A brief note before I start the story; for now on I will give the explanation of my story after the story itself, instead of before.
The Plow
The snow had stopped falling by the time Chris got outside. Now there was a steady rain falling instead; drenching the layer of snow in a heavy coat of rain. Chris adjusted his Seattle Mariners cap, picked up his blue and black snow shovel, and set out to clean the driveway before his wife got home from work.
He had just gotten home from work himself not even a hour earlier, had eaten a short supper, then put on his polyester North Face jacket and went outside. The northwestern sky was dark now. The curse of winter always brought shortened days in Oregon, and when your neighbors are few and far apart, the darkness and chill truly isolates you. Chris began to shovel the space around his car; trying his best to avoid scraping the side of it each time he threw a shovelful of snow to the side of the driveway. The floodlights on the side of his house shone brightly, casting shadows off the trees in a strange and eerie fashion. Chris’s house was one of only two houses on the road. His was on the end closest to the center of the small town of Boyd; the other house was on the opposite end of the five-mile long road.
Chris was almost halfway done with the driveway when he heard the sound of a distant train blowing its horn in the silent darkness. He was drenched in rain by now, and his coat seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. The rain was pouring harder, and the snow got heavier with each lift of the shovel. Then Chris heard a strange sound coming from the woods south of his house. It sounded much like thunder, but Chris knew there wasn’t any storm around. Chris assumed it was probably just the train. Only he knew that he heard that distinct train whistle coming from the west not even five minutes ago. Chris brushed off the thought and continued his shoveling of the heavy, wet snow.
A couple minutes later Chris heard the sound again. This time he stopped shoveling and looked up in the direction it was coming from. He saw nothing, but to him the noise seemed closer. This time he also smelled the faint, and distant scent of diesel. Then suddenly he realized what that sound was, the scraping of a plow against hard, blacktop. The sound came from the direction of Robins Road; the road that was nearest to Chris’s. Robins Road had one resistant on it who went by the name of Richard McDonald, but everyone simply called him Ricky. Ricky owned a large, ford pickup and would go around the town plowing all the roads with the wide, yellow plow he attached to the front. Chris was puzzled though. He hadn’t heard the sound of a plow in Boyd, Oregon since Ricky died of a heart attack nearly three years ago.
It’s just somebody else that happens to be plowing roads around here. Chris thought to himself, but still, the feeling of unease didn’t go away. The driveway was well more than halfway done now; his back was burning with pain and his arms had become weak and shaky. Sarah still wouldn’t be home for another hour from her job at the local clinic, and in these conditions it might take even longer. Chris could see the road now. There was a stream of melted snow running down the middle of it, and the house lights bounced off its glassy surface showing the fast moving ripples in its center. Then that noise came again; the crunching, scraping sound of metal, rock, and snow all colliding into each other. The noise seemed to be even closer this time, so close he could hear the sound of the engine as it backed up, getting ready to start a new round of clearing the asphalt. Chris knew that sound like he knew his wife’s voice. He knew that sound belonged to the engine of Richard’s old Ford pickup. He could hear the sound of the rusty muffler that sounded like a chainsaw cutting into a fresh piece of wood. That sound had woken him up everyday in the winter, until three years ago. Don’t worry Chris, it’s probably just his son or another townie trying to make a couple of bucks by plowing local roads and is using Ricky’s old truck. But Chris knew that Ricky’s truck had crashed into a tree on that day three years ago.
Chris hated that truck. He hated waking up every morning at five to the sound of scraping and crunching, and that muffler, how he hated the unearthly sound of that muffler. Richard lived by himself in his house on Robins Road, and his truck had become something of a child to him. He rode in it everyday and cared about the car more than he did himself it seemed. Yet he never wanted to change parts on that truck, he felt it would take away from its original feel and he would lose his love for it. The whole town saw him as an oddball and a hermit who kept to himself. But over the years Ricky and Chris had gotten into a couple of disputes. First it was over small things like Chris’s dog running around on his property. Then it turned to property disputes after Chris wanted to build a barn in the woods across the street where he could set up a study and space for his engineering work. The fighting made its climax during the winter of 2003, when Ricky’s bright yellow plow, smashed into the side of Chris’s Mercedes when he had it parked in his front lawn. Chris took the charges to court, claiming that Richard was reckless, and drunk the night he hit his car. Richard’s only defense was that Chris shouldn’t have parked his car halfway on the road. The judge ruled in Chris’s favor. Ricky’s license was suspended and he was forced to pay $3000 dollars in fines and damage repair. Ricky swore he would get back at Chris somehow, someday when he was least expecting it. So for just that reason Chris purchased a shotgun a week after the trial.
Chris was nearing the road now. His hands were frozen, his feet wet and cold, and he was beginning to have a headache. He saw headlights turning onto the road, and for a moment his heart jumped. Then he realized that it was only his neighbor coming home, and he gave a slight wave as they drove past, trying his best to move his sore hand from side to side. But the only thing he got in return was a splash of freezing water and slush all over his body. He shook off as much water as he could, and went back to shoveling after cursing under his breath. Just when he finished his cursing, he heard the sound again. This time he knew it was coming closer, and he thought it was probably on the main road now, closing the distance between them quickly. Suddenly, the outside floodlights went out, leaving Chris in total darkness. He walked over closer to the house, waving his hands to try and trigger the sensor in the lights to have them come back on. After a minute or so of waving his hands and jumping up and down, he finally gave up of in his vein attempts, and set off to finish shoveling his driveway in near darkness.
Richard was back on the road the year after he hit Chris’s Mercedes, and he was once more plowing away the roads and driving that noisy beast every morning. Only now Richard made sure to cause as much discomfort as he possibly could for Chris. He would often idle his truck in front of Chris’s driveway at five in the morning, plow over his mailbox on more than one occasion, and make sure to box in their driveway with as much snow as he possibly could. All of this annoyed Chris, but he knew extra snow and broken mailboxes were the least of his worries. Chris simply played along with Richard’s games of retaliation, and kept his mouth shut. Things remained as normal as they could for most of that winter, at least until that fateful day. That day started out like any other, Richard plowing roads around the small Oregon town, and he turned down Chris’s road thinking up a way to annoy him this morning. He took his eyes off of the road for a second to grab the beer in the cup holder, but when he looked up he saw Chris’s dog running across the road only a couple yards in front of him. Startled, Ricky slammed on the breaks of his Ford, making the car swerve across the small road before crashing into a tree directly across from Chris’s house. The doctors said he would have survived the crash; only he died of a heart attack before the metal even hit the trunk. Chris felt a mix of guilt, and relieve after that event. For he knew his dog had killed him, but he also knew he was no longer a threat to him or his wife, or so he thought at the time.
Chris looked over his shoulder at the tree where the truck hit, gave a brief shudder, and then resumed shoveling. He had only a small portion left to shovel, and he wanted to get back in the warm house as soon as possible. Then he heard the sound of that engine again. It was louder than ever. He knew the truck was on his road now, picking up speed. It was so close to him that Chris thought he could hear the sound of the pistons driving up and down in its metal box under the hood. Only this time the engine sounded different; it sounded less threatening. He could no longer hear the sound of the plow against the snow; the sound of the engine had overpowered it. Chris was staring down the road where the sound was coming from, bracing himself for the worst, waiting for those headlights to come into view. Then he saw them, bright yellow fluorescents that lit up the night and were coming straight toward him. Chris was scared out of his mind. He wrecked my car, wrecked my dog, and now he was coming to wreck me. Chris thought. He was just about to drop his shovel and run when suddenly the car stopped. A dark figure got out of the car and started walking toward him. Unable to move, Chris could only stand and stare at the figure. At last the figure came into the light, it was Sarah home from work.
“Wow sweety, you did a nice job! I didn’t think you would shovel tonight because of the rain.” She said.
Relieved, Chris could only shake his head in agreement.
“Well I think you’ve done enough work for one day, why don’t you call it quits?”
Chris could still only shake his head in agreement.
Sarah got back into her truck and parked it next to Chris’s new Mercedes in finished driveway. Chris walked over to her as she got out, and together they walked into the house. Just before Chris went inside, he looked over his shoulder into the Oregon woods toward the main road, swearing that he could hear the faint sound of metal scraping against asphalt, and the sound of a muffler that has been worn thin by years of rust and salt.
I actually wrote this story after a night very similar to this one; where I had to go outside and shovel the wet, heavy snow before my father got home. I was busy shoveling when I heard a strange noise that sounded something like thunder, coming from the south. And although I don't have any disgruntle neighbors around my area that plow, it still creeped me out a bit.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The Lincoln Hotel
This is by far my favorite story I have yet to write. It is very similar to The Legend of Somerville, but this time I wrote it from a totally different perspective. The story idea actually came at the spur of the moment, when I asked my friend to come up with a random place, they told me "Lincoln New Hampshire", thus the story was born. I wrote the story from the perspective of a teenage girl, I'm not sure how well I did with that, but it was something I wanted to try and learn from. This was also the first story I used dialogue in, which was also a bit of a challenge for me, but I once more learned from it. I don't know if the ending will surprise anyone, because there isn't actually a set ending that I had planned; there are about three different explainations behind the ending, you may choose whichever one you like best, because all three can work.
The Lincoln Hotel
It wasn’t until noon that I finally put the last of the suitcases into the truck of my dad’s shiny, new Mercedes. And as I grabbed the backpack that held my iPod, laptop, and reading material, I could already hear my dad’s muffled voice yelling at my little sister about who knows what. I knew then this would be a very long trip up to New Hampshire for our annual stay in Lincoln. I never understood why my dad felt obligated to bring us every summer.
“It’s a great way for us to bond”. He would say every year.
However, I often doubted his optimism. The only thing that ever kept me sane on these expeditions up north was the pure beauty of the White Mountains. But the spas, pools, and buffets don’t hurt either though. Yet the real truth was, these trips always ended in my dad yelling at my sister or I to the point of tears; and then since he felt bad, would bring us out for ice cream thinking it fixed everything. I would much rather be sitting at home right now with my laptop talking to my boyfriend while watching America’s Next Top Model, but my mom always forced us to go with our father. We all knew the only reason she did was because she had one fear in her life; my dad’s lawyers. Sure it was nice having a rich dad, you get whatever you want. Cell phone, laptop, Mustang waiting in the garage for when you turn sixteen. But you know what they say about money and happiness.
My dad and little sister finally appeared at the front door around half past noon. I then armed myself with my iPod and made sure to turn the volume up to full. Olivia jumped into the back seat with that disappointed and embarrassed look I’d seen to often from my little sister. And as we made our way onto the highway, my dad blasted Kenny Chesney through his six, surround sound speakers. His speakers were no match for my iPod, and my Death Cab for Cutie song soon became a hybrid of indie music, and country.
After what seemed like an eternity we finally reached our hotel in Lincoln. Thus commencing the task of unpacking all we put in only hours earlier. This of course made my dad angry since we weren’t unpacking to his specifications or speed. And by the time everything was in the hotel room, it was around dinnertime; so I brought Olivia down to the buffet get some supper. As we left our hotel room, I noticed that the parking lot was now almost full. There was a black Porche parked to the left of my dad’s car, and an unmarked, white van parked to the right. The van seemed a bit out of place in such an upper class hotel, but my stomach cared more about eating than my conscience did wondering. When we got the buffet, there was a mass of either inline, or already seated and consuming their mountain of food on their plate. I took a large helping of mashed potatoes, bread, and what I assumed was rice. And even though I hated meat, that didn’t stop my sister from taking what looked like three or four chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and a think slice of steak. You wouldn’t think a ten year old girl as skinny as her, could eat as much as she does. But I’m sure it’ll catch up to her eventually anyway, like all Americans.
“How come daddy didn’t come to eat with us?” Olivia asked.
“Because he’s busy cleaning up the hotel room and he didn’t want us around to mess it up.” I said.
The rest of the meal was mostly silent, since Olivia had to eat her large mound of food, plus desert, in a very limited time. And by the time we were both done it was almost seven. When we got back to the hotel room our father had finished cleaning the hotel from top to bottom and was now lying on his bed watching the evening news.
“Where have you been?” He said.
“The dinning hall” I told him.
“And why didn’t you tell me you were going there?” He said.
“Because Olivia and I were hungry and you were busy yelling at us to get out of the room since you were cleaning.” I said back.
“Well that doesn’t give you the right to just walk out without telling your father.” He said
“Whatever dad.” I said, already on my way toward the bathroom to take a shower.
That night I took an exceptionally long, hot shower, then put on my favorite pink bathrobe that my mom got me last Christmas, and went back into the room to get ready for bed. My dad was still laying on his bed watching the news when I got out, only now his hands were in a large bag of Lays chips. He gave me one look, rolled his eyes, and then went back to watching TV. By the time everyone was done taking their turn in the shower, it was almost ten and we were all tired from all the time we spent in the car. Olivia jump into bed with me wearing her pink Spongebob pajamas, she had a smile on her face for the first time all day. My dad finally turned off the TV and the lights, and the first night we all slept a healthy sleep.
The next morning I got up around ten, took another shower, and changed into jeans and my favorite top, a black tank top I got last month. When I got out of the bathroom, Olivia was up as well, and my dad was still sleeping. I decided that Olivia and I would go to the spa, get our nails done, then come back before my dad woke up. I left a note on the nightstand telling my dad that Olivia and I were at the hotel spa getting pampered, just incase my dad wakes up early. By the time we finished getting our nails done, having facemasks, and getting cucumbers put on our eyes, it was almost noontime. And when we got back to the hotel room my dad was out of his bed and rummaging through the bags looking for some clothes he could put on. When we entered, he gave us both a dirty look, and then proceeded to yell at Olivia for making a mess on the bathroom counter before we left. It eventually got to the point where Olivia started crying. And being the big sister that I was, I wanted to do all I could to protect Olivia. So I took her by the hand and stormed out the door.
“Where do you think your going?” My dad screamed.
“Why do you even care?” I yelled back, slamming the door behind me. And that was the last time I saw my dad.
Not knowing where to go, and not caring, I brought Olivia and myself up behind the hotel where there was a mountain covered in ski trails. Since it was summer the trails were deserted and instead of being covered in snow, they were covered in a tall grass. The trails started at the top of the mountain, and then broke off into a dozen or so forks, creating large patches of trees in each fork.
“Wow, this would be a great place to play hide and seek!” Olivia said with much excitement.
“You want to play a game of it?” I asked, not caring what kind of game we played, just anything to get her mind off of my dad’s voice.
“Sure!” She said with a bright smile that only ten year olds know how to give.
We played hide and seek for nearly an hour, then we laid in the grass together and stared at the cloudless sky in the bright, summer sunshine. Around two, I decided it was best that we go back to our dad. We gave him nearly two hours to calm down, and we didn’t want him to worry too much about us. As we stood up, and began our descend down the mountain, we were stopped in our tracks by what lay ahead of us. In our path was a man in a dark gray sweatshirt and blue jeans. The hood he was wearing obscured his face, and he had his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. He just stood at the base of the hill staring up at us. Scared out of my mind, I took Olivia by the hand and instead of going down the mountain; I turned around and went further up it. I wanted my little sister to be as far away from this man as I could get her, and up was the only direction. Olivia understood immediately, and followed my lead without hesitation.
When we were about halfway up the ski slope, I turned around for the first time since we started running. I was hoping, praying, that the man was gone. But when I turned around I was greeted with that same lifeless, faceless man in the dark gray sweatshirt. And even though he wasn’t climbing the mountain as fast as we were, he managed to still keep up with us. Now I was really scared, not only for my sister but for myself as well. He had trapped us on this slope with only one direction to go. I didn’t know the topography of the White Mountains too well, but I knew one thing, there were a lot of mountains, and not a lot of people to help us.
During the rest of the climb up the mountain I looked over my shoulder nearly every minute. And by the time we reached the top, he seemed to be closer to us than he had when we started. But how could that be possible, we were running up the mountain the whole time and he seemed to be taking an mid afternoon stroll up it.
“Autumn, I can’t run anymore, my legs are killing me.” Olivia said.
“I know Olive, me too, but we can’t let that scary man catch us” I said.
I often called my sister Olive for short, since it sounded cute and it always made her giggle, but there weren’t going to be any giggles coming from her today. The ski trails ended abruptly at the top of the hill, and now the only thing that lay ahead of us were a wall of ancient pine trees. The arch of the mountain however provided a brief view of the landscape ahead of us. I could see a sparkling, blue lake not to far ahead of us, and past that I could only see dozens of tall, green hilltops.
“Autumn, can we stop at that lake for some water? I’m really thirsty.” Olivia said.
“Sure Olive, but we’ll have to be very fast.” I said.
We got to the lake about five minutes later, and Olivia and I drank handfuls of water from the lake. I wondered if it was such a good idea to be drinking right from the lake, but the lake looked cleaner than most tap water. Besides, I had a feeling this was going to be a long journey and we could use the energy. Once we were finished our quick drink, I looked over my shoulder, and there he was again. Just standing there in the shade of the tall pine trees, just like he had when we first saw him. Only this time he seemed closer to us, which made me feel even more uneasy. I pulled sharply on Olivia’s hand, causing the water in her cupped hands to splash into her face.
“Hey! What was that for?” She said.
“Sorry Olive, but we have to keep moving.”
And so we were off again, back into the tall pine tree forest surrounding the lake. When I turned around the man in the gray sweatshirt was once more following us, getting ever closer. The late afternoon sun cast strange shadows across the forest floor, making it hard to distinguish fallen branches from tree shadows.
“Slow down Autumn, I can’t keep up with you.” Olivia cried as she tripped over a sharp, pine branch.
“I’m sorry, I just want to get away from that man.” I said while helping her up. The dead branch had poked small holes in Olivia’s skin where small droplets of blood already began to form. For a big sister, I was doing a horrible job of protecting her I thought to myself. She quickly brushed the dirt off her jeans and hands, and we were again off as fast as our legs would carry us.
Even though it was bright and sunny out that day, the shadows and tall pine trees made the forest as black as night. And the man’s sweatshirt and jeans blended right into the forest itself, a sort of camouflage that seemed almost planned. I looked back often to see where he was, but the dark forest covered his position. After what seemed like hours of running, I stopped next to one of the great pines. And even though a strange man was chasing us, I knew both Olivia and I needed a quick break. It was during this break that the strange man appeared next to another pine tree, this time he seemed considerably closer to us, but still not close enough to see his face inside that hood.
“Leave us alone! Just go AWAY!” I yelled at the man as loud as I could. But I was given no response, just that blank stare from eyes I couldn’t see
The place where his face should have been was as dark as the forest. Covered by the shadow of his oversized sweatshirt. And for the first time that day my body began to feel weak. My stomach longed for food and more water. I knew then that my adrenaline was beginning to wear thin, and I prayed that we would find a trail, a house, anything that would give us hope. But our only choice for the time being was to push further into the woods, even though I had lost all sense of direction now, and for all we knew could be heading north toward Canada. Before we started moving, I scanned the ground for something, anything to protect us if it became necessary. The ground was littered with only pine needles though; there wasn’t a rock or thick stick to be found.
Not long after we left our resting spot, the sun started to reach the mountainous horizon. Blinding us with its orange-red light whenever there wasn’t a tree trunk to shade our eyes. The setting sun told me two things; the first was that we were heading east, and the second was that it looked like we would be spending the night in the New Hampshire wilderness. The man was now very close to us, maybe a hundred yards at the most. I could now see that he had very white skin, and sunglasses in the setting sun, but any other facial features we obscured by our distance. Just as the sun was hiding behind the first of the distant mountains, we came upon a stream, and once more Olivia asked if we could make a brief stop to drink. I hesitated, but once more said ok. Olivia knelt down beside the shallow river, cupped her hands, and took two large gulps. But after swallowing the second gulp, I could tell by the look on her face that she knew she made a mistake. Not even a minute later she vomited whatever water she just drank back into the river. My guess was that her empty stomach didn’t take to the water to well, and decided to send it back up. At least that’s what I hoped the reason was. Regardless of the reason, I found it best if I didn’t test my stomach to see if it could keep it down. So we were off once more, only this time Olivia looked a little paler, and the man seemed closer.
It was nearly dark now, and the man wasn’t even a hundred feet from us. I began to panic and was starting to break into a near sprint. Then suddenly, I tripped on a large rock that was hidden by the dark forest. As I fell I let go of Olivia’s hand, releasing our bond. My knees hit the ground first, striking the sharp rock with a loud bang. I put my hands out to stop the fall as best I could, but ended up sliding a couple of inches on the pine needle forest floor. Before Olivia could help me up, I was suddenly grabbed by the ankles and dragged across the ground. I screamed as loud as I could as my legs were scrapped by the outcropped rock. Then I heard a loud cracking noise, and the grip on my ankles was released. I turned around to see that Olivia had found a large branch and hit the strange man over the head with it. Then as I got up I picked up a rounded rock besides me and threw it as hard as I could at the man. It struck him in the stomach and he gave out a painful grunt. I quickly grabbed Olivia’s hand and together we ran as fast as we could, not caring about the sharp brush we were running through.
I cannot say how long we ran for. My mind lost all concept of time. All I remember is that the forest had become pitch black when we slowed down to catch our breath. I turned around for the first time since I was on the ground, only this time I saw no man at all. It could have been hard to tell though since there was no moon out, and the woods were now completely dark. Feeling a bit safer, Olivia and I slowed down to a fast walk. My legs were throbbing from the blood loss, and every step I took felt like a shot in the leg. I could also feel Olivia was shaking and coughing. I knew I had to start looking for shelter, but the thought of stopping and seeing that man again scared me more than dying from exhaustion.
“Autumn, I’m really tired and hungry, can we find a place to lay down?” Olivia said.
“Yeah, don’t worry Olive, I’m looking for a good place were we can rest and maybe start a fire.” I said.
“What are we going to eat?” Olivia said.
I never thought of food. I had no idea how to hunt or strip an animal of its fur, but if it came to that point I might have to learn. But the answer I gave her was a bit less morbid.
“Oh we’ll have a double cheese burger with a large fry, then an ice cream for desert” I said.
“Can I have an extra large coke with it too?” Olivia said with a smile as she looked up to me.
“You can have anything you want.” I said, smiling back.
What seemed like half an hour later, I saw a large, dark figure emerge in front of us. I couldn’t tell what it was, only that it was darker than the surrounding woods. As we got closer to it though I realized one of my prayers had finally been answered. It was a small log cabin. The cabin had one floor, a porch, and what looked like a small shed attached to the cabin in the back. I figured it must be a seasonal hunting lodge, but since it wasn’t hunting season it would remain empty for another three months. I knocked on the front door anyway though, but as I suspected I got no reply. When I tried to open the door, I expected it to be locked, but I was surprised to find that it opened easily. Almost like somebody knew we were coming I thought to myself. Inside there was an old looking woodstove, a large refrigerator with an old case of beer in it, a cot, a sink, a couple of chairs, and a large wooden desk.
Now that we had shelter, I began with the next priority, water. I went over to the sink, expecting that the pipes were turned off long ago, but was once more surprised when water poured into the stainless steal base. Then another thought crossed my mind. What if this water was also sickening like the water in that stream? But after viewing my options, I figured I would rather get sick from the water, than get my sister and I sick and drunk from the old beer. I tested the water the water to make sure it would stay down; which it did, so I offered some to Olivia. After we both replenished ourselves, I went on to tackle the next priority, heat. I found a box of matches in the drawer of the wooden desk. So I went over to the woodstove, struck the match against its rusty exterior, opened the little door, and realized that I forgot woodstoves need wood to work. I put out the match in a fit of anger after realizing my stupidity. I looked around the cabin and found no wood to burn. This meant I would have to go back outside where I saw the woodpile. But outside was the last place I wanted to go, I somehow felt safer inside this small log cabin; I felt like nobody could get to us in here. I went back to the desk drawer to see if I missed anything else that I could use. Inside of it I found a pencil, a magnifying glass, a compass, a map, and a large pocketknife. I grabbed the pocketknife and unfolded it. I figured any kind of weapon is better than nothing. So with the dull blade of that knife, I ventured outside slowly, always turning around to make sure nobody was going to grab me. After what seemed like hours, but ended up only being five minutes, I reached the woodpile. I took as much wood as I could carry and hurried back to the cabin.
After I got the fire started, I examined my legs. There were large holes in my jeans and you could see large patches of bloody skin in the holes. The blood had seeped into the clothe of the jeans, during them a dark purple color that made me feel dizzy. I couldn’t bare to look at my legs since I feared I might pass out, so I turned my attention to Olivia. All the color was washed from her face, and dark bags had begun to form under her eyes. She was still shivering even though she was next to the fire. I wrapped her in one of the blankets that was on the cot, and I kissed her on the top of her head.
“Do you think we’ll see daddy again?” She asked.
“Yeah, I think so. I’m sure the whole town is out looking for us by now and will find us any minute.” I said, hoping she would believe me.
She smiled back up at me but said nothing, then continued looking at the fire.
I loved Olivia more than anything in the world. She always knew how to put a smile on my face and make everything better. Yet somehow I envied her. She was too young to remember my parents fighting; she was only two when they got the divorced papers signed. I often wished I could have been like her and not have to remember those painful memories. And for that I tried to protect her from everything that’s hurtful in this world. I tried to protect her from her dad today, but in the end only got her in more danger; some big sister I am.
A little while later I moved the cot close to the fire. Olivia and I got into the bed, and we went to sleep within minutes. Then suddenly I was at Old Orchard Beach in Maine. My father was carrying me on his shoulders while my mom was holding a baby Olivia in her arms. We were on vacation for the week in Maine, and today we made a stop at Old Orchard Beach. My dad let me down so I could go run off in play in the water with the other kids while my parents stood back and watched me. I was only seven at the time, and I was the happiest girl in the world. After playing in the waves and the whitecaps for fifteen minutes or so, I came out of the water, soaking wet. And as I ran back into my dad’s arms and lifted me up to his face, he suddenly changed into the strange man in the sweatshirt. The surrounding area was no longer the ocean, it was those dark woods in New Hampshire, and I was no longer seven, I was sixteen. I woke up from my nightmare with a sudden jerk. Olivia moaned then fell silent once more. I didn’t fall asleep for the rest of the night.
As dawn broke the horizon, and the log cabin became lit by the sun, I was greeted by a loud shattering. I jumped out of the cot and looked to the window. The window on the far side of the cabin had been smashed and glass now lay on the floor. Inside the broken window was the strange man trying to get into the cabin. I grabbed Olivia and started looking for a way out. There was a latch on the floor in the corner of the room nearest us. I must have missed the latch last night since it would have been covered in shadows from the fire. I scrambled over to the latch, pulled it open, and found that it led to a basement. Seeing it as our only hope out, we climbed down the wooden ladder and closed the latch above us. We had very little time since I could now hear that the man was inside. I scanned the basement and saw a narrow set of stairs at the opposite end. I remembered now that I saw what appeared to be a shed outside in the back. Assuming that the stairs led up there, we quickly climbed up them, and burst open the door at the top into the morning sunshine.
Fortunately, I put the map and compass in my pocket the night before so I wouldn’t forget them. I had forgotten the knife however in our panic to get out of the cabin. I tore open the map, and found that the cabin had been circled with a big red circle. The town of Woodstock was only four miles southwest of us. I took out the compass, found southwest, and started running as fast as we could that way. The man was now back outside, only now he was running after us as well. I didn’t dare look back in fear of seeing his face. According to the map, the cabin was on the side of a hill, and if we just get to the bottom of the hill there’s a stream that will bring us right into Woodstock.
Soon after, we found the stream, and hurried as fast as we could to get across it in hope of slowing the man down. It put some distance between us, but not enough for us to slow our pace even a bit. Not far after the spot where we crossed the river, Olivia suddenly collapsed onto the ground. Her adrenaline had finally run out, and mine was on the verge of it. But I was not about to abandon my baby sister after going through all of this, so I picked her up and tried to run as fast as I could while carrying her in my arms. The man had gained a lot of distance during that delay, he was so close I could smell him. He reeked of a mix of body odor, and cologne that was both appalling, yet somehow familiar.
The next time I looked back I saw that he was further away than before. In fact he was resting with his hands on his knees and taking in heavy gusts of air. I took advantage of this moment and took a brief rest myself before continuing, Olivia still in my arms. After another half an hour, I saw something that I hadn’t seen in what seemed like years. In front of me was a concrete bridge that carried Interstate 93 across the river into Woodstock. Feeling a sense of hope, I turned around again, and saw that the man was only ten feet behind me now. I put all the energy I had left into that final sprint for my life, and my sister’s life. I had just crossed under the interstate bridge when I to suddenly collapsed onto the sand bank next to the river. My legs had become crippled and refused to move any further. Fearing that the man was closing in on us I felt around for a rock to arm myself with. When I grabbed one, I turned around, prepared to throw, but saw that the man had stopped chasing us. He was simply standing on the other side of the interstate overpass; giving that blank, eyeless stare he first gave us at the ski slopes. Bewildered and confused, I stared back for what seemed like hours. Eventually my legs released the cramp it had, and allowed me to stand up. I looked at the man one last time before turning around and heading down the river toward Woodstock with my unconscious sister in my hands.
The river brought me to a 50’s style diner that had half a dozen cars parked in its dirt lot. As I entered, every eye was turned to my sister and I. They stared at us with confused and shocked eyes. I asked in a raspy whisper for somebody to dial 911, but no body moved from their shocked state, which made me wonder if they even heard me. But eventually, somebody pulled out a cell phone and dialed the local police station. Minutes later my still unconscious sister and I were put into the back of an ambulance and were driven to the hospital in Lincoln. Olivia and I were brought to the emergency room where needles and an IV were put into us. The last thing I remember was holding my sisters hand in our room in the intensive care unit; then I feel into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next day my dad was sitting the chair beside my bed holding my hand. The first thing I noticed was the smile he had on his face; the second thing I noticed was the dark gray sweatshirt and blue jeans he was wearing.
The Lincoln Hotel
It wasn’t until noon that I finally put the last of the suitcases into the truck of my dad’s shiny, new Mercedes. And as I grabbed the backpack that held my iPod, laptop, and reading material, I could already hear my dad’s muffled voice yelling at my little sister about who knows what. I knew then this would be a very long trip up to New Hampshire for our annual stay in Lincoln. I never understood why my dad felt obligated to bring us every summer.
“It’s a great way for us to bond”. He would say every year.
However, I often doubted his optimism. The only thing that ever kept me sane on these expeditions up north was the pure beauty of the White Mountains. But the spas, pools, and buffets don’t hurt either though. Yet the real truth was, these trips always ended in my dad yelling at my sister or I to the point of tears; and then since he felt bad, would bring us out for ice cream thinking it fixed everything. I would much rather be sitting at home right now with my laptop talking to my boyfriend while watching America’s Next Top Model, but my mom always forced us to go with our father. We all knew the only reason she did was because she had one fear in her life; my dad’s lawyers. Sure it was nice having a rich dad, you get whatever you want. Cell phone, laptop, Mustang waiting in the garage for when you turn sixteen. But you know what they say about money and happiness.
My dad and little sister finally appeared at the front door around half past noon. I then armed myself with my iPod and made sure to turn the volume up to full. Olivia jumped into the back seat with that disappointed and embarrassed look I’d seen to often from my little sister. And as we made our way onto the highway, my dad blasted Kenny Chesney through his six, surround sound speakers. His speakers were no match for my iPod, and my Death Cab for Cutie song soon became a hybrid of indie music, and country.
After what seemed like an eternity we finally reached our hotel in Lincoln. Thus commencing the task of unpacking all we put in only hours earlier. This of course made my dad angry since we weren’t unpacking to his specifications or speed. And by the time everything was in the hotel room, it was around dinnertime; so I brought Olivia down to the buffet get some supper. As we left our hotel room, I noticed that the parking lot was now almost full. There was a black Porche parked to the left of my dad’s car, and an unmarked, white van parked to the right. The van seemed a bit out of place in such an upper class hotel, but my stomach cared more about eating than my conscience did wondering. When we got the buffet, there was a mass of either inline, or already seated and consuming their mountain of food on their plate. I took a large helping of mashed potatoes, bread, and what I assumed was rice. And even though I hated meat, that didn’t stop my sister from taking what looked like three or four chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and a think slice of steak. You wouldn’t think a ten year old girl as skinny as her, could eat as much as she does. But I’m sure it’ll catch up to her eventually anyway, like all Americans.
“How come daddy didn’t come to eat with us?” Olivia asked.
“Because he’s busy cleaning up the hotel room and he didn’t want us around to mess it up.” I said.
The rest of the meal was mostly silent, since Olivia had to eat her large mound of food, plus desert, in a very limited time. And by the time we were both done it was almost seven. When we got back to the hotel room our father had finished cleaning the hotel from top to bottom and was now lying on his bed watching the evening news.
“Where have you been?” He said.
“The dinning hall” I told him.
“And why didn’t you tell me you were going there?” He said.
“Because Olivia and I were hungry and you were busy yelling at us to get out of the room since you were cleaning.” I said back.
“Well that doesn’t give you the right to just walk out without telling your father.” He said
“Whatever dad.” I said, already on my way toward the bathroom to take a shower.
That night I took an exceptionally long, hot shower, then put on my favorite pink bathrobe that my mom got me last Christmas, and went back into the room to get ready for bed. My dad was still laying on his bed watching the news when I got out, only now his hands were in a large bag of Lays chips. He gave me one look, rolled his eyes, and then went back to watching TV. By the time everyone was done taking their turn in the shower, it was almost ten and we were all tired from all the time we spent in the car. Olivia jump into bed with me wearing her pink Spongebob pajamas, she had a smile on her face for the first time all day. My dad finally turned off the TV and the lights, and the first night we all slept a healthy sleep.
The next morning I got up around ten, took another shower, and changed into jeans and my favorite top, a black tank top I got last month. When I got out of the bathroom, Olivia was up as well, and my dad was still sleeping. I decided that Olivia and I would go to the spa, get our nails done, then come back before my dad woke up. I left a note on the nightstand telling my dad that Olivia and I were at the hotel spa getting pampered, just incase my dad wakes up early. By the time we finished getting our nails done, having facemasks, and getting cucumbers put on our eyes, it was almost noontime. And when we got back to the hotel room my dad was out of his bed and rummaging through the bags looking for some clothes he could put on. When we entered, he gave us both a dirty look, and then proceeded to yell at Olivia for making a mess on the bathroom counter before we left. It eventually got to the point where Olivia started crying. And being the big sister that I was, I wanted to do all I could to protect Olivia. So I took her by the hand and stormed out the door.
“Where do you think your going?” My dad screamed.
“Why do you even care?” I yelled back, slamming the door behind me. And that was the last time I saw my dad.
Not knowing where to go, and not caring, I brought Olivia and myself up behind the hotel where there was a mountain covered in ski trails. Since it was summer the trails were deserted and instead of being covered in snow, they were covered in a tall grass. The trails started at the top of the mountain, and then broke off into a dozen or so forks, creating large patches of trees in each fork.
“Wow, this would be a great place to play hide and seek!” Olivia said with much excitement.
“You want to play a game of it?” I asked, not caring what kind of game we played, just anything to get her mind off of my dad’s voice.
“Sure!” She said with a bright smile that only ten year olds know how to give.
We played hide and seek for nearly an hour, then we laid in the grass together and stared at the cloudless sky in the bright, summer sunshine. Around two, I decided it was best that we go back to our dad. We gave him nearly two hours to calm down, and we didn’t want him to worry too much about us. As we stood up, and began our descend down the mountain, we were stopped in our tracks by what lay ahead of us. In our path was a man in a dark gray sweatshirt and blue jeans. The hood he was wearing obscured his face, and he had his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. He just stood at the base of the hill staring up at us. Scared out of my mind, I took Olivia by the hand and instead of going down the mountain; I turned around and went further up it. I wanted my little sister to be as far away from this man as I could get her, and up was the only direction. Olivia understood immediately, and followed my lead without hesitation.
When we were about halfway up the ski slope, I turned around for the first time since we started running. I was hoping, praying, that the man was gone. But when I turned around I was greeted with that same lifeless, faceless man in the dark gray sweatshirt. And even though he wasn’t climbing the mountain as fast as we were, he managed to still keep up with us. Now I was really scared, not only for my sister but for myself as well. He had trapped us on this slope with only one direction to go. I didn’t know the topography of the White Mountains too well, but I knew one thing, there were a lot of mountains, and not a lot of people to help us.
During the rest of the climb up the mountain I looked over my shoulder nearly every minute. And by the time we reached the top, he seemed to be closer to us than he had when we started. But how could that be possible, we were running up the mountain the whole time and he seemed to be taking an mid afternoon stroll up it.
“Autumn, I can’t run anymore, my legs are killing me.” Olivia said.
“I know Olive, me too, but we can’t let that scary man catch us” I said.
I often called my sister Olive for short, since it sounded cute and it always made her giggle, but there weren’t going to be any giggles coming from her today. The ski trails ended abruptly at the top of the hill, and now the only thing that lay ahead of us were a wall of ancient pine trees. The arch of the mountain however provided a brief view of the landscape ahead of us. I could see a sparkling, blue lake not to far ahead of us, and past that I could only see dozens of tall, green hilltops.
“Autumn, can we stop at that lake for some water? I’m really thirsty.” Olivia said.
“Sure Olive, but we’ll have to be very fast.” I said.
We got to the lake about five minutes later, and Olivia and I drank handfuls of water from the lake. I wondered if it was such a good idea to be drinking right from the lake, but the lake looked cleaner than most tap water. Besides, I had a feeling this was going to be a long journey and we could use the energy. Once we were finished our quick drink, I looked over my shoulder, and there he was again. Just standing there in the shade of the tall pine trees, just like he had when we first saw him. Only this time he seemed closer to us, which made me feel even more uneasy. I pulled sharply on Olivia’s hand, causing the water in her cupped hands to splash into her face.
“Hey! What was that for?” She said.
“Sorry Olive, but we have to keep moving.”
And so we were off again, back into the tall pine tree forest surrounding the lake. When I turned around the man in the gray sweatshirt was once more following us, getting ever closer. The late afternoon sun cast strange shadows across the forest floor, making it hard to distinguish fallen branches from tree shadows.
“Slow down Autumn, I can’t keep up with you.” Olivia cried as she tripped over a sharp, pine branch.
“I’m sorry, I just want to get away from that man.” I said while helping her up. The dead branch had poked small holes in Olivia’s skin where small droplets of blood already began to form. For a big sister, I was doing a horrible job of protecting her I thought to myself. She quickly brushed the dirt off her jeans and hands, and we were again off as fast as our legs would carry us.
Even though it was bright and sunny out that day, the shadows and tall pine trees made the forest as black as night. And the man’s sweatshirt and jeans blended right into the forest itself, a sort of camouflage that seemed almost planned. I looked back often to see where he was, but the dark forest covered his position. After what seemed like hours of running, I stopped next to one of the great pines. And even though a strange man was chasing us, I knew both Olivia and I needed a quick break. It was during this break that the strange man appeared next to another pine tree, this time he seemed considerably closer to us, but still not close enough to see his face inside that hood.
“Leave us alone! Just go AWAY!” I yelled at the man as loud as I could. But I was given no response, just that blank stare from eyes I couldn’t see
The place where his face should have been was as dark as the forest. Covered by the shadow of his oversized sweatshirt. And for the first time that day my body began to feel weak. My stomach longed for food and more water. I knew then that my adrenaline was beginning to wear thin, and I prayed that we would find a trail, a house, anything that would give us hope. But our only choice for the time being was to push further into the woods, even though I had lost all sense of direction now, and for all we knew could be heading north toward Canada. Before we started moving, I scanned the ground for something, anything to protect us if it became necessary. The ground was littered with only pine needles though; there wasn’t a rock or thick stick to be found.
Not long after we left our resting spot, the sun started to reach the mountainous horizon. Blinding us with its orange-red light whenever there wasn’t a tree trunk to shade our eyes. The setting sun told me two things; the first was that we were heading east, and the second was that it looked like we would be spending the night in the New Hampshire wilderness. The man was now very close to us, maybe a hundred yards at the most. I could now see that he had very white skin, and sunglasses in the setting sun, but any other facial features we obscured by our distance. Just as the sun was hiding behind the first of the distant mountains, we came upon a stream, and once more Olivia asked if we could make a brief stop to drink. I hesitated, but once more said ok. Olivia knelt down beside the shallow river, cupped her hands, and took two large gulps. But after swallowing the second gulp, I could tell by the look on her face that she knew she made a mistake. Not even a minute later she vomited whatever water she just drank back into the river. My guess was that her empty stomach didn’t take to the water to well, and decided to send it back up. At least that’s what I hoped the reason was. Regardless of the reason, I found it best if I didn’t test my stomach to see if it could keep it down. So we were off once more, only this time Olivia looked a little paler, and the man seemed closer.
It was nearly dark now, and the man wasn’t even a hundred feet from us. I began to panic and was starting to break into a near sprint. Then suddenly, I tripped on a large rock that was hidden by the dark forest. As I fell I let go of Olivia’s hand, releasing our bond. My knees hit the ground first, striking the sharp rock with a loud bang. I put my hands out to stop the fall as best I could, but ended up sliding a couple of inches on the pine needle forest floor. Before Olivia could help me up, I was suddenly grabbed by the ankles and dragged across the ground. I screamed as loud as I could as my legs were scrapped by the outcropped rock. Then I heard a loud cracking noise, and the grip on my ankles was released. I turned around to see that Olivia had found a large branch and hit the strange man over the head with it. Then as I got up I picked up a rounded rock besides me and threw it as hard as I could at the man. It struck him in the stomach and he gave out a painful grunt. I quickly grabbed Olivia’s hand and together we ran as fast as we could, not caring about the sharp brush we were running through.
I cannot say how long we ran for. My mind lost all concept of time. All I remember is that the forest had become pitch black when we slowed down to catch our breath. I turned around for the first time since I was on the ground, only this time I saw no man at all. It could have been hard to tell though since there was no moon out, and the woods were now completely dark. Feeling a bit safer, Olivia and I slowed down to a fast walk. My legs were throbbing from the blood loss, and every step I took felt like a shot in the leg. I could also feel Olivia was shaking and coughing. I knew I had to start looking for shelter, but the thought of stopping and seeing that man again scared me more than dying from exhaustion.
“Autumn, I’m really tired and hungry, can we find a place to lay down?” Olivia said.
“Yeah, don’t worry Olive, I’m looking for a good place were we can rest and maybe start a fire.” I said.
“What are we going to eat?” Olivia said.
I never thought of food. I had no idea how to hunt or strip an animal of its fur, but if it came to that point I might have to learn. But the answer I gave her was a bit less morbid.
“Oh we’ll have a double cheese burger with a large fry, then an ice cream for desert” I said.
“Can I have an extra large coke with it too?” Olivia said with a smile as she looked up to me.
“You can have anything you want.” I said, smiling back.
What seemed like half an hour later, I saw a large, dark figure emerge in front of us. I couldn’t tell what it was, only that it was darker than the surrounding woods. As we got closer to it though I realized one of my prayers had finally been answered. It was a small log cabin. The cabin had one floor, a porch, and what looked like a small shed attached to the cabin in the back. I figured it must be a seasonal hunting lodge, but since it wasn’t hunting season it would remain empty for another three months. I knocked on the front door anyway though, but as I suspected I got no reply. When I tried to open the door, I expected it to be locked, but I was surprised to find that it opened easily. Almost like somebody knew we were coming I thought to myself. Inside there was an old looking woodstove, a large refrigerator with an old case of beer in it, a cot, a sink, a couple of chairs, and a large wooden desk.
Now that we had shelter, I began with the next priority, water. I went over to the sink, expecting that the pipes were turned off long ago, but was once more surprised when water poured into the stainless steal base. Then another thought crossed my mind. What if this water was also sickening like the water in that stream? But after viewing my options, I figured I would rather get sick from the water, than get my sister and I sick and drunk from the old beer. I tested the water the water to make sure it would stay down; which it did, so I offered some to Olivia. After we both replenished ourselves, I went on to tackle the next priority, heat. I found a box of matches in the drawer of the wooden desk. So I went over to the woodstove, struck the match against its rusty exterior, opened the little door, and realized that I forgot woodstoves need wood to work. I put out the match in a fit of anger after realizing my stupidity. I looked around the cabin and found no wood to burn. This meant I would have to go back outside where I saw the woodpile. But outside was the last place I wanted to go, I somehow felt safer inside this small log cabin; I felt like nobody could get to us in here. I went back to the desk drawer to see if I missed anything else that I could use. Inside of it I found a pencil, a magnifying glass, a compass, a map, and a large pocketknife. I grabbed the pocketknife and unfolded it. I figured any kind of weapon is better than nothing. So with the dull blade of that knife, I ventured outside slowly, always turning around to make sure nobody was going to grab me. After what seemed like hours, but ended up only being five minutes, I reached the woodpile. I took as much wood as I could carry and hurried back to the cabin.
After I got the fire started, I examined my legs. There were large holes in my jeans and you could see large patches of bloody skin in the holes. The blood had seeped into the clothe of the jeans, during them a dark purple color that made me feel dizzy. I couldn’t bare to look at my legs since I feared I might pass out, so I turned my attention to Olivia. All the color was washed from her face, and dark bags had begun to form under her eyes. She was still shivering even though she was next to the fire. I wrapped her in one of the blankets that was on the cot, and I kissed her on the top of her head.
“Do you think we’ll see daddy again?” She asked.
“Yeah, I think so. I’m sure the whole town is out looking for us by now and will find us any minute.” I said, hoping she would believe me.
She smiled back up at me but said nothing, then continued looking at the fire.
I loved Olivia more than anything in the world. She always knew how to put a smile on my face and make everything better. Yet somehow I envied her. She was too young to remember my parents fighting; she was only two when they got the divorced papers signed. I often wished I could have been like her and not have to remember those painful memories. And for that I tried to protect her from everything that’s hurtful in this world. I tried to protect her from her dad today, but in the end only got her in more danger; some big sister I am.
A little while later I moved the cot close to the fire. Olivia and I got into the bed, and we went to sleep within minutes. Then suddenly I was at Old Orchard Beach in Maine. My father was carrying me on his shoulders while my mom was holding a baby Olivia in her arms. We were on vacation for the week in Maine, and today we made a stop at Old Orchard Beach. My dad let me down so I could go run off in play in the water with the other kids while my parents stood back and watched me. I was only seven at the time, and I was the happiest girl in the world. After playing in the waves and the whitecaps for fifteen minutes or so, I came out of the water, soaking wet. And as I ran back into my dad’s arms and lifted me up to his face, he suddenly changed into the strange man in the sweatshirt. The surrounding area was no longer the ocean, it was those dark woods in New Hampshire, and I was no longer seven, I was sixteen. I woke up from my nightmare with a sudden jerk. Olivia moaned then fell silent once more. I didn’t fall asleep for the rest of the night.
As dawn broke the horizon, and the log cabin became lit by the sun, I was greeted by a loud shattering. I jumped out of the cot and looked to the window. The window on the far side of the cabin had been smashed and glass now lay on the floor. Inside the broken window was the strange man trying to get into the cabin. I grabbed Olivia and started looking for a way out. There was a latch on the floor in the corner of the room nearest us. I must have missed the latch last night since it would have been covered in shadows from the fire. I scrambled over to the latch, pulled it open, and found that it led to a basement. Seeing it as our only hope out, we climbed down the wooden ladder and closed the latch above us. We had very little time since I could now hear that the man was inside. I scanned the basement and saw a narrow set of stairs at the opposite end. I remembered now that I saw what appeared to be a shed outside in the back. Assuming that the stairs led up there, we quickly climbed up them, and burst open the door at the top into the morning sunshine.
Fortunately, I put the map and compass in my pocket the night before so I wouldn’t forget them. I had forgotten the knife however in our panic to get out of the cabin. I tore open the map, and found that the cabin had been circled with a big red circle. The town of Woodstock was only four miles southwest of us. I took out the compass, found southwest, and started running as fast as we could that way. The man was now back outside, only now he was running after us as well. I didn’t dare look back in fear of seeing his face. According to the map, the cabin was on the side of a hill, and if we just get to the bottom of the hill there’s a stream that will bring us right into Woodstock.
Soon after, we found the stream, and hurried as fast as we could to get across it in hope of slowing the man down. It put some distance between us, but not enough for us to slow our pace even a bit. Not far after the spot where we crossed the river, Olivia suddenly collapsed onto the ground. Her adrenaline had finally run out, and mine was on the verge of it. But I was not about to abandon my baby sister after going through all of this, so I picked her up and tried to run as fast as I could while carrying her in my arms. The man had gained a lot of distance during that delay, he was so close I could smell him. He reeked of a mix of body odor, and cologne that was both appalling, yet somehow familiar.
The next time I looked back I saw that he was further away than before. In fact he was resting with his hands on his knees and taking in heavy gusts of air. I took advantage of this moment and took a brief rest myself before continuing, Olivia still in my arms. After another half an hour, I saw something that I hadn’t seen in what seemed like years. In front of me was a concrete bridge that carried Interstate 93 across the river into Woodstock. Feeling a sense of hope, I turned around again, and saw that the man was only ten feet behind me now. I put all the energy I had left into that final sprint for my life, and my sister’s life. I had just crossed under the interstate bridge when I to suddenly collapsed onto the sand bank next to the river. My legs had become crippled and refused to move any further. Fearing that the man was closing in on us I felt around for a rock to arm myself with. When I grabbed one, I turned around, prepared to throw, but saw that the man had stopped chasing us. He was simply standing on the other side of the interstate overpass; giving that blank, eyeless stare he first gave us at the ski slopes. Bewildered and confused, I stared back for what seemed like hours. Eventually my legs released the cramp it had, and allowed me to stand up. I looked at the man one last time before turning around and heading down the river toward Woodstock with my unconscious sister in my hands.
The river brought me to a 50’s style diner that had half a dozen cars parked in its dirt lot. As I entered, every eye was turned to my sister and I. They stared at us with confused and shocked eyes. I asked in a raspy whisper for somebody to dial 911, but no body moved from their shocked state, which made me wonder if they even heard me. But eventually, somebody pulled out a cell phone and dialed the local police station. Minutes later my still unconscious sister and I were put into the back of an ambulance and were driven to the hospital in Lincoln. Olivia and I were brought to the emergency room where needles and an IV were put into us. The last thing I remember was holding my sisters hand in our room in the intensive care unit; then I feel into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next day my dad was sitting the chair beside my bed holding my hand. The first thing I noticed was the smile he had on his face; the second thing I noticed was the dark gray sweatshirt and blue jeans he was wearing.
The House in the Fog
This story has a bittersweet feeling to it in my opinion. I like the story because I like the ending and the main event. I don't like it though because I couldn't seem to build up to the event very well. This was the first story I wrote that spanned a longer distance, and I learned a lot from it. I typically refer to this as simply a practice writing I did, and one of these days I'm probably going to go back and clean it up a bit. The house in the story itself is actually a real house that my brother and I swore we kept seeing on a road trip up to Maine. And yes, it was on a hill in the fog, but no, we didn't go into it.
The House in the Fog
Déjà vu is an amazing phenomenon. We have all experienced it. Whether it is in our dream life, spiritual life, or real life, everyone can relate with this French phrase. Yet we always pass on these experiences as being pure coincidence, and never give it a second thought. But eventually, everybody comes to a point in their life where they must question the nature of their situation. For not all things are as they originally seemed.
I. The Trip
It was an unusually warm December day when Rachel and I had finished packing our car. And even though well more than half of the suitcases in our small Toyota Camry belonged to my daughter Audrey, she had contributed very little to the task of placing them in the trunk. But I suppose you should come to expect that from a teenager who cares more about boys and high school gossip than helping her father.
The snow had long ago melted from all the heavy rain we had received during the past week. But today the skies had finally seized its horrendous downpours, allowing us to emerge from our small Massachusetts home. We were planning our annual Christmas trip to my in-laws up in northern Maine where we would spend a week hunting, drinking hot chocolate, and playing Yahtzee by the fire late at night. But this year was looking like a very dull Christmas, due to the sixty degree weather and the fact that the only evidence that it was even winter was presented by the large piles of sand on street corners. It surely would not be a white Christmas, like the kind you always see on L.L. Bean magazine covers. I would soon find out though, that this Christmas would be far from dull.
As we pulled away from the driveway, and bid our house one final goodbye, Rachel inserted a holiday CD into our cars stereo system. Saying that the music would help put all of us in the “Christmas spirit”, and even though I doubted her statement, I didn’t object, since I knew we had a long trip ahead of us. By the time we merged onto Interstate 495, Audrey had become lost in her world induced by her iPod and cell phone and stopped contributing to any of the conversations. Which meant I was the only person my wife could tell her stories about who did what at her job or how she met an old high school friend at the grocery store while in the ice cream isle. It’s moments like these that I have a strong amount of envy for my daughter’s iPod.
Around lunchtime, Audrey had broken free of her hypnotized spell of technology, and was once more talking. Only this time the only thing she had to say was how bored she was, or how hungry she was. So Rachel and I decided to make a quick stop at Hampton Beach to get some lunch and see something other than asphalt and white lines. Hampton Beach was where Rachel and I had our first real date together, so we found it to be rather romantic to revisit the birthplace of our relationship. And after a quick stop at McDonalds, we paid a visit to the beach, and the famous boardwalk. This was where I had my first experience with déjà vu on that trip. This time though it was the very welcoming kind of déjà vu, the kind that reminds you of another time when you were much younger. For very little had changed since my wife and I first visited here. Everything from the arcade, to the casino, and the t-shirt shops was exactly the same. It seemed as if we had stepped into that photo my wife kept tucked away in her nightstand, the one of us holding hands while sitting on a cement retaining wall at the far end of the beach. Even Audrey loved this place, since there were more boys for her to flirt with here than there were in our whole town. And even though it was the day before Christmas, the beach had as many people as it would in August. Brought out by the rare winter weather, since this might be the last time it hit sixty until April. Very few people we’re in the water though, which I assumed was because the ocean was still trapped in its arctic temperatures. This seemed to disappoint my daughter, since it meant she couldn’t show off her new bikini that my wife bought her (against my consent), and likewise, she couldn’t see the local football team in their swimming trunks. After another half hour or so of reminiscing our long lost youth, we decided it be best to head back to the interstate and continue our journey up into the Maine wilderness, we didn’t want to be traveling through upstate Maine in the dark after all.
II. The House
Darkness came early however to northern Maine on Christmas Eve that year. The darkness brought with it a thick blanket of fog as well. This brought visibility down to about two feet and brought our car to the daring speed of twenty miles per hour. The first recollection I have of the house was around the time we crossed over the Penobscot River in Bucksport, Maine. The only reason I recall that time as the first is simply because I remember commenting about how well the house stood out even in the dense fog. The house was a two story Victorian that was built at the top of a gentle noel of grass. It had a path of stairs leading up to it, lit by three lampposts that reminded me of a picture I once saw of London from the late 1800’s. It was around dinnertime now, and my daughter was once more barking for food. My wife had become increasingly nervous because of the thickening fog brought on by the remains of the melting snow. She asked on more than one occasion if I wished to pull over and have her drive so I could get some rest from the road of a little while. But being the stubborn male that I am, I refused to do any such thing. We were now on a barren backwoods road in Maine, and the only cars we saw were few and far apart. The road had very few houses as well, one to be exact, only we saw that one house nearly five times during our trip.
The second time I saw the house, it was once more perched up on its little grassy hill with its lampposts shinning brightly through the fog. This time however, one of the rooms on the bottom floor was lit with a yellowish glow. The third time I saw it the opposite room on the bottom floor was lit instead, but still, it was the same exact house on the same exact noel. This time I took note of the lack of any sort of driveway, which I found to be odd, but not enough to give it a second thought. The forth time my daughter was the one who took notice of it. And by this time we were all a bit nervous about this road and wanted to get off of it as soon as possible. Audrey had stopped listening to her music and had long ago lost any sort of phone service. She was now trembling in her backseat and holding tightly to her stuffed pig that she’s brought on every family trip since she was eight. My wife had also stopped talking and was fixed on the road ahead. Making sure to be ready to warn me if a deer or a bear, or even a crazy person happened to jump out into the road. I turned on the radio to try and break this unbearable silence, but the only station I got was the strange broadcasting of an old World War II report. I simply passed this off as being some sort of program they broadcasted every Christmas Eve up in these parts of Maine. Thing had already been pretty strange that day after all.
It was around seven when our car started to make a terrible hissing noise. Then suddenly, the engine burst into a cloud of black smoke that prevented me from seeing anything in front of us. Rachel managed to guide me off of the road and onto the shoulder safely. And when I popped up the hood of the car the engine was still smoking, preventing me from seeing any sort of damage that might have been inflicted. We were now faced with the decision of either staying at the car, and hoping that a passing car might help us, or we walk to the nearest house. Neither of those options seemed like a good idea, but we didn’t want to wait all night hoping someone might drive by and manage to not hit us in the dense fog. That left us with the option of walking to the nearest home. So we started our long walk through the fog, trying to stay, as far away from the road as possible so an unsuspecting car wouldn’t hit us. Rachel was now trying to comfort Audrey in her soft, welcoming voice. The one that made me fall in love with her so many years ago.
After about a half hour of walking, we were about to turn around and head back to our car. But my eye had caught a light up ahead in the darkness. As we got closer, two more lights emerged from the fog. My heart suddenly sank, for I saw that the house that we were about to seek refuge in, was the same house we had seen four other times while in the car. Only this time we weren’t protected by a metal and glass shield. I climbed the rocky steps up to the door cautiously; making sure nothing might jump out of the darkness and scare me. All of the lights downstairs were aglow and I could see the silhouettes of nearly half a dozen people. The sound of laughter and music projected from the house. I assumed that there must be a Christmas Eve party taking place in the house, yet wondered at the lack of cars. I rapped my knuckles on the door in two quick strokes, embracing myself for what might appear when the door opened. To my relief though, a short, elderly lady that could be no more than seventy years of age greeted us with a warm smile. When I told her about our predicament and asked if we could use her telephone to call my in-laws, she replied by telling us that she had no phone since she had no use for one, but would be delighted to have us stay for the night and in the morning, when the fog cleared, could help us on our way.
III. The Party
We were led into the living room, where there were about five people sitting in couches or chairs and listening to a gentleman play a rather large piano. When we entered, all faces were turned toward us, and the music stopped playing. The elderly lady told everybody about what had happened and we were soon introduced to everyone. Elizabeth had been the name of the lady that greeted us, William was the name of the man playing the piano, Susan and Emily were the two ladies on the couch, Michael was standing next to the piano, and James was sitting in a rocking chair next to the fire. Everybody greeted us with a welcoming smile and we quickly joined in with their conversations and activities. I was astonished by the lack of any sort of technology in the house; there was not a single television, computer, or even a radio to be found throughout the entire house.
We spent the night singing Christmas songs, drinking tea and hot chocolate, and playing games to see who could be the wittiest. Audrey spent most of the night talking with James, since he was in high school that automatically meant Audrey must flirt with him. I hadn’t seen her that happy though in years, and it made me smile to see my daughter talking to a boy that didn’t have long hair or a guitar pick in his hands. Rachel spent the whole night telling Susan and Emily about all the same, boring things she told me on the interstate, but somehow they managed to look interested in them. William continued to play the piano until the clock struck ten, he then read Charles Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol” to all of us, and he received a well deserved round of applause at the end of his tale. By now it was nearing eleven, and we began to retreat to the bedrooms upstairs. Rachel and I were brought into a room with a large bed, and were told that there was a bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. Audrey slept in the room next to us, which was another spare bedroom that was all to herself. The last memory I have of that night was hearing the clock in the parlor below strike eleven, at that moment my body fell into a sleep I shall never forget.
IV. The Dream
My dream started with me appearing in the parlor. The smell of smoke was in the air. I ran into the living room and discovered that the Christmas tree was ablaze from a stray spark from the fireplace. I rushed upstairs to warn everybody of the fire, but it was all in vein since my voice fell on deaf ears. No matter how loud I shouted or tried to waken my fellow tenants, they were all in a comatose state and refused to awaken. I looked for my daughter and wife but they were nowhere to be found in the house. Then I ran outside hoping to see Rachel and Audrey safe and sound away from the fire. Sure enough they were huddled together on the shoulder of the road, both crying because they to had no success in waking our new friends. The last recollection I have of that horrible dream was of me running toward the house in the hope of rescuing anyone that might still be alive. But I was never able to even get to the porch steps before I was awakened by a disembodied scream that seemed to come from the burning house itself.
V. The Clincher
Upon my awakening, I noted two things. The first of which was that the scream I had heard in my dream had originated from a frightened Audrey. The second thing I noted was the reason why Audrey was screaming. When I woke up, I was no longer lying in a soft bed with cotton sheets; instead I was lying on a leaf littered ground surrounded by large granite slabs. Rachel had also woken from Audrey’s scream, and we all stared at each other in pure puzzlement. Our first thought was that we were somehow dragged out of the house at night and placed in the nearby forest. But when I stood up to survey the area, this theory was quickly put to rest. For the first thing I saw were three lampposts descending a gentle slope. Only now, as I approached the first lamppost, I saw that it was covered in brown vines and eroded by years of rust and winter weather. The house itself stood no longer, and in its place was a shallow, rectangular ditch that once served as its basement. Even the fireplace lay in a crumbled heap of brick and terracotta pipe. My family and I descended down the now broken and chipped stone steps to the road below, and made our way back to our car. Our car had stopped spewing black smoke, but it now refused to start, and unable to find the cause of our problems, we were forced to use our original plan of sitting in the car. Not soon after though, a Ford pickup drove by, and stopped to ask us if we needed a ride. Rachel and I hesitated at the thought of getting abducted, but we had no other options. We soon reached my in-laws house, thanked the driver and gave him some money in payment, but the Mainer refused to accept such charity for doing a simple act.
Later that day, I asked my father in-law if he knew anything about a white Victorian style house that may have once existed in his town. Puzzled by the question, he retreated into his study and remerged soon after with a yellowed newspaper in his hand. He handed me the front page, which had been worn by years of neglect and was ripped in multiple spots because of the poor storage conditions that it laid in for so many years. Despite its worn look however, I could read the date of “1940” very clearly, and the headline was still very distinct and readable, and in large, black letters on the front page were the lines “Family Dies In Tragic Christmas Fire”. The article proceeded to tell of the terrible incident, but I picked up very little of it since I was in a state of shock and astonishment, and the only thing I remember from the article was it telling how the fire started around eleven at night on Christmas Eve. My father in-law them told me how he had even gone school with the boy in that house, “A Mr. James Peterson was his name” he told me.
The House in the Fog
Déjà vu is an amazing phenomenon. We have all experienced it. Whether it is in our dream life, spiritual life, or real life, everyone can relate with this French phrase. Yet we always pass on these experiences as being pure coincidence, and never give it a second thought. But eventually, everybody comes to a point in their life where they must question the nature of their situation. For not all things are as they originally seemed.
I. The Trip
It was an unusually warm December day when Rachel and I had finished packing our car. And even though well more than half of the suitcases in our small Toyota Camry belonged to my daughter Audrey, she had contributed very little to the task of placing them in the trunk. But I suppose you should come to expect that from a teenager who cares more about boys and high school gossip than helping her father.
The snow had long ago melted from all the heavy rain we had received during the past week. But today the skies had finally seized its horrendous downpours, allowing us to emerge from our small Massachusetts home. We were planning our annual Christmas trip to my in-laws up in northern Maine where we would spend a week hunting, drinking hot chocolate, and playing Yahtzee by the fire late at night. But this year was looking like a very dull Christmas, due to the sixty degree weather and the fact that the only evidence that it was even winter was presented by the large piles of sand on street corners. It surely would not be a white Christmas, like the kind you always see on L.L. Bean magazine covers. I would soon find out though, that this Christmas would be far from dull.
As we pulled away from the driveway, and bid our house one final goodbye, Rachel inserted a holiday CD into our cars stereo system. Saying that the music would help put all of us in the “Christmas spirit”, and even though I doubted her statement, I didn’t object, since I knew we had a long trip ahead of us. By the time we merged onto Interstate 495, Audrey had become lost in her world induced by her iPod and cell phone and stopped contributing to any of the conversations. Which meant I was the only person my wife could tell her stories about who did what at her job or how she met an old high school friend at the grocery store while in the ice cream isle. It’s moments like these that I have a strong amount of envy for my daughter’s iPod.
Around lunchtime, Audrey had broken free of her hypnotized spell of technology, and was once more talking. Only this time the only thing she had to say was how bored she was, or how hungry she was. So Rachel and I decided to make a quick stop at Hampton Beach to get some lunch and see something other than asphalt and white lines. Hampton Beach was where Rachel and I had our first real date together, so we found it to be rather romantic to revisit the birthplace of our relationship. And after a quick stop at McDonalds, we paid a visit to the beach, and the famous boardwalk. This was where I had my first experience with déjà vu on that trip. This time though it was the very welcoming kind of déjà vu, the kind that reminds you of another time when you were much younger. For very little had changed since my wife and I first visited here. Everything from the arcade, to the casino, and the t-shirt shops was exactly the same. It seemed as if we had stepped into that photo my wife kept tucked away in her nightstand, the one of us holding hands while sitting on a cement retaining wall at the far end of the beach. Even Audrey loved this place, since there were more boys for her to flirt with here than there were in our whole town. And even though it was the day before Christmas, the beach had as many people as it would in August. Brought out by the rare winter weather, since this might be the last time it hit sixty until April. Very few people we’re in the water though, which I assumed was because the ocean was still trapped in its arctic temperatures. This seemed to disappoint my daughter, since it meant she couldn’t show off her new bikini that my wife bought her (against my consent), and likewise, she couldn’t see the local football team in their swimming trunks. After another half hour or so of reminiscing our long lost youth, we decided it be best to head back to the interstate and continue our journey up into the Maine wilderness, we didn’t want to be traveling through upstate Maine in the dark after all.
II. The House
Darkness came early however to northern Maine on Christmas Eve that year. The darkness brought with it a thick blanket of fog as well. This brought visibility down to about two feet and brought our car to the daring speed of twenty miles per hour. The first recollection I have of the house was around the time we crossed over the Penobscot River in Bucksport, Maine. The only reason I recall that time as the first is simply because I remember commenting about how well the house stood out even in the dense fog. The house was a two story Victorian that was built at the top of a gentle noel of grass. It had a path of stairs leading up to it, lit by three lampposts that reminded me of a picture I once saw of London from the late 1800’s. It was around dinnertime now, and my daughter was once more barking for food. My wife had become increasingly nervous because of the thickening fog brought on by the remains of the melting snow. She asked on more than one occasion if I wished to pull over and have her drive so I could get some rest from the road of a little while. But being the stubborn male that I am, I refused to do any such thing. We were now on a barren backwoods road in Maine, and the only cars we saw were few and far apart. The road had very few houses as well, one to be exact, only we saw that one house nearly five times during our trip.
The second time I saw the house, it was once more perched up on its little grassy hill with its lampposts shinning brightly through the fog. This time however, one of the rooms on the bottom floor was lit with a yellowish glow. The third time I saw it the opposite room on the bottom floor was lit instead, but still, it was the same exact house on the same exact noel. This time I took note of the lack of any sort of driveway, which I found to be odd, but not enough to give it a second thought. The forth time my daughter was the one who took notice of it. And by this time we were all a bit nervous about this road and wanted to get off of it as soon as possible. Audrey had stopped listening to her music and had long ago lost any sort of phone service. She was now trembling in her backseat and holding tightly to her stuffed pig that she’s brought on every family trip since she was eight. My wife had also stopped talking and was fixed on the road ahead. Making sure to be ready to warn me if a deer or a bear, or even a crazy person happened to jump out into the road. I turned on the radio to try and break this unbearable silence, but the only station I got was the strange broadcasting of an old World War II report. I simply passed this off as being some sort of program they broadcasted every Christmas Eve up in these parts of Maine. Thing had already been pretty strange that day after all.
It was around seven when our car started to make a terrible hissing noise. Then suddenly, the engine burst into a cloud of black smoke that prevented me from seeing anything in front of us. Rachel managed to guide me off of the road and onto the shoulder safely. And when I popped up the hood of the car the engine was still smoking, preventing me from seeing any sort of damage that might have been inflicted. We were now faced with the decision of either staying at the car, and hoping that a passing car might help us, or we walk to the nearest house. Neither of those options seemed like a good idea, but we didn’t want to wait all night hoping someone might drive by and manage to not hit us in the dense fog. That left us with the option of walking to the nearest home. So we started our long walk through the fog, trying to stay, as far away from the road as possible so an unsuspecting car wouldn’t hit us. Rachel was now trying to comfort Audrey in her soft, welcoming voice. The one that made me fall in love with her so many years ago.
After about a half hour of walking, we were about to turn around and head back to our car. But my eye had caught a light up ahead in the darkness. As we got closer, two more lights emerged from the fog. My heart suddenly sank, for I saw that the house that we were about to seek refuge in, was the same house we had seen four other times while in the car. Only this time we weren’t protected by a metal and glass shield. I climbed the rocky steps up to the door cautiously; making sure nothing might jump out of the darkness and scare me. All of the lights downstairs were aglow and I could see the silhouettes of nearly half a dozen people. The sound of laughter and music projected from the house. I assumed that there must be a Christmas Eve party taking place in the house, yet wondered at the lack of cars. I rapped my knuckles on the door in two quick strokes, embracing myself for what might appear when the door opened. To my relief though, a short, elderly lady that could be no more than seventy years of age greeted us with a warm smile. When I told her about our predicament and asked if we could use her telephone to call my in-laws, she replied by telling us that she had no phone since she had no use for one, but would be delighted to have us stay for the night and in the morning, when the fog cleared, could help us on our way.
III. The Party
We were led into the living room, where there were about five people sitting in couches or chairs and listening to a gentleman play a rather large piano. When we entered, all faces were turned toward us, and the music stopped playing. The elderly lady told everybody about what had happened and we were soon introduced to everyone. Elizabeth had been the name of the lady that greeted us, William was the name of the man playing the piano, Susan and Emily were the two ladies on the couch, Michael was standing next to the piano, and James was sitting in a rocking chair next to the fire. Everybody greeted us with a welcoming smile and we quickly joined in with their conversations and activities. I was astonished by the lack of any sort of technology in the house; there was not a single television, computer, or even a radio to be found throughout the entire house.
We spent the night singing Christmas songs, drinking tea and hot chocolate, and playing games to see who could be the wittiest. Audrey spent most of the night talking with James, since he was in high school that automatically meant Audrey must flirt with him. I hadn’t seen her that happy though in years, and it made me smile to see my daughter talking to a boy that didn’t have long hair or a guitar pick in his hands. Rachel spent the whole night telling Susan and Emily about all the same, boring things she told me on the interstate, but somehow they managed to look interested in them. William continued to play the piano until the clock struck ten, he then read Charles Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol” to all of us, and he received a well deserved round of applause at the end of his tale. By now it was nearing eleven, and we began to retreat to the bedrooms upstairs. Rachel and I were brought into a room with a large bed, and were told that there was a bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. Audrey slept in the room next to us, which was another spare bedroom that was all to herself. The last memory I have of that night was hearing the clock in the parlor below strike eleven, at that moment my body fell into a sleep I shall never forget.
IV. The Dream
My dream started with me appearing in the parlor. The smell of smoke was in the air. I ran into the living room and discovered that the Christmas tree was ablaze from a stray spark from the fireplace. I rushed upstairs to warn everybody of the fire, but it was all in vein since my voice fell on deaf ears. No matter how loud I shouted or tried to waken my fellow tenants, they were all in a comatose state and refused to awaken. I looked for my daughter and wife but they were nowhere to be found in the house. Then I ran outside hoping to see Rachel and Audrey safe and sound away from the fire. Sure enough they were huddled together on the shoulder of the road, both crying because they to had no success in waking our new friends. The last recollection I have of that horrible dream was of me running toward the house in the hope of rescuing anyone that might still be alive. But I was never able to even get to the porch steps before I was awakened by a disembodied scream that seemed to come from the burning house itself.
V. The Clincher
Upon my awakening, I noted two things. The first of which was that the scream I had heard in my dream had originated from a frightened Audrey. The second thing I noted was the reason why Audrey was screaming. When I woke up, I was no longer lying in a soft bed with cotton sheets; instead I was lying on a leaf littered ground surrounded by large granite slabs. Rachel had also woken from Audrey’s scream, and we all stared at each other in pure puzzlement. Our first thought was that we were somehow dragged out of the house at night and placed in the nearby forest. But when I stood up to survey the area, this theory was quickly put to rest. For the first thing I saw were three lampposts descending a gentle slope. Only now, as I approached the first lamppost, I saw that it was covered in brown vines and eroded by years of rust and winter weather. The house itself stood no longer, and in its place was a shallow, rectangular ditch that once served as its basement. Even the fireplace lay in a crumbled heap of brick and terracotta pipe. My family and I descended down the now broken and chipped stone steps to the road below, and made our way back to our car. Our car had stopped spewing black smoke, but it now refused to start, and unable to find the cause of our problems, we were forced to use our original plan of sitting in the car. Not soon after though, a Ford pickup drove by, and stopped to ask us if we needed a ride. Rachel and I hesitated at the thought of getting abducted, but we had no other options. We soon reached my in-laws house, thanked the driver and gave him some money in payment, but the Mainer refused to accept such charity for doing a simple act.
Later that day, I asked my father in-law if he knew anything about a white Victorian style house that may have once existed in his town. Puzzled by the question, he retreated into his study and remerged soon after with a yellowed newspaper in his hand. He handed me the front page, which had been worn by years of neglect and was ripped in multiple spots because of the poor storage conditions that it laid in for so many years. Despite its worn look however, I could read the date of “1940” very clearly, and the headline was still very distinct and readable, and in large, black letters on the front page were the lines “Family Dies In Tragic Christmas Fire”. The article proceeded to tell of the terrible incident, but I picked up very little of it since I was in a state of shock and astonishment, and the only thing I remember from the article was it telling how the fire started around eleven at night on Christmas Eve. My father in-law them told me how he had even gone school with the boy in that house, “A Mr. James Peterson was his name” he told me.
The Legend of Somerville
This story is one of my favorite pieces of work. For those of you that know my town, you would be correct when you guess that I based it off of it. The story is about a boy that gets lost in the backwoods of his isolated down, and is chased by an unseen being. In the end however, I left it up to the reader to decide if the creature was real or not. Throughout the story I refer to the creature as either "it" or "the thing", they should be italicized each time I say "it" or "the thing", but for some reason they didn't come out that way in the blog.
The Legend of Somerville
I know of a place, where the rays of the sun never reach. They only softly brush the surface of its rolling, endless mountain peaks and rocky hillsides. However this seemingly uninhabitable land, has managed to support a sparse population of a world unto its own. And in this land of abundant snow capped ridges, there is a small village surrounded entirely by steep cliffs. The residences in this town leave its safe haven of natural rock walls very rarely. But with only one road leading in and out of this unknown hamlet, travel has little purpose for a community that can support itself.
In this valley of which I speak, there is a high school. Behind this school are a multitude of hills and cliffs. Very few know of these secret ravines and mountains, save a few midnight couples that have gathered enough energy to climb the rocky headlands to get a glimpse of the magnificent vista of stars that can be seen at the top of the highest peak. In these backwoods though, there is a legend that is shrouded in as much mystery as the very land in which it takes place. A story known by a small spectrum of people, and an even more select few knowing the true events that took place in those dark woods in mid-November.
Behind the school, there are many trails and abandoned paths. For these woods once held a prosperous quarry that harvested a splendid pink marble that was highly valued by both the wealthy and poor alike. One day after I served my duty as a tutor to some of my fellow classmates, I decided to take what I thought would be a brief walk down the nearest path and discover what I might. I had forgotten though, how dismal a wooded landscape looks in the midst of a cool, breezy autumn. For only a sparing few leaves managed to still cling to their eternal summer bond. This caused the early setting autumn sun to project long shadows across the path that resembled something more like fingers than that of mere branches. I contemplated on turning around, but my stubbornness refused to allow old folklore and superstition to prevent me from discovering a land few people had seen. So as I pressed onward, I soon came upon an X in the road. I knew then I had finally reached the long ago, abandoned railroad bed that once shipped priceless marble to its destination. This once mighty act of engineering has now become entangled in weeds, shrubs, and young spruce trees that wish to return this feat of man, back to Mother Earth again. I decided to take the right branch at this long forgotten intersection, for I believed I could eventually loop back around onto one of the other paths behind the school. It was on thing path that I got my first glimpse of the thing to which the legend of this story is about.
The sun had descended dangerously close to the valley’s steep walls and had begun to cast long shadows that would soon stretch across the horizon. It was in these long shadows that the thing had first emerged. At first it seemed to be one with the forbidding shadows casts by the trees, moving only by the corner of my iris to disguise its identity. But as the sun descended further toward the western horizon, the thing grew bolder in its attempts to capture my attention and fear of these already horrific woods that had become his domain. Soon though, I would see it standing next to a tall pine, or sitting on a distant rock, just waiting patiently for me to break down and fall into his trap. The thing is hard to describe, for its shape was only a silhouette in the darkened forest that had surrounded me. It was the shape of full-grown man, and was at least seven feet tall. But the thing that I shall never forget, were its eyes, those bright yellow eyes that glowed like a sun in an ambient galaxy, their radiant shine forever burned into my memory. It was when I saw the thing’s eyes that I truly became terrified and began to run with any energy I had left. With only the moon now to guide me on this forsaken path, I had little hope that I would get out of these dreadful woods. In the moonlight, ahead of me out of the blue tint that the moon caste on this landscape rose an ancient façade of crumbling rock and earth, and at its center was a hole so dark that it seemed time and matter did not exist in this empty space. I quickly realized however that this was not a portal into another world, but rather the time-forgotten tunnel that once heard the sound of steel rubbing against steel. Today though, its crumbling entrance of mold and shrubs only a brief reminder of what once existed here. As I neared the tunnel, a stench equally as horrible as the surrounding woods came upon much like the trains that passed through this very place, might come upon an unsuspecting worker. This stench however was something so despicable and grotesque that it forced me to seize my terrific sprit, for this stench, was the stench of death. I knew at that instant, that this abandoned railroad tunnel, had become the thing’s home, and that he had managed to reel me into his trap and place me right where he wanted. I had no way of escape, for to my left and right, were steep cliffs, behind me was it, closing the distance between us very rapidly, and in front of me was the place at which it resided. During the brief seconds that I wasted making my choice, I decided that there could be very few things worse than having to face those bright yellow eyes again, which gave me the only option of going through its home.
The smell that plagues the outside of this seemingly infinite abyss is even stronger upon entering its black depths. Inside, any light that the waxing moon may have provided, was quickly swallowed up by the black hole I had reluctantly dove into. I was in utter darkness; although I have great doubt that light would have made me feel any safer in a place that reeked of death. After around five minutes or so of stumbling and falling on unseen rocks and puddles, I managed to escape this horrible mouth that had swallowed me whole. After exiting, I found myself in a changed landscape. For it was no longer a forest of ancient oaks and maples, but had now become a forest of mighty pine and evergreens that’s height seemed to brush the heavens. This new landscape was littered with a thick layer of brown pine needles, only adding to the surrealism of the valley. I had little time though to be thinking of such needless things, for I could hear the sound of heavy feet of the thing coming my way from behind me. I once more commenced my sprint on the abandoned railroad with only the moon and stars to guide me.
After a great amount of time, I reached what appeared to be an abandoned sign. On its single rusted metal pane, it read “Somerville Center-2 Miles”. This brought me great despair, for Somerville was a small village that had been abandoned for almost a decade due to the great floods that struck the town annually. There were only a couple of residents that still called this forgotten place home, and I was unsure if paying a visit to either of them would be as good of an idea as it may have sounded. My determination though was too great to end my journey, and possibly my life, for I could once more hear the footfalls of the thing getting ever so closer. I now exited the old railroad bed, and instead continued on an overgrown road that was once called Route 147. This route would bring me straight through the center of what use to be Somerville.
In the center of Somerville, I laid my eyes on what use to be the town hall, church, and fire station. All these buildings had long since given way to the harsh winters and wet summers, and little was left of them except for their rotted walls and broken panes. The smell of mold was in the air, but it seemed more like a scented candle compare to what I had already experience on this fateful night. I figured that the thing had visited this place often though, for there was skeletons of various rodents scattered all over the road and many of the buildings were scarred with beastly marks that not even a grizzly could create. I could feel it upon me again, getting ever so closer to me, but still waiting patiently for me to break down from dehydration or sheer mental insanity. But as I walked past yet another rusted sign, I was greeted happily by both the lightening night sky, and the fact that the newly discovered sign read “Thank You for Visiting Somerville”. I knew now that I only needed to follow this old route a couple more miles before I entered the town of Mapleton, which had a fair amount of people and houses.
I had forgotten though, that there was only one way out of Somerville, and that was by going across the Augustine River. And when I approached the place where an ancient iron World War II bridge had collapsed into the river, I marveled at how I could ever make it across this gap before the thing got me. By now it was nearly dawn, and there were only a few stars still in the yellow sky. This provided me with much needed light to perform the last leg of this journey. I slowly made my way across the twisted metal cage that use to be a bridge, and tried my best to avoid the shredded metal beams that could impale me at any wrong move. And after a good fifteen minutes of struggling to free myself and avoid falling into the rapidly moving river below me, I managed to get across with no harm, save a few cuts on the hands that have since formed scars. I dared not look back, for I was fearful of how close the thing might be, and I dreaded having to see its empty yellow eyes again. After yet another half an hour or so of a fast pace walk, I entered a meadow, and across this meadow I saw a single light burning inside a window. I had finally reached Mapleton, and as I made my way across the meadow in the early morning sun, I turned around and saw it standing at the edge of the endless forest, only now it was not a beast, now it was only the shadow of a moving limb on a great, ancient oak.
The Legend of Somerville
I know of a place, where the rays of the sun never reach. They only softly brush the surface of its rolling, endless mountain peaks and rocky hillsides. However this seemingly uninhabitable land, has managed to support a sparse population of a world unto its own. And in this land of abundant snow capped ridges, there is a small village surrounded entirely by steep cliffs. The residences in this town leave its safe haven of natural rock walls very rarely. But with only one road leading in and out of this unknown hamlet, travel has little purpose for a community that can support itself.
In this valley of which I speak, there is a high school. Behind this school are a multitude of hills and cliffs. Very few know of these secret ravines and mountains, save a few midnight couples that have gathered enough energy to climb the rocky headlands to get a glimpse of the magnificent vista of stars that can be seen at the top of the highest peak. In these backwoods though, there is a legend that is shrouded in as much mystery as the very land in which it takes place. A story known by a small spectrum of people, and an even more select few knowing the true events that took place in those dark woods in mid-November.
Behind the school, there are many trails and abandoned paths. For these woods once held a prosperous quarry that harvested a splendid pink marble that was highly valued by both the wealthy and poor alike. One day after I served my duty as a tutor to some of my fellow classmates, I decided to take what I thought would be a brief walk down the nearest path and discover what I might. I had forgotten though, how dismal a wooded landscape looks in the midst of a cool, breezy autumn. For only a sparing few leaves managed to still cling to their eternal summer bond. This caused the early setting autumn sun to project long shadows across the path that resembled something more like fingers than that of mere branches. I contemplated on turning around, but my stubbornness refused to allow old folklore and superstition to prevent me from discovering a land few people had seen. So as I pressed onward, I soon came upon an X in the road. I knew then I had finally reached the long ago, abandoned railroad bed that once shipped priceless marble to its destination. This once mighty act of engineering has now become entangled in weeds, shrubs, and young spruce trees that wish to return this feat of man, back to Mother Earth again. I decided to take the right branch at this long forgotten intersection, for I believed I could eventually loop back around onto one of the other paths behind the school. It was on thing path that I got my first glimpse of the thing to which the legend of this story is about.
The sun had descended dangerously close to the valley’s steep walls and had begun to cast long shadows that would soon stretch across the horizon. It was in these long shadows that the thing had first emerged. At first it seemed to be one with the forbidding shadows casts by the trees, moving only by the corner of my iris to disguise its identity. But as the sun descended further toward the western horizon, the thing grew bolder in its attempts to capture my attention and fear of these already horrific woods that had become his domain. Soon though, I would see it standing next to a tall pine, or sitting on a distant rock, just waiting patiently for me to break down and fall into his trap. The thing is hard to describe, for its shape was only a silhouette in the darkened forest that had surrounded me. It was the shape of full-grown man, and was at least seven feet tall. But the thing that I shall never forget, were its eyes, those bright yellow eyes that glowed like a sun in an ambient galaxy, their radiant shine forever burned into my memory. It was when I saw the thing’s eyes that I truly became terrified and began to run with any energy I had left. With only the moon now to guide me on this forsaken path, I had little hope that I would get out of these dreadful woods. In the moonlight, ahead of me out of the blue tint that the moon caste on this landscape rose an ancient façade of crumbling rock and earth, and at its center was a hole so dark that it seemed time and matter did not exist in this empty space. I quickly realized however that this was not a portal into another world, but rather the time-forgotten tunnel that once heard the sound of steel rubbing against steel. Today though, its crumbling entrance of mold and shrubs only a brief reminder of what once existed here. As I neared the tunnel, a stench equally as horrible as the surrounding woods came upon much like the trains that passed through this very place, might come upon an unsuspecting worker. This stench however was something so despicable and grotesque that it forced me to seize my terrific sprit, for this stench, was the stench of death. I knew at that instant, that this abandoned railroad tunnel, had become the thing’s home, and that he had managed to reel me into his trap and place me right where he wanted. I had no way of escape, for to my left and right, were steep cliffs, behind me was it, closing the distance between us very rapidly, and in front of me was the place at which it resided. During the brief seconds that I wasted making my choice, I decided that there could be very few things worse than having to face those bright yellow eyes again, which gave me the only option of going through its home.
The smell that plagues the outside of this seemingly infinite abyss is even stronger upon entering its black depths. Inside, any light that the waxing moon may have provided, was quickly swallowed up by the black hole I had reluctantly dove into. I was in utter darkness; although I have great doubt that light would have made me feel any safer in a place that reeked of death. After around five minutes or so of stumbling and falling on unseen rocks and puddles, I managed to escape this horrible mouth that had swallowed me whole. After exiting, I found myself in a changed landscape. For it was no longer a forest of ancient oaks and maples, but had now become a forest of mighty pine and evergreens that’s height seemed to brush the heavens. This new landscape was littered with a thick layer of brown pine needles, only adding to the surrealism of the valley. I had little time though to be thinking of such needless things, for I could hear the sound of heavy feet of the thing coming my way from behind me. I once more commenced my sprint on the abandoned railroad with only the moon and stars to guide me.
After a great amount of time, I reached what appeared to be an abandoned sign. On its single rusted metal pane, it read “Somerville Center-2 Miles”. This brought me great despair, for Somerville was a small village that had been abandoned for almost a decade due to the great floods that struck the town annually. There were only a couple of residents that still called this forgotten place home, and I was unsure if paying a visit to either of them would be as good of an idea as it may have sounded. My determination though was too great to end my journey, and possibly my life, for I could once more hear the footfalls of the thing getting ever so closer. I now exited the old railroad bed, and instead continued on an overgrown road that was once called Route 147. This route would bring me straight through the center of what use to be Somerville.
In the center of Somerville, I laid my eyes on what use to be the town hall, church, and fire station. All these buildings had long since given way to the harsh winters and wet summers, and little was left of them except for their rotted walls and broken panes. The smell of mold was in the air, but it seemed more like a scented candle compare to what I had already experience on this fateful night. I figured that the thing had visited this place often though, for there was skeletons of various rodents scattered all over the road and many of the buildings were scarred with beastly marks that not even a grizzly could create. I could feel it upon me again, getting ever so closer to me, but still waiting patiently for me to break down from dehydration or sheer mental insanity. But as I walked past yet another rusted sign, I was greeted happily by both the lightening night sky, and the fact that the newly discovered sign read “Thank You for Visiting Somerville”. I knew now that I only needed to follow this old route a couple more miles before I entered the town of Mapleton, which had a fair amount of people and houses.
I had forgotten though, that there was only one way out of Somerville, and that was by going across the Augustine River. And when I approached the place where an ancient iron World War II bridge had collapsed into the river, I marveled at how I could ever make it across this gap before the thing got me. By now it was nearly dawn, and there were only a few stars still in the yellow sky. This provided me with much needed light to perform the last leg of this journey. I slowly made my way across the twisted metal cage that use to be a bridge, and tried my best to avoid the shredded metal beams that could impale me at any wrong move. And after a good fifteen minutes of struggling to free myself and avoid falling into the rapidly moving river below me, I managed to get across with no harm, save a few cuts on the hands that have since formed scars. I dared not look back, for I was fearful of how close the thing might be, and I dreaded having to see its empty yellow eyes again. After yet another half an hour or so of a fast pace walk, I entered a meadow, and across this meadow I saw a single light burning inside a window. I had finally reached Mapleton, and as I made my way across the meadow in the early morning sun, I turned around and saw it standing at the edge of the endless forest, only now it was not a beast, now it was only the shadow of a moving limb on a great, ancient oak.
The Inevitable Forces of Revolution
In my second story, I wrote about something I don't typically think about, revolution. I wrote this one around the time of the presidential election, and if you know me, you know I'm a big republican. I didn't write the story as a means of telling people to revolt against Obama, but more as just a simple, fun story that made me think about what the world may someday come too. Since revolution is typically something you think about in third world countries, not something that happens in American today.
The Inevitable Forces of Revolution
Change is an inevitable force. It is something that is inescapable and unstoppable. Generations of men have tried to change this world, whether out of greed or compassion. And this simple fact cannot be better shown than in this plea. A plea not to my own people, but one for generations yet to be, in the vague hope that history will not repeat itself. For it is often said that those who do not known history, are doomed to repeat it. Mighty empires have fallen due to their ignorance of this golden rule. And the great nation I once knew was no exception to this aphorism.
My father once told me of a world where freedom was a basic right, you could speak whatever you wished, pray to the god that you most desired, and choose the leader that would make the fundamental decisions for your nation. However, I was only a child when these trivial guidelines for a country, fell through to greed and the abuse of power. The sad truth though, is that freedom did not fall to the sound of cannons and bullets, but to the sound of praise for a man seen as a savior, a redeemer for a country already in shambles. And as I stare into the dark valley before me, I realize that this savior brought no hope to this once great nation built on the souls of rebellious, yet moral men. He promised change, and change he has brought. This whole valley once prospered on the concept of capitalism, but now all you can see is the smog brought upon by the factories that do not make goods for the people, but for it’s own greedy government.
Freedom of the press has seized to exist in this vacant land. This is evident by the crumbling, rust embedded metal cages that once were television and radio towers on the mountain I stand upon. Each one has slowly fallen victim to the annual rainstorms that so frequently ravage this barren land. Today, the “American dream” is truly a dream, for robots cannot dream, only carry out the commands that its owners program them to do. We were given hope of education, healthcare, and advancements in science. But we have no money to fund such things for they have declined on the list of necessities set up by our governing body. Other countries have taken notice of our weariness and have started to take advantage of it. This has caused our government to set up an extensive amount of establishments for the soul purpose of producing weapons, tanks, ammunition, anything to defend our homeland from the free world. In our own arrogance we have cut off all contact with our former allies. Yet the irony is that the pride we have in our country is only a deceitful mask that covers up our fear for what we have become.
There are seldom talks of revolution though. Spoken only in secret out of fear of detection. It started out as an idea, but it quickly grew in frequency. Riots began to take place, and are now occurring on a daily basis, their flames leave scars upon this already burnt valley. I personally, do not like violence as a means to obtain what you want. And I have long used words to persuade my countrymen, but what good are words to a government that will not listen? My people have roused themselves from their socialistic slumber and are at last demanding their rights that generations before them have taken for granted. Revolutions are things that cannot be stopped, for revolutions symbolize change. Revolutions are drastic and immediate changes, and without change, the human race would have disappeared long ago. In front of me I see a crevasse of people that have been oppressed by their leadership for too long. Behind me however, are forces of these same people that are willing to take action and defend their beliefs. Wars cannot be won after one battle; this is common knowledge, yet I do not plan on simply scaring Congress, or what is left of it, with threats of violence and change. One act of resistance will not cause anything to happen, for this country was founded on the strategies of revolution, and it took many tries and much patience to gain its independence from a country that oppressed it. And with that, I will leave you with a Proverb, not only to whomever reads this, but also as a note to the government that I have come to despise, and to the people that will one day overthrow them, and restore this nation back to its former glory. “Better to be patient than powerful; better to have self-control than to conquer a city. We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall”-Proverbs 16:32-33
The Inevitable Forces of Revolution
Change is an inevitable force. It is something that is inescapable and unstoppable. Generations of men have tried to change this world, whether out of greed or compassion. And this simple fact cannot be better shown than in this plea. A plea not to my own people, but one for generations yet to be, in the vague hope that history will not repeat itself. For it is often said that those who do not known history, are doomed to repeat it. Mighty empires have fallen due to their ignorance of this golden rule. And the great nation I once knew was no exception to this aphorism.
My father once told me of a world where freedom was a basic right, you could speak whatever you wished, pray to the god that you most desired, and choose the leader that would make the fundamental decisions for your nation. However, I was only a child when these trivial guidelines for a country, fell through to greed and the abuse of power. The sad truth though, is that freedom did not fall to the sound of cannons and bullets, but to the sound of praise for a man seen as a savior, a redeemer for a country already in shambles. And as I stare into the dark valley before me, I realize that this savior brought no hope to this once great nation built on the souls of rebellious, yet moral men. He promised change, and change he has brought. This whole valley once prospered on the concept of capitalism, but now all you can see is the smog brought upon by the factories that do not make goods for the people, but for it’s own greedy government.
Freedom of the press has seized to exist in this vacant land. This is evident by the crumbling, rust embedded metal cages that once were television and radio towers on the mountain I stand upon. Each one has slowly fallen victim to the annual rainstorms that so frequently ravage this barren land. Today, the “American dream” is truly a dream, for robots cannot dream, only carry out the commands that its owners program them to do. We were given hope of education, healthcare, and advancements in science. But we have no money to fund such things for they have declined on the list of necessities set up by our governing body. Other countries have taken notice of our weariness and have started to take advantage of it. This has caused our government to set up an extensive amount of establishments for the soul purpose of producing weapons, tanks, ammunition, anything to defend our homeland from the free world. In our own arrogance we have cut off all contact with our former allies. Yet the irony is that the pride we have in our country is only a deceitful mask that covers up our fear for what we have become.
There are seldom talks of revolution though. Spoken only in secret out of fear of detection. It started out as an idea, but it quickly grew in frequency. Riots began to take place, and are now occurring on a daily basis, their flames leave scars upon this already burnt valley. I personally, do not like violence as a means to obtain what you want. And I have long used words to persuade my countrymen, but what good are words to a government that will not listen? My people have roused themselves from their socialistic slumber and are at last demanding their rights that generations before them have taken for granted. Revolutions are things that cannot be stopped, for revolutions symbolize change. Revolutions are drastic and immediate changes, and without change, the human race would have disappeared long ago. In front of me I see a crevasse of people that have been oppressed by their leadership for too long. Behind me however, are forces of these same people that are willing to take action and defend their beliefs. Wars cannot be won after one battle; this is common knowledge, yet I do not plan on simply scaring Congress, or what is left of it, with threats of violence and change. One act of resistance will not cause anything to happen, for this country was founded on the strategies of revolution, and it took many tries and much patience to gain its independence from a country that oppressed it. And with that, I will leave you with a Proverb, not only to whomever reads this, but also as a note to the government that I have come to despise, and to the people that will one day overthrow them, and restore this nation back to its former glory. “Better to be patient than powerful; better to have self-control than to conquer a city. We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall”-Proverbs 16:32-33
The White Cross
This was the very first short story I ever wrote. You might notice it is very similar to my poetry in terms of the imagery and mood, which is because I was making the transition from poetry, to story writing. The story itself is about a man that's clearly having trouble in his life with things like medication and relationships, but like many of my poems and stories, he ends up finding God.
The White Cross
It was a brisk September morning as I emerged from my small niche at the local Motel 8 in Norton, New Brunswick. Being immediately greeted by a strong gust of early winter wind, I was quickly persuaded to make a stop at the near by Tim Horton’s before continuing my journey. It’s been a week now since it happened. Yet after seeing the endless yellow lines on the highway, it seems like that wretched event happened an eternity ago. Every day seems to be much duller than the last. Slowly moving further down the shades of gray path toward thoughts of only blackness. But what is it that drives me further into this Canadian wilderness? I came to this place of solitude not to end my life, but to begin a new one.
As I commence my expedition once more, I notice that there is a malleable blanket of mist covering this forgotten valley. A valley known only to the world by the highway that cuts through its belly. But even the highway respects the forsakenness of this landscape, by retreating to the far edge where the welcoming hills protect and comfort this vital piece of civilization. Lately though, my vision fools me. For I see fog everywhere. I seem to be living in a type of lifeless fog. A haze I cannot escape from. These drugs that supposedly are meant to save my life, are killing me mentally. I cannot remember a day I could think straight, that I could see something clearly. She thought that way too. The times I possessed sanity seemed to have slipped her mind, like it has everyone else. She found her happiness in someone else, because she simply could not handle my outburst of an uncontrollable anger. This place I have come to was meant for us to share together as newlyweds, save another month of planning. But now I have come here alone, and no one to talk to except political radio and country music. I do not, however, plan on leaving this place alone.
Religion is something I always scoffed at. I always thought it was something that people used as an excuse. When I was young though, I came to this place when it had even fewer connections to the outside world. Yet when I left, I came home with something in my heart that I never was able to explain. I pushed it aside though, saying it was only a youthful exaggeration. Today though, I recognize my ignorance, for I thought I did not need anyone else if I had her in my life. But now she is gone, and I’m at my whit’s end and realize the obvious mistake I made. For it is impossible to get through life expecting humans to carry the burden of all your problems, no man is that powerful.
The parking lot is empty at the wildlife reservation, but this doesn’t surprise me in the least. It’s a short trek to the top, but on a cold, rainy day everything seems longer. As I climb the hill, the fog descends further upon the treetops, and soon engulfs everything in my sight. At the top, I saw something I’ve come to expect, fog. But I had not come to the top to gaze upon that desolate valley I had become so acquainted with. The thing I came to see was a single wooden cross. This cross bore no name, and was weathered to a rotting brown with only a few white paint chips that refused to surrender their final grip upon this forgotten monument to an unknown soul. So many years ago this place had comforted me after the death of my father, for although it may sound foolish to say, God had spoken to me through my pain on that day. Pain is a conductor that God wires everyone with when they need a wake up call. I can see the beauty that God has evoked on this small blue planet.
As I make my way back onto the endless sea of white lines toward my next destination, the rain has let up. The blanket of mist has been lifted from this world unto its own. For the first time in years I can see clearly, and think on my own. Only this time, I have more to talk to than my car’s Sony stereo system. I have gained a friend, and a Father that will never leave me and will forever listen to me.
The White Cross
It was a brisk September morning as I emerged from my small niche at the local Motel 8 in Norton, New Brunswick. Being immediately greeted by a strong gust of early winter wind, I was quickly persuaded to make a stop at the near by Tim Horton’s before continuing my journey. It’s been a week now since it happened. Yet after seeing the endless yellow lines on the highway, it seems like that wretched event happened an eternity ago. Every day seems to be much duller than the last. Slowly moving further down the shades of gray path toward thoughts of only blackness. But what is it that drives me further into this Canadian wilderness? I came to this place of solitude not to end my life, but to begin a new one.
As I commence my expedition once more, I notice that there is a malleable blanket of mist covering this forgotten valley. A valley known only to the world by the highway that cuts through its belly. But even the highway respects the forsakenness of this landscape, by retreating to the far edge where the welcoming hills protect and comfort this vital piece of civilization. Lately though, my vision fools me. For I see fog everywhere. I seem to be living in a type of lifeless fog. A haze I cannot escape from. These drugs that supposedly are meant to save my life, are killing me mentally. I cannot remember a day I could think straight, that I could see something clearly. She thought that way too. The times I possessed sanity seemed to have slipped her mind, like it has everyone else. She found her happiness in someone else, because she simply could not handle my outburst of an uncontrollable anger. This place I have come to was meant for us to share together as newlyweds, save another month of planning. But now I have come here alone, and no one to talk to except political radio and country music. I do not, however, plan on leaving this place alone.
Religion is something I always scoffed at. I always thought it was something that people used as an excuse. When I was young though, I came to this place when it had even fewer connections to the outside world. Yet when I left, I came home with something in my heart that I never was able to explain. I pushed it aside though, saying it was only a youthful exaggeration. Today though, I recognize my ignorance, for I thought I did not need anyone else if I had her in my life. But now she is gone, and I’m at my whit’s end and realize the obvious mistake I made. For it is impossible to get through life expecting humans to carry the burden of all your problems, no man is that powerful.
The parking lot is empty at the wildlife reservation, but this doesn’t surprise me in the least. It’s a short trek to the top, but on a cold, rainy day everything seems longer. As I climb the hill, the fog descends further upon the treetops, and soon engulfs everything in my sight. At the top, I saw something I’ve come to expect, fog. But I had not come to the top to gaze upon that desolate valley I had become so acquainted with. The thing I came to see was a single wooden cross. This cross bore no name, and was weathered to a rotting brown with only a few white paint chips that refused to surrender their final grip upon this forgotten monument to an unknown soul. So many years ago this place had comforted me after the death of my father, for although it may sound foolish to say, God had spoken to me through my pain on that day. Pain is a conductor that God wires everyone with when they need a wake up call. I can see the beauty that God has evoked on this small blue planet.
As I make my way back onto the endless sea of white lines toward my next destination, the rain has let up. The blanket of mist has been lifted from this world unto its own. For the first time in years I can see clearly, and think on my own. Only this time, I have more to talk to than my car’s Sony stereo system. I have gained a friend, and a Father that will never leave me and will forever listen to me.
Hemostasis
This poem was also written for a friend of mine. The same friend mentioned in The Patron Saint of Lost Causes actually. It should be fairly obvious what the poem is about, and even though I've never experienced the feeling myself, I tried my best to imagine it.
Hemostasis
Silence had fallen upon the house,
All except a small corner had become dark,
And in that small room of light,
There was a girl,
A girl filled very little hope.
Her heart had become a dim candle of light.
A fire so weak,
It failed to heat the girl’s soul.
And soon her body had become numb.
So she sought refuge from the blade,
And as the sharp, metallic surface cut its river of blood;
A river that flowed not to the sea,
But to the porcelain sink in that solitary room.
Her pain had diminished.
The sight of the red fluid comforted her.
Knowing well the risk she took,
But she needed to feel,
For her hands and legs seemed frozen,
Only pain was powerful enough to escape the numbness.
That brilliant, warm liquid showed her she was still alive.
As the evening wore on,
The bleached towels soon became a deathly crimson.
She had at last stopped shedding blood,
But was now shedding tears,
Not tears of pain,
But of disappointment,
The pain in her heart had become even greater,
So great in fact,
That no amount of blood could fix it.
Her flame was almost gone now,
On its final strain of wicker,
But just as she was reaching for the bullet,
A knock came upon the door,
And with it,
Came the kindling of a caring friend.
One that could heal her wounds,
And erase her scars.
Hemostasis
Silence had fallen upon the house,
All except a small corner had become dark,
And in that small room of light,
There was a girl,
A girl filled very little hope.
Her heart had become a dim candle of light.
A fire so weak,
It failed to heat the girl’s soul.
And soon her body had become numb.
So she sought refuge from the blade,
And as the sharp, metallic surface cut its river of blood;
A river that flowed not to the sea,
But to the porcelain sink in that solitary room.
Her pain had diminished.
The sight of the red fluid comforted her.
Knowing well the risk she took,
But she needed to feel,
For her hands and legs seemed frozen,
Only pain was powerful enough to escape the numbness.
That brilliant, warm liquid showed her she was still alive.
As the evening wore on,
The bleached towels soon became a deathly crimson.
She had at last stopped shedding blood,
But was now shedding tears,
Not tears of pain,
But of disappointment,
The pain in her heart had become even greater,
So great in fact,
That no amount of blood could fix it.
Her flame was almost gone now,
On its final strain of wicker,
But just as she was reaching for the bullet,
A knock came upon the door,
And with it,
Came the kindling of a caring friend.
One that could heal her wounds,
And erase her scars.
Godspeed
In this poem I went in a very different direction than in my others. I have a strong love for many Christian bands and artists, so in this poem, I took lines from some of my favorite Christian songs, and combined them into a poem about God that is coherent and makes sense. I don't know how many people will be able to pick out which lines are from which songs, but there isn't one line in this whole poem that is original material, not even the title.
Godspeed
They say good boys walk straight on white lines,
But I won’t conform to what I see in you,
I won’t surrender what I am.
How long will we close our eyes to the youth?
Because I’m on the edge of losing it all,
And when this thing breaks,
I’ll follow the blood to you my God.
So clap your hands all ye children,
Because we’re turning on the lights.
And you’ve never seen a fight like this before.
Shout to the Lord,
Because I’m waiting on the call to reach my veins.
And there’s nothing you can say that could ever change me.
So remind your parents we’re tomorrow,
Since we are the youth of the nation.
And remember,
They lied when they said the good die young.
So tonight I’ll take my cross,
And I’ll let go of all I’ve held onto,
I’ll be fearless for You.
Since Your grace is enough.
So count me in,
Because we’re never going back to okay.
And there’s nothing you can say,
That will take me away from this life.
Now I am unbreakable,
I’m anticonformity,
I am fireproof.
I’m so sick,
And the fight inside is breaking me again,
But I’m just a man,
So wake me up,
Because who I am hates who I’ve been,
But I’ll blame it on the southern weather.
So while you party on,
I want to remember all the times we shared.
Because I’m on the brink of it all,
And I’m broken
But at last the fog it lifts,
The clouds are breaking with another day.
And I finally found the one I was looking for.
Now I know I am the luckiest
So I say so long self,
I have found somebody else.
I’ve found something beautiful.
So stand up now,
Open wide,
Shake it off,
And look to the eastern sky.
Daylight is coming to break the dawn,
So wake the neighbors,
Get the word out,
That you are my Strong Tower,
And I will praise you with a lifesong.
For You make everything glorious,
And Holy is the Lord most high.
Godspeed
They say good boys walk straight on white lines,
But I won’t conform to what I see in you,
I won’t surrender what I am.
How long will we close our eyes to the youth?
Because I’m on the edge of losing it all,
And when this thing breaks,
I’ll follow the blood to you my God.
So clap your hands all ye children,
Because we’re turning on the lights.
And you’ve never seen a fight like this before.
Shout to the Lord,
Because I’m waiting on the call to reach my veins.
And there’s nothing you can say that could ever change me.
So remind your parents we’re tomorrow,
Since we are the youth of the nation.
And remember,
They lied when they said the good die young.
So tonight I’ll take my cross,
And I’ll let go of all I’ve held onto,
I’ll be fearless for You.
Since Your grace is enough.
So count me in,
Because we’re never going back to okay.
And there’s nothing you can say,
That will take me away from this life.
Now I am unbreakable,
I’m anticonformity,
I am fireproof.
I’m so sick,
And the fight inside is breaking me again,
But I’m just a man,
So wake me up,
Because who I am hates who I’ve been,
But I’ll blame it on the southern weather.
So while you party on,
I want to remember all the times we shared.
Because I’m on the brink of it all,
And I’m broken
But at last the fog it lifts,
The clouds are breaking with another day.
And I finally found the one I was looking for.
Now I know I am the luckiest
So I say so long self,
I have found somebody else.
I’ve found something beautiful.
So stand up now,
Open wide,
Shake it off,
And look to the eastern sky.
Daylight is coming to break the dawn,
So wake the neighbors,
Get the word out,
That you are my Strong Tower,
And I will praise you with a lifesong.
For You make everything glorious,
And Holy is the Lord most high.
The Unpredictable Nature of the Sea
This was a poem I wrote for my mother on Christmas. It's very similar to the one I wrote about God, except the plot is a bit different, and the lighthouse symbolizes my mother instead of God. This is a poem that I think anyone can connect to, not just with their mother, but also a spouse or sibling.
The Unpredictable Nature of the Sea
It was a brisk spring morning.
The docks reeked of decaying crustacean.
And as we sailed off,
We were greeted by the lighthouse’s humble beam.
Past the rocky shoals of Haverhill she guided us.
When we departed from the safety of the harbor,
And entered the unpredictable waters of the ocean,
There she stood,
Standing firmly upon her island of rock and soil.
A symbol of hospitality to all who saw her.
Forever guiding sailors away from hostile shores.
With her tenacious, yet appeasing light.
By midday we had cast our nets.
The sky was a brilliant blue.
The sea had become motionless.
But by early evening,
The sky became think with clouds,
And the ocean woke from its restless slumber.
Yet still the lighthouse cast her welcoming light.
Unmoved by the turbulent waters that surrounded her.
As evening fell,
The ocean became enraged by our presence.
My crew had abandoned me.
Saving their selfish souls on our single life raft.
But still that lone beam shone brightly.
And even though her structure was now invisible,
Lost in the vacuum of fog and darkness,
Her solitary incandescent still guided me.
Filling me with a small sense of hope.
As night began to fade,
And the last of the stars disappeared.
My boat crashed upon the sandy coast.
The sea had once more fallen asleep.
And as I began my journey back to Haverhill,
She till remained.
Illuminating my path back home.
For that light has been lit all my life,
Serving as an eternal lamp,
In a seemingly dark and foggy room.
The Unpredictable Nature of the Sea
It was a brisk spring morning.
The docks reeked of decaying crustacean.
And as we sailed off,
We were greeted by the lighthouse’s humble beam.
Past the rocky shoals of Haverhill she guided us.
When we departed from the safety of the harbor,
And entered the unpredictable waters of the ocean,
There she stood,
Standing firmly upon her island of rock and soil.
A symbol of hospitality to all who saw her.
Forever guiding sailors away from hostile shores.
With her tenacious, yet appeasing light.
By midday we had cast our nets.
The sky was a brilliant blue.
The sea had become motionless.
But by early evening,
The sky became think with clouds,
And the ocean woke from its restless slumber.
Yet still the lighthouse cast her welcoming light.
Unmoved by the turbulent waters that surrounded her.
As evening fell,
The ocean became enraged by our presence.
My crew had abandoned me.
Saving their selfish souls on our single life raft.
But still that lone beam shone brightly.
And even though her structure was now invisible,
Lost in the vacuum of fog and darkness,
Her solitary incandescent still guided me.
Filling me with a small sense of hope.
As night began to fade,
And the last of the stars disappeared.
My boat crashed upon the sandy coast.
The sea had once more fallen asleep.
And as I began my journey back to Haverhill,
She till remained.
Illuminating my path back home.
For that light has been lit all my life,
Serving as an eternal lamp,
In a seemingly dark and foggy room.
The Overlooked Chemical Bond
This was a poem I wrote for my brother on his birthday. It's fairly simple, and aside from the inside jokes and events, most people who have a close sibling should be able to connect to it pretty well.
The Overlooked Chemical Bond
Although the boundaries of time held us apart,
They were never strong enough against the force of brotherhood.
In the beginning it was our innocence that held us close.
From backyard adventures,
To fake towns built out of plastic bricks.
Your maturity and knowledge was always a pinnacle of light to me.
Our many travels only brought us closer,
Sharing your great tales of history to pass the time as the headlights passed by.
I’ve seen your innumerable obsessions,
And questioned your sanity during them.
But still, I could not help but feel slightly jealous.
That anyone could feel so dedicated to a hobby.
As we grew,
So did my amazement of your vast knowledge.
Sharing all you knew with me,
From history,
To politics,
To chemistry and physics.
I absorbed all of this with great enthusiasm.
Hoping one day,
To be just like you.
To have even a fraction of your knowledge.
And as the time continued to pass,
We became ever so closer.
But this new bond was far different from our naïve childhood bond.
And even though many towns and cities now separated us.
The strength of our brotherhood brought us through our new challenges.
Relationships,
God,
Music,
And of course,
That sport which we call Ultimate.
All of these brought an inconceivable bonding force with them.
And as the years continue to pass,
I ask myself,
What new challenges will we face?
For I see now that I am an individual,
With my own hobbies and desires.
But I will forever look up at that radiant pillar of seemingly infinite knowledge.
A person I call my big brother,
The person that inspired me to pick up the pen and paper,
And opened up my creative mind to a new world,
A world that will take a lifetime to discover.
The Overlooked Chemical Bond
Although the boundaries of time held us apart,
They were never strong enough against the force of brotherhood.
In the beginning it was our innocence that held us close.
From backyard adventures,
To fake towns built out of plastic bricks.
Your maturity and knowledge was always a pinnacle of light to me.
Our many travels only brought us closer,
Sharing your great tales of history to pass the time as the headlights passed by.
I’ve seen your innumerable obsessions,
And questioned your sanity during them.
But still, I could not help but feel slightly jealous.
That anyone could feel so dedicated to a hobby.
As we grew,
So did my amazement of your vast knowledge.
Sharing all you knew with me,
From history,
To politics,
To chemistry and physics.
I absorbed all of this with great enthusiasm.
Hoping one day,
To be just like you.
To have even a fraction of your knowledge.
And as the time continued to pass,
We became ever so closer.
But this new bond was far different from our naïve childhood bond.
And even though many towns and cities now separated us.
The strength of our brotherhood brought us through our new challenges.
Relationships,
God,
Music,
And of course,
That sport which we call Ultimate.
All of these brought an inconceivable bonding force with them.
And as the years continue to pass,
I ask myself,
What new challenges will we face?
For I see now that I am an individual,
With my own hobbies and desires.
But I will forever look up at that radiant pillar of seemingly infinite knowledge.
A person I call my big brother,
The person that inspired me to pick up the pen and paper,
And opened up my creative mind to a new world,
A world that will take a lifetime to discover.
The Inadequacy of Perfection
This poem should be pretty obvious as to what it's about. It is a poem about my faith in God, I use the star lit sky as a metaphor for Heaven, and the Moon as being God, since it's the largest body in the night sky. I used the ocean because it's for one, my favorite place, and also it fit the mood of the story fairly well. I spent most of my time focusing on imagery more so than rhyming, since like most of my poems, it's a narrative one.
The Inadequacy of Perfection
The full moon had risen from its dark hiding place,
Casting the earth in a dull chill.
Permitting the fog to recede from its place of shelter,
For the mist hated the scorching heat of the mid-day sun.
The Heavens had become blocked by a blanket of vapors,
Signaled only by the dim light radiated from the grandest of the Heavenly bodies.
Like a lighthouse’s beam during a tragic ocean storm.
When all hope depends on a solitary phosphorescence.
Guided only by the abutting, unseen waves on that desolate beach.
I walked through a dream of loneliness.
My only companion being the ancient Heavenly Torch,
And the soft glow of distant ships.
Journeying to unknown lands of prosperity and wealth.
But this loneliness was not filled with desperation.
For this moment seemed almost necessary.
A sort of obligation everyone must fill before they join the stars in the sky.
Instances such as these are ways to witness God in the great realm of silence.
Void of all distractions and imperfections of life.
For I needed no tangible evidence of His existence.
Since the dense fog had begun to lift,
Retreating back to its place of mischief where it would hide once more.
Ahead of me I could see now the distant lights of Reedsport.
With her flickering light’s cast by early morning fishing boats.
Sailing ever so slowly past her coastal homes,
Still filled with late night dreams of distant lands.
The lighthouse’s beacon was now ablaze with its guiding flame.
Burning through the last of the delicate fog.
Saving the weary mariners from her shadowy cliffs.
And as I looked toward the sky,
I became astonished by the magnificent light show.
Every Angel and Saint in Heaven was now shinning brightly down upon me.
The ocean had become a rippled mirror of Heaven.
It seemed that the horizon had become fused with the world of infinity.
But the ripples in Earth’s heaven gave away its imperfections.
For it was only a mere copy.
And on nights like those,
Earth and Heaven are at their closest.
But Earth will forever only be able to reflect the splendid glory of the Lord’s Heaven.
The Inadequacy of Perfection
The full moon had risen from its dark hiding place,
Casting the earth in a dull chill.
Permitting the fog to recede from its place of shelter,
For the mist hated the scorching heat of the mid-day sun.
The Heavens had become blocked by a blanket of vapors,
Signaled only by the dim light radiated from the grandest of the Heavenly bodies.
Like a lighthouse’s beam during a tragic ocean storm.
When all hope depends on a solitary phosphorescence.
Guided only by the abutting, unseen waves on that desolate beach.
I walked through a dream of loneliness.
My only companion being the ancient Heavenly Torch,
And the soft glow of distant ships.
Journeying to unknown lands of prosperity and wealth.
But this loneliness was not filled with desperation.
For this moment seemed almost necessary.
A sort of obligation everyone must fill before they join the stars in the sky.
Instances such as these are ways to witness God in the great realm of silence.
Void of all distractions and imperfections of life.
For I needed no tangible evidence of His existence.
Since the dense fog had begun to lift,
Retreating back to its place of mischief where it would hide once more.
Ahead of me I could see now the distant lights of Reedsport.
With her flickering light’s cast by early morning fishing boats.
Sailing ever so slowly past her coastal homes,
Still filled with late night dreams of distant lands.
The lighthouse’s beacon was now ablaze with its guiding flame.
Burning through the last of the delicate fog.
Saving the weary mariners from her shadowy cliffs.
And as I looked toward the sky,
I became astonished by the magnificent light show.
Every Angel and Saint in Heaven was now shinning brightly down upon me.
The ocean had become a rippled mirror of Heaven.
It seemed that the horizon had become fused with the world of infinity.
But the ripples in Earth’s heaven gave away its imperfections.
For it was only a mere copy.
And on nights like those,
Earth and Heaven are at their closest.
But Earth will forever only be able to reflect the splendid glory of the Lord’s Heaven.
The Patron Saint of Lost Causes
This was a poem I actually wrote for a friend of mine. It's a poem about making mistakes because of peer pressure, but it's also a poem about redemption in the end. The poem wasn't written as a way to insult people that drink, or do drugs, it was meant as a message to people that don't want to do those things but feel they have to in order to fit in. I feel that being yourself and following in God's steps are how you should live your life and that you shouldn't do things to impress people, since I would much rather make God happy, than make people happy.
The Patron Saint of Lost Causes
The night was barely young,
When the house lights came on.
When the speakers blared that endless tune.
You were uncertain if such a late party was wise to attend.
So you arrived late to avoid being noticed by a watchful eye,
And as the last stray beams of sunlight vanished into the horizon,
The kegs began to flow freely from their spring.
Glasses were poured,
Toasts were made,
To youth, love, and peace.
And when you were handed a glass,
You found it unwise to pass it off,
For it might attract attention to an unseen person.
The night had struck its final hour,
Yet the house was still ablaze.
Lit by torches of cannabis and marijuana.
And as the joint was passed around,
You hesitated,
But found it impolite to pass up the opportunity.
Since passing eyes are bound to spot an outsider.
The night had grown dark and cold.
Forcing the crowd to take shelter inside.
One by one the couples fled into dark rooms,
Into a black abyss,
Where they were to fall onto beds of selfishness and empty desire.
And when you were asked to enter into that ambient darkness,
You refused,
Finding it unwise to go into a place of such uncertainty,
For the darkness of those chambers disguised their true intent.
The sun was breaking the horizon,
And as you made your way toward the door,
Every eye stared at you in disgusted anger,
But you felt no fear,
Because you saw the real inclination of this masked crowd.
As you walked down the desolate road,
The lights continued to burn,
And the music went on with an endless passion.
But the only thing you saw was the dawn of a new day.
A new hope,
A new chance to start things over.
The Patron Saint of Lost Causes
The night was barely young,
When the house lights came on.
When the speakers blared that endless tune.
You were uncertain if such a late party was wise to attend.
So you arrived late to avoid being noticed by a watchful eye,
And as the last stray beams of sunlight vanished into the horizon,
The kegs began to flow freely from their spring.
Glasses were poured,
Toasts were made,
To youth, love, and peace.
And when you were handed a glass,
You found it unwise to pass it off,
For it might attract attention to an unseen person.
The night had struck its final hour,
Yet the house was still ablaze.
Lit by torches of cannabis and marijuana.
And as the joint was passed around,
You hesitated,
But found it impolite to pass up the opportunity.
Since passing eyes are bound to spot an outsider.
The night had grown dark and cold.
Forcing the crowd to take shelter inside.
One by one the couples fled into dark rooms,
Into a black abyss,
Where they were to fall onto beds of selfishness and empty desire.
And when you were asked to enter into that ambient darkness,
You refused,
Finding it unwise to go into a place of such uncertainty,
For the darkness of those chambers disguised their true intent.
The sun was breaking the horizon,
And as you made your way toward the door,
Every eye stared at you in disgusted anger,
But you felt no fear,
Because you saw the real inclination of this masked crowd.
As you walked down the desolate road,
The lights continued to burn,
And the music went on with an endless passion.
But the only thing you saw was the dawn of a new day.
A new hope,
A new chance to start things over.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Color of White
This was the first poem I wrote that wasn't about my now ex-girlfriend. I wrote it as a fun poem about a young couple that spend their day taking a drive together, and discovering not only the world, but also themselves. The couple in the story doesn't reflect anyone in particular, it was written more as a poem that anyone who loves to travel and be with the one they love, will easily relate too.
The Color of White:
The sun had just risen.
When I picked you up.
When we both didn’t have a care in the world.
And as we blazed past town after town,
On that solid yellow line,
We had one thought on our mind,
How far until we reached the end of the earth?
The afternoon sun shone brightly now,
Showing in splendid glory this timeless landscape,
Of farmland and open pastures.
Where you could see for miles on end.
When the dotted yellow lines extended to the blue horizon.
We thought this truly was the end of the earth.
But we still had much more to discover.
The sun was setting now,
Lending us little time to leave out mark.
But as the dotted white lines blurred past us,
The descending sun illuminated the mountains before us.
And we were racing head on into them in the fast lane,
Not caring about our speed,
Just how fast the interstate would bring us there.
The sky is black now,
But the valley before us is ablaze with light.
The highway is aglow with streams of red and white.
The lines have disappeared into an ambient darkness,
Seen only when a stray beam of light strikes one.
Our journey was almost complete.
Dawn was breaking now,
The sky had become bright with colors of every hue.
The lines had stopped moving now,
Almost out of respect to the arriving sun.
The whole world was at peace now,
Silence filled the valley.
And we only had one thing on our mind,
How magnificent it was,
To watch the birth of a new day,
At the top of the world.
The Color of White:
The sun had just risen.
When I picked you up.
When we both didn’t have a care in the world.
And as we blazed past town after town,
On that solid yellow line,
We had one thought on our mind,
How far until we reached the end of the earth?
The afternoon sun shone brightly now,
Showing in splendid glory this timeless landscape,
Of farmland and open pastures.
Where you could see for miles on end.
When the dotted yellow lines extended to the blue horizon.
We thought this truly was the end of the earth.
But we still had much more to discover.
The sun was setting now,
Lending us little time to leave out mark.
But as the dotted white lines blurred past us,
The descending sun illuminated the mountains before us.
And we were racing head on into them in the fast lane,
Not caring about our speed,
Just how fast the interstate would bring us there.
The sky is black now,
But the valley before us is ablaze with light.
The highway is aglow with streams of red and white.
The lines have disappeared into an ambient darkness,
Seen only when a stray beam of light strikes one.
Our journey was almost complete.
Dawn was breaking now,
The sky had become bright with colors of every hue.
The lines had stopped moving now,
Almost out of respect to the arriving sun.
The whole world was at peace now,
Silence filled the valley.
And we only had one thing on our mind,
How magnificent it was,
To watch the birth of a new day,
At the top of the world.
The Inauguration of the Pen and Paper
Before I begin any posts in this blog, I would briefly like to describe to you the purpose, and meaning behind this blog I have made. This is my second blog (The other being http://expos2512.blogspot.com/), but this blog will be focused more on my writings than on my opinions of various topics. I have been writing poems for around eight months now, and have been writing short stories for almost three. For a while I have been wanting to get my poems noticed by a broader range of people than simply my family and friends, and blogging them just so happens to be the best way I currently know. I do not know how many people may stumble upon this blog, but if you happen to, please feel free to leave your comments and thoughts about my work. Many of my stories were inspired from the writings of Stephen King and H.P. Lovecraft. And although my work is not an exact copy of either of theirs, you can definitely see many parallels to both of them in my stories. My true inspirations however have come mostly from my family, friends, and of course, God. My ex-girlfriend was in fact the first person to try and get my writing talent out of me. She asked kindly for me to write her a poem for her birthday, and as guys know, it's hard to say no to woman. I didn't find the poem to be of much substance or quality, but of course she loved it and thought I was an excellent poet. I took a long break from writing after that. But around late summer I took up writing poetry again. I wrote a couple more poems for my former girlfriend, which now all seem like sappy love songs. After the break up though was where I got my first real "breakthrough" if you wish to call it that. I no longer was writing poems about concrete things, but was instead focusing strongly on the use of imagery, and symbolism. My short stories started taking form after the break up as well. I started writing them since poems simply could not convey the message I wanted. In this blog I will share with you all of the poems and short stories I have written that are not too personal (Sorry, that means no poems about my ex-girlfriend...), and since I still write poems and stories now, I will continue to update the blog whenever I finish a piece of work. At the beginning of each poem or story, I will have a brief description of what it is about, my inspiration, and any personal details that might be needed to fully understand it. Finally, I would like to briefly describe the origin of the name for my blog. Besides my friends and family, I had one last source of inspiration for my writings, a Christian rock band called Falling Up. Whenever I am writing they are almost guaranteed to be playing in the background, since they always manage to spark my inspiration due to their deep, passionate lyrics. Their songs use much imagery in them, which makes me wonder if that is where I get my keen sense for detail in describing a setting. Their lyrics and music are very thought provoking, and almost all of my poems were thought up while listening to one of their songs. So in order to pay them a sort of tribute, I have named my blog after one of their songs, Reedsport. Reedsport also happens to be a town in Oregon, not far from where the band grew up. The "101" in the blog name comes from the name of the route that runs through Reedsport. You may also notice that I mention Reedsport in some of my writings. Just to be clear, neither of the two Reedsports have any connection to each other; I simply used it because I like the name, and the reference it makes to Falling Up.
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