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.

Autumn Walks

Highway 53 is a dusty old highway which stretches from St. Jacqueline Minnesota to Merriton Minnesota. Flat, fairly straight and severely lacking scenery it stayed for the most part empty. It’s only users were the usual assortment of cargo trucks, semis, and occasional, when the weather was right, and the sun had set himself roughly above the tree line in the late evening, you would see a boy. Head hunched, and often kicking a stone he would idly make his way along the side of Highway 53.
Aaron was his name, and in short words he was tall, lanky, and had short cropped blond hair. His father was a local plumber in Merriton, and in a town of roughly 2,000 people that made him Merritons only plumber. There wasn’t a soul who hadn’t had need of Mr. Turner to clear a clogged drain, replace a toilet, or install a sprinkler system. Everyone knew him, and by association knew his son. So when Mrs. Turner disappeared with Mr. Turners savings the town was of course aware.
The house seemed over flowing with comforting visitors, and John was surprised that the Fridge had yet to cave in under the growing weight of casseroles, and salads. All the people made John feel uneasy, and for the week afterwards John avoided going home. Instead, the moment the bus dropped him off from school he would sit down on a fallen tree and wait for all the other children to walk out of sight, before hiding his backpack behind the mailbox, and heading out along Highway 53.
It was Autumn, and the leaves had begun to continue on with life. Gone were the simple sunny days of summer, and now was the time for changing. Aaron loved leaves, and thought it wonderful that even though they were all the same shimmering green all summer long. The cold crisp air of the coming winter would determine the true make up of a leaf. They could be anything from golden yellow, to a sapphire red. Like a snowflake, no two were the same, and even in their deaths they seemed to find their identity.
The walked calmed Aaron, and with each passing step he, unnoticing, stood a little straighter, and walked with his head up more. The trees lining old Highway 53 were old bent, and gnarled. Many of them beeches, oaks, and maples, with the occasional fir or pine. Nearly empty of leaves they looked somewhat hollow to him. Thousands of little branches all craning for the sky. No longer burdened with leaves that would catch the wind, or hold them down. They were no longer held back and with their new found freedom could almost catch the sinking sun.
Which too was moving through his daily routine. Never altering in pace nor course. Like the old grandfather clock at the base of the stairs he ran his rounds, and never seemed to care for anything else. Aaron wondered if the Sun ever wished to go somewhere else or to see something new like he did. Didn’t he get tired of the same thing everyday. What was it worth to march through life without ever caring for something else. Every day the exactly the same without ever hoping for something. What type of life was that and Aaron suspected he knew exactly how the sun felt. For he was no longer the bright yellow orb of lunchtime, but was red and dull with the appearance of fuzziness that Aaron felt too right before going to bed. The sun sank slowly towards the horizon, and in a brilliant show of hues he slowly sunk into the night.
With the sun no longer their to keep it warm, the wind became cold and cutting. She blew on Aarons neck as he slowly made his way along the road towards home. Aaron wondered why she was so cold, when only a few hours previous she’d been so calm, and warming. He tried to pull his jacket tighter around himself and it helped some, but the wind cut right through his jeans. The closer Aaron got to home the more harder the wind blew. She seemed persistent on getting him home, and blew all the colder, sharper against his back. Aaron was walking a little bit slower than a run by the time he got to the driveway, and found his backpack half buried under some newly fallen leaves.
He made his way up the porch, and into his house. The kitchen was still covered in dishes, and he could see the dim glow of the TV on his father’s socks. He wouldn’t bother waking him, he seemed to enjoy his sleep a lot lately, and Aaron was glad he’d chosen to do that rather than drink. As quietly as possible he made his way upstairs, and into his bedroom. It was the only room that still appeared lively. The rest of the house seemed cold, and empty now. Everything seemed cold, and empty. Why did she have to go? Was it because of him? If he’d been a better boy would he still have been able to keep his mom? Without changing his clothes Aaron crawled into bed, and pulling his teddy bear out from underneath it he curled up and cried.
He didn’t know what time it was when he awoke, and he wasn’t sure what woke him. Looking around the room it appeared normal, and unchanged. Poking his head out the door he could still hear his fathers snores coming from downstairs, and it wasn’t until he pulled his head back into the room and looked out the window opposite him did he see the falling snow. The first snow fall was always an expected sign of the coming winter, and Aaron shuddered to think it would get colder. Little did he realize as he climbed into bed. That life moves in circles, and even when everything seems cold, and empty, and when it seems certain that they will get worse before the end. There will always be a Spring on move, and with it a new birth of happiness, and warmth. Such is life, and so will it always be.

NaNoWriMo Prologue----

Prologue: Circling Mars

My whole life I’ve had an affair with the stars. I’ve never been able to explain it to well in words, and only those who share my passion seem able to understand those things for which there are no words. As Nergal 1 first orbited around Mars the entire crew and I shared a moment that can never be replicated in any form.
It was on Saturday April 7th 2085 at around 11:30pm EST when we made the first orbit around Mars, or that was the time that NASA received our radio transmission, and what has now been formally written in the world’s history books. Time works differently in outer-space though. Without the rising, and setting of the sun to mark our days the passing of time seemed to have become irrelevant. The trip to Mars was a scheduled eight months, but day by day, and week by week it all seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Now was the moment that we (The Nergal crew) had talked about, trained for, and dreamed off. We’d been together as a crew for five years and now we were literally circling our dream. Time didn’t mean a thing to us then.
I was in my “Office” when Captain Quincy’s voice came on over the communication channels. He greeted everyone, and after formally stating the time, and date he announced that Nergal 1 had finally entered into orbit around the red planet. Even though I was alone at the time I would like to believe that everyone on that ship was anxiously holding their breath at the same moment that I was. Whether they all did or not I’ll never know, but it wasn’t until after a few seconds that the first hollers of joy began to echo their way along the ship’s tubular walkways. I excitedly hung my clipboard onto the wall and was on my way to find a window when Captain Quincy came back onto the comm. Line. He asked the entire crew to gather in the control room.
Being in on the ship’s inner chambers I was one of the last of the 10 man crew to arrive. Everyone was gathered at a one of the room’s many windows. All chattering excitedly as they took their closest look at Mars. I made my way over to the nearest window which was already occupied by the Missions two geologists Jeff Durham, and Jan Gretel. The view was amazing. We were located above the upper region of Tharsis, and in my very first glimpse I was the Solar Systems largest mountain, Olympus Mons. In my studies of Mars I’d seen pictures of this twenty-six kilometer high volcano I was left breathless as I looked down on it with my own eyes.
When the last of crew finally came together Captain Quincy caught our attention. In referencing my video journals I was able to find the following quote which is word for word what he said “Crew of the Nergal 1. You know I’ve never been one for long words, but I do feel it is order to say a few things concerning what is now happening to us. We are making history, and have been doing so for the past five years. Everything that we’ve worked for, and sacrificed since the planning of this mission now finds itself embodied right outside our window. It has been my honor, and privileged to work with some of the world’s finest scientists, aviators, and technicians. You truly are all one of a kind, and I would like to take a moment to honor someone who gave up more than us all for this mission. Someone who wishes he could’ve been here with us today, but has since passed on. Could we please just have a minute of silence for William England.” As we all turned our heads back to the windows in silence I still remember clearly my first thought. “It’s so red.”

John get's a visit.

John shaded his eyes from the summer sun as he watched the stranger make his way down the road. His body was hidden under long brown robes, and his face was covered with a hood. He carried a staff in his left hand. Which he leaned on heavily to make his way up along the dirt road. His pace was slow, and John couldn't help but wonder what he was doing here, or even how he'd gotten this far.

John's home was situated on the edge of a plateau in the middle of the Hiob desert. It was a desolate place, filled with nothing but miles of open red-rock plains, and half dead plants. John's home couldn't have been farther away than anything or anyone else, and that's just how he liked it. John rarely saw anyone, another thing he liked about his house, as it was over three hours with his Jeep to the nearest house, and another four after that to a town. John wondered what this man was doing so far away from everything, and on foot nonetheless.

John watched the robed figure slowly make his way up the road. When he was about fifty yards away John stood out of his rocking chair, and hollered "Hey! Old man, are ya lost?" The old man paused and looked over at John. John couldn't make out the man's face clearly underneath the robe, just a gray beard and a pair of tired looking eyes nestled under bushy eyebrows. He didn't say a word, but simply lowered his head again and began making his way from the road to the porch. John wanted to shout at the old man again. He wanted to drive him off his land and back out into the desert, but something in the old man's eyes kept him silent.

In only a few moments the man was standing on the first step of the porch. The man slowly raised his hand and pulled back his hood revealing a very old man. His hair was long and gray, blending seamlessly into the long beard which trailed down to his chest. His face balled up into wrinkles whenever he smiled. John however noticed that his smile never seemed to reach his eyes. Looking once more at them he saw what he recognized all to well, fatigue. Propping himself up on his staff the old man the old man raised his hand in salutation and said "Nope."

John had never been greeted by the word nope before. It took a moment for him to overcome his shock before he asked bewildered "Excuse me?"

The man shrugged his shoulders and explained "You asked if I was lost. Well I'm not. I've been actually traveling to see you John."

"What?" said John stepping back. He'd never met this man before in his life. "Who are you? And how do you know me?"

Leaning on his staff for support the old man levered himself up the last couple of steps. Until he stood for the first time on level ground with John. John was a big man and rarely did he ever look up to someone, but this man stood a good three inches taller than him. Looking up John tried to suppress his growing sense of unease. "Name's Ahmen." said the man "and I've always known you John." John thought he saw something flash in the old man's eyes, but quickly forgot about it as the man continued. "You've got quite the history, but such details aren't best spoken outside when a storm's a brewing. Shall we go inside." the man deftly grabbed John's elbow and slowly led him through the porch door "You wouldn't happen to have any Hot Cocoa would you?" He never gave John the chance to answer, and even if he would've John was too stunned to speak. He hadn't had a visit in over five years.