother. Where does he live?” I ask. At first she doesn’t say anything, only turning her head slowly till her tired eyes could focus on me.

“Hans is dead. Long dead.” Lightning flashed around the room echoing like a bomb against the walls. “Before I lived here, in Heinsberg. When I was a little girl I grew up in Prussia, just east of Berlin. I didn’t really know what war meant then. I was only nine. All I knew were parades, and victory songs. I knew my father was in France, and my brother was in Poland. Every night when the Russians, and Germans stormed across the sky my mother and I would pray to the light of lightning, and were amened by the echo of bombs. Every night we prayed they would come home. That the war would end, and that we could sleep in silent nights. “

“Prayers are answered in funny ways sometimes. The war was ending, the Russians were coming, and even Hans showed up just as we were leaving for Erfurt, where the Russians wouldn’t find us. He was a bit ragged, but neither mother or I cared. He was alive, and hopefully we would see Father in Erfurt.”

“The trains were all full. Those heading east were exporting men, guns, and bombs. Those going west importing blood, pain, and fear. We moved at night, crossing the plains, fields, and woods where we wouldn’t be seen. Hans often would carry me on his back, feeding me crusty bread over his shoulder. One night after about a week of travel the Russian planes came farther inland on their way to Berlin. We could hear the bombs raining down on smokestacks, and warehouses flashing off into a ball of light before seconds later echoing across the land. Powerfully reforming the land in Godlike sweeps.”

“We found an abandoned Farmhouse nestled against some trees. It was already occupied by other families seeking shelter from the storm, but they were kind and gracious enough to let us share their floor. One elderly man gave us water from the well out back. It was so sweet. We huddled there in a room much like this one, until the jeeps pulled up to the house, and rough dressed men came up to the house. In they marched, guns held ready, red arm bands cutting off blood to their heart. They declared every man a deserter. They pulled them from screaming wives, and crying mothers, lined them up in an empty room across the hall. I could see Hans’s face through the door. He didn’t cry or wimper, just simply stared death in the face. The lightning flashed, and the thunder clashed, leaving my ears ringing. When my eyes returned to normal Hans lay in a pile of men on the floor and the soldiers marched their way out the door.”

The thunder clapped, again and Oma broke from whatever nightmare held her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she excused herself. Forgetting the half eaten slice of bread in my hand I looked out the window at the raging storm. A chill ran up my spine, and I understood.

Blackrock and Sage Write-a-thon

Well I competed in a Write-a-thon today hosted by the local ISU Journal Black Rock and Sage, and even won the third hour prize for writing 1763 words in one hour. For a total of 2720 words. WOOHOO, free coupons. The following entry sort of ends unexpectedly as it was a timed writing project. I hope to continue it later, but we'll see when I find the time.. I just wanted to post what I had for you all to enjoy. Please feel free to tell me what you think...things like flow, grammar, and story consistancy are pretty important. Thanks everyone who manages to read it all.
Seth

John couldn’t run any farther.

Weighed down in industrial armor he collapsed into a heap, sending a red cloud of dust into the air. His legs burned, and he swore he could feel the lactic acid oozing across already swollen muscles. He tried to push himself up, but the extensive weight of his body suit kept him pinned to the ground. In frustration he tried again, but resulted in getting only a few inches off the ground before falling again into an exhausted heap. His standard issue MSA, or Military Space Armor, was simply too heavy.

Like the astronautic suits of the original Apollo missions it covered his whole body, protecting himself from the harsh inhuman atmosphere of mars. Layered on top of it were sheets of a thick ceramic compound capable of stopping bullets. Simple in design, but effective in combat his suit had become more of a skin during his last two tours of the Mars Theatre. A skin that he now cursed.

They would be arriving soon, and if he didn’t get moving he was mince meat. He tried again to lift himself, and managed to get onto one knee. Damn this suit was heavy. After a brief pause, he succeeded in standing fully upright. His knees wobbled a bit, and the sudden rush of blood to his head made his eyes cloud over for a second nearly causing him to fall over again. Looking around he spotted his rifle lying a few feet away, half buried in the soft martian dirt. He made a movement to retrieve it, but the knowledge that the clip was empty, combined with the effort of bending over caused him to forgo the effort.

His took a moment to grasp his surroundings. He was standing at the bottom of a small ravine. Red walls providing cover from prying eyes stood on either side. Each casting long shadows across the hallow from the already low lying sun. Behind him he could see his tracks snaking up the ravine back to where the screams still lingered on the air. “Were they still alive?” he wondered to himself. He had no way of knowing, all he could remember was a sudden boom, and then the screaming. Like overly large black insects they’d crawled from the earth. Thrusting spear like hands into the bodies of Phi Company, and then ripping off the armor like squirrel going for the meaty center of a particularly soft nut.

“What the hell were those thing?” he thought again to himself. “Hell is what they were. Demons from some unforgotten nightmare. A nightmare yes, this was all a nightmare. I’ll have to tell Chuck about this one tomorrow. Maybe even the Sarg. Could it possibly give me leave to go home? I think I’ve heard of Soldiers having horrible nightmares and being sent home. Why was it again? Oh yes, Mentally Unfit. That doesn’t sound too bad. Home doesn’t sound that bad at all.”

John’s thoughts continued to spiral around in circles until he collapsed once again onto the soft red soil of Mars. Unconscious he was relieved from his nightmare.

Sir Anthony Hembridge stormed down the hallway. A tall man with black hair, and a square chin, his broad shoulders filled out his Captains uniform quite well. From his well polished boots to his short standard haircut everything said precision, and detail. The large manila envelope clenched in his had swung back and forth like the pendulum of a ticking grandfather clock.

Sub-ordinates took one look at his stern brow and drooping mustache, and scurried into cubicles or pretended to talk with neighbors. Everyone had heard about what’d happened, and they weren’t about to get in his way. Anthony marched past them all, and disappeared into a room at the far end of the hall.

“What’s going on?” asked Barry leaning over to his neighbor.

“Don’t you know?” responded his heavyset partner. He was shorter than average and even though he was wearing a military uniform it lacked the luster of Sir Anthony.

“No I don’t. Today is only my third day. What’s going on?”

“Well I don’t know all the details myself” whispered the man as he scooted closer. “but I heard from a very reliable source that we’ve lost an entire Platoon.”

“An entire platoon?” gasped Barry his eyes going wide. “But that’s nearly fifty men! How do fifty men go missing?”

“Exactly what I want to know. We haven’t lost a soldier too the pirates in over three y ears, and now all of a sudden fifty up and disappear.”

“Do we have any idea what happened?”

“Maybe the higher ups. My after my own opinion, they’re all hiding stuff from us. Running around with their manila folders stamped in red ink. There’s always something fishy going on, but us low lifes aren’t capable of handling it. Mark my words though; the dark side is gaining power again.”

“If I wasn’t mistaken I’d say you were a Jedi with the way you talk.” said Barry with a questioning air.

“Sure am, and proud of it.” The man poked his finger at his flabby chest and proclaimed “Everything is powered by the force. It lives in all of us, and when we learn to listen to it we are able to do much more. See much farther.”

“I’m sure you can.” Answered Barry coolly. He wasn’t too concerned with ancient religions. He was a man of science, and didn’t really want to hear his neighbors mystic mumbo jumbo. “but what happened? Do we know anything?”

A coy smile played off the man’s lips and he leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper “I hear that they were drilling out in the southern hemisphere when some martians came out of the earth and killed them all.”

“Martians?” Barry wasn’t sure he wanted to talk with his neighbor anymore. This guy was a certifiable nut. “Don’t you think if they existed we would’ve found them by now? We’ve been mining tridium from this planet for over forty years now. Martians are just some industrial age myth written to scare little boys at night.”

“Who says they have to live on the surface?” pointed out the man. “We’ve been looking at Mars’s surface for nearly 800 years, and haven’t seen a thing. What about under the ground? Don’t you know that even though 70% of Mars’s tridium is located under the drilling barrier? Why can’t we go another measly thousand meters? We’d be richer than kings if we did.”

“Well…” began Barry. He honestly didn’t have an answer for this man, but he sure wasn’t going to believe that this wasteland of a planet was inhabited by underground mole people. “Who knows, but everything we’ve seen so far says that Mar’s is uninhabited. It was probably the Pirates. They’ve probably found a way to take down one of the MSA Soldiers, and took us by surprise. That tends to happen when a fighting force gets arrogant.”

“What Pir….” Began the man, but he stopped himself short. Sir Hembridge was back, and he wasn’t looking any happier.

“Johnson!” he barked. The fat man next to Barry sat up straight, and saluted his commander “Sir, what can I do sir?” Hembridge sized Johnson up in one contemptuous glare, before shooting a glance over to Barry.

“Stop leading the recruit on with your wild conspiracy theories. I need your logistics report by noon.”

“But that’s in less than an hour” whined Johnson in return.

“Then I suggest you get started.” Johnson grumbled and spun his chair back to face his monitor. Hembridge waited before glancing over at Barry. “So you’re the new guy. I’m Captain Hembridge, but unlike you Americans you can simply call me Sir Hembridge. Welcome to Mars HQ, I’m sure you’ll feel at home here Ensign …” he paused looking down to the name tag stitched above Barry’s shirt pocket “… Richards. Make sure you keep your eyes on your job, and don’t let flights of fancy distract you.” Hembridge’s eyes couldn’t have sent a clearer message than if he’d pointed and shouted at Johnson. Who tried unsuccessfully to make himself appear smaller in his chair. In sharp crisp movements Hembridge nodded and marched away. His empty hands ticking like a grandfather clock.

Barry was exhausted. Every one of his muscles complained in dull thudding throbs. Fumbling with the keys he opened the door to his dorm sized flat. No larger than two meters, by three it had just enough room for a bed which stood five feet off the floor, a desk placed under the bed, a small wooden closet big enough to hold one suitcase worth of clothes. There was a sink on the other wall, along with some shelves for toiletries and personal items. There was a small walkway down the middle of his room which led to a small half meter, by half meter window. The showers were just down the hall, and he’d go wash his sweat off as soon as could, but first he drop off his workout bag, in exchange some clean clothes, and shampoo.

Throwing his bag down on the floor under the sink, he reached up and grabbed the fresh clothes he’d left folded on his bed. Goodness did it feel good to feel his muscles stretch. He left his arms out in front of himself for a second, letting his cramping muscles extend to back to their full potential. He left the tension slowly crawl down his arms, into his back, down his legs, and then back up to his arms. Boy did it feel good. Pulling his arms back down he let his body relax.

Looking out the window he could see the dark red surface of Mars stretching out towards the horizon. The sun was only a few minutes set, but the dusk still left a lingering glow across the sky. Casting odd shadows of leviathan length unopposed across the ground. The twinkling lights of neighboring buildings, and facilities dotted the foreground. Like miniature stars they formed constellations across the sky. Northern Smokestacks was probably his favorite as they shot straight up and down, perfectly aligned. Forming an outline fence to the large Military Compound.

“Where’s the Northern Star Barry?” asked an old familiar voice.

“Right there Grandpa.” Large wooden trees framed the sky with their trunks, all pointing towards the heavens. A small boy with brownish hair lay on his back with his arm pointing skywards. His grandfather laying next to him in his own sleeping bag. Arms propped behind his head, and sleepy eyes half closed.

“Good job Barry. Now, What’s so important about it?”

Barry thought for a second, his arm still stretched out towards the bright northern star. “It always stays in the same place.” Stated Barry with confidence.

“Good job. ” rumbled grandpa’s voice, old and worn, but still strong. Grandpa was a cowboy. His scratchy beard, and flannel shirts the last of an era long gone. “The North Star is a constant. This planet of our is always spinning around and around. Going in circles, but that star,” he nodded towards it with his head “is one of life’s few constants. If you guide yourself by it at night you’ll never be lost again.”

The dusk afterglow had long faded, and the factory lights twinkled all the brighter against the pitch black sky. Merging themselves with true stars which covered the heavens. Barry didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. His legs had stiffened again, and the salt left from evaporated sweat was beginning to itch. With a shiver he shook himself out of his day dream and grabbing his towel, and clothes headed to the shower.

John couldn’t see a thing. A bright light kept blurring his vision every time he tried to open his eyes. His head swam with foggy nightmares, and the lines between dreams and consciousness were fuzzy. He’s been lying somewhere for some time now. His body was restrained somehow, and he could feel the faint tickle of tubes running down his arms, and around his face. Something beeped slowly in the background. Ticking by unknown seconds with each high pitch tone.

Sliding in and out of thought for some time he slowly began to remember words. Meanings vainly trying to blow away the fog of his mind. “Where am I?” he’d ask himself. He’d struggle for a few moments to try and find an answer, a bed, a room, somewhere warm, before he would forget there even was a question and would fade off again. Only to ask himself the same question a few minutes later.

Each time his thoughts became more intricate, and he was able to hold onto the question a little while longer. “a hospital maybe?” he tried to remember what a hospital was, vague images of stern faced men in long white jackets came to mind. Gentler faces also appeared, ones framed in long red hair, and perched upon shapelier forms. He liked those better than the stern faced ones. A smile played across his lips. Hospitals aren’t bad. He was about to fade off into more pleasant dreams than what he’d previously had, but a loud bang blew away all the fog. “Cpt. Hembridge, he’s just barely stablilized. He’s not ready yet.”

“We don’t have time Doctor. We need to know now.”

John opened his eyes and looked towards the bang. He was lying on a bed in a small room. Computer equipment lined the walls, some letting out a gentle beep with every thump of his heart. IV’s pumping chemical miracles into his arm were hanging on both sides. A man stood in the open doorway. He looked like one of those grave faced men in his dream. He had his back to John and was addressing another taller man dressed in dark blue. The man in blue was trying to get past the man in white, and the man in white had stretched his arms across the threshold. Holding the doorframes in an attempt to keep the other from entering.

“I’m telling you Captain, if we disturb him now we could be facing permanent damage. He needs to rest. ” said the man in white. His voice pleading.

“I understand your concern Doctor, and I admire your courage. Speaking to a superior like that, but I have my orders, and I know things you do not. I must speak with him now, and so I order you to stand down.” The man in white relaxed considerably and his arms slowly returned to their sides. With a defeated sigh he turned gesturing with his clipboard allowed the Captain to come in.

In crisp movements the man in blue, who John was now guessing to be Captain Hembridge, marched into the room, and pulled a wheeled chair up beside John’s bed. He sat as straight as he stood, and crossed his legs. The ankle resting at exactly ninety degrees on his thigh, which was also squared nearly perfectly. John would’ve guessed he probably didn’t even take a dump without receiving orders stamped and approved ten times over. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he felt the need to sit up straighter in bed, and with a weak movement raised his hand to his forehead in a salute.

Captain Hembridge, chuckled uniformly, and said mildly impressed “I’ve heard of the MSA Marines dedication, and I’m glad to see you live up to it.” John noticed he carried a clipboard which was now resting across his legs. Hembridge pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, and clicking it once jotted a quick note on the papers in front of him. “Now then, what’s your name?”

John looked at Captain Hembridge, his face a posterboy for puzzlement. “My what?” he stammered.

“Your name soldier” came Hembridge’s cold reply. He didn’t even look up from the clipboard. “Just think for a second, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

John felt perplexed. He knew he had a name, everyone had one, but what was his? Who was he? Like a ship emerging from the fog it slowly came back to him. “My name is John.” He said slowly.

“Good, now what’s the rest of it?”

“John Sullivan?” said John uncertainly.

Rough Drafts

Hey everyone...if you're wondering why the poetry all of a sudden it's because my creative writing class focuses on Poetry for the first six weeks before it gets to fiction. Now I know these poems aren't the best... at their best they're nothing more than quick notes I make when I get bored, or my textbook gets me into the mood to write something. Here are a few of my rough drafts. One will be chosen and then tuned a bit more for a grade. Feel free to say which ones are your favorites.

Lectures
My tired eye droops
and flutters awake
my mouth stretches open,
a great yawning gape.
Out thrust my arms
hands heaven bound.
My head feels like mush
and isn't so sound.
I rub my sore eyes
and try to stay wake,
but the teachers a bore,
and I stayed out to late.

She's so unaware

With an orange overcoat, and long flowing hair
she pulls out a book without nary a care.
Her eyes make a glance, furtive and quick
as she pulls out a book old, worn, and thick.
She tosses her head, and settles right in.
She opens the book, and rests her hand on her chin.
Pouring over the lines, that were written with flare.
She chews on her nails, unaware that I stare.

Angry Poem

So you think you're a poet
that's all good and well,
but I'm not someone learned
and I'm not here to sell
you the wonderful meaning
of a tear down the cheek,
or of heavenly angels
down on earth for a week.

I don't care if you're troubled
or angry, or calm.
I don't care if the sun
is your winter day balm.
Whatever the weather,
whether sunny or gray
I simply don't care
if you're mopey or gay.

For I am a poem
consisting of words.
Arranged in an order
and carefully stood.
To help you escape
realities grasp.
To open up dreams
locked tight with a clasp.

A Poem

They all call me Nick.
That's how it's always been.
Working my shop,
with my toys filled of tin.
The bell on the door
gives off a ring,
and my empty old shop
begins to sing
with the voices of children
fresh from the school
they come here to play
with a jovial fool.

The boys gasp at the cars
while the girls ooh at dolls
all neatfully stacked
in their child sized stalls.
The new train is in
a black and gold dream.
It's powered with coal,
and puts out real steam.
The girls in the corner
all giggle with glee
when they find the toy house
made for Susy McGee.

They laugh and they smile
as the sun slowly sinks,
inviting the night
with her oily dark ink.
And slowly they leave
to make their way home.
And my little toy shop
is left all alone.