Face to the Heavens

As the newest caseworker, Tim didn't feel accepted yet.  To him this was proved by his lack of conversation and contact at this office retirement party.  He'd found himself slowly circling the fringes alone, from punch to cake and back.  Mostly he was glad it was Friday.


He'd only been there a week and didn't really expect instant acceptance; he knew Youth Services casework forced people to put up protective walls to keep their sanity.  So he strolled the grey/green carpet under the flourescent glare, smiling and nodding whenever anyone glanced his way.  Thus he was surprised when someone sitting at a desk spoke to him.


"C'mon over here, honey."  The matronly black woman patted the arm of an office chair in the jumble of other chairs and desks pushed aside to make room for the small crowd.  "Ya'll are makin' me nervous, prowling 'round like that."  Her smile was not nervous; in fact hers was the least nervous face he'd ever seen.


"Thanks," he said as respectfully as he could.  Before he sat down he put out his hand.  "I'm Tim."  Her hand was soft, but easily surrounded Tim's in a strong grip.


"I know who ya are, hun," she said as he sat.  "Mr. Timothy Tramwell, newest caseworker in the great city of Charlotte and probably all of North Carolina DHHS."  She touched his arm and leaned toward him.  "And my replacement, thank the Lord.  I'm Edna."


Tim almost choked on the punch he was sipping.  Mortified, he mumbled an apology for not recognizing her as the guest of honor.  She waved off his embarrassment and they fell into conversation.  The man was warmed by her acceptance; she shared tidbits of office gossip and encouraged him to share his own insights.  Finally he felt comfortable enough to ask Edna a personal question.


"What got you into Youth Services, anyway?"  Instead of the quick, friendly answer he'd expected, she crossed her arms and looked at her feet, though her eyes seemed focused somewhere much further away than the floor.  Her abrupt change of manner had Tim about to apologize again, but she spoke up before he could frame anything that didn't sound condescending to his inner editor.


"How many times you reckon I've been asked that?" she said, then chuckled.  "Lord, I don't even 'member myself."  She looked at Tim's face, saw the worry there.  "Don't you worry none, sweetie.  This old lady ain't goin' crazy.  It's just that every time I've been asked that question, I lied.  Now here we are, out with the old an' in with the new.  I got to ask myself if the Lord meant it this way."  She sighed.  "I'm gonna tell you the truth, Tim, if you'll let me?"


"Of course," he said.  Intrigued and more than a little touched by her trust, he scooted his chair closer.  "Shoot."


"It was near on 40 years ago," she started.  "I was a hooker then, uptown before it really was uptown." She chuckled.  "Nobody here knows that about me, nobody but you now.  Anyway, I had me a spot staked out on Green Street, long before that park was there.


"The Green," Tim said.  "I know it."


"That's the one.  Well, it was hard times back then, so me and the other workin' girls along there took care of each other when we could, called ourselves the Sisters.  There was one girl, her name was Amy, and I'll never forget her.  She was likely the most self-destructive teenager I ever met.  Nothing she wouldn't drink or snort, nobody she feared."  She shook her head sadly.  "But the worst part was her little brother, Vic."


"That boy had it worse than all us girls put together.  His mama was a drunk, his daddy was crippled, something like muscular dystrophy I think now.  He was taking care of them and his crazy sister, right up until the daddy died.  Crazy Amy started a fire a week later, burned the place down with her and her mama.  Only thing that saved Vic was that he was workin' somewhere."


"That's harsh," said Tim as she paused reflectively.  The sounds of the party had increased as the party-goers started silly games, but Tim felt the quiet around him and Edna.


"Harsh as a brillo pad," she continued.  "That's the kind of luck that boy had.  He'd come out sometimes after that, like he was still lookin' for his sister.  We'd slip him a little cash or food, whatever we had, but every time I saw him he looked worse and worse.  Then one night I was at my spot along an old red brick wall and here he comes, wandering along the sidewalk like a balloon in the breeze."  She held a hand to her forehead for a moment, then continued.


"It was late.  There wasn't a lot of traffic, but Vic stepped right out in it, never seemed to notice.  My heart just about stopped, but I ran out there and yanked him from in front of a green Buick.  I'll never forget that grille coming at me.  That boy was so light and skinny. . .well, I got him over to that wall and soon as I got my voice back I asked him if he was trying to kill himself."


"He looked plumb surprised.  'No, Sister Edee, he told me, I don't think.  I just feel like I got no way to stay put.'"  You and me might call him dissociative today; back then he was just real sad.  'I think I'm gonna be gone soon.  I don't hardly feel the ground anymore,' he said."


"I was young and thought I had the world figured out, but I had no idea the power words possess.  Just like you, Tim."  Edna pointed a long finger at him.  He was startled and puzzled at that, but decided not to respond with more than a nod.


"I turned him around and put his hands on that old brick wall.  'Vic, I said, you feel that?  That's you.  You're a brick holdin' up everyone else.'  He laid his face on that wall and cried.  I'll admit I cried some with him."


"The problem was I just couldn't let well enough alone.  I told him 'Imagine you're a brick, okay?  Just close your eyes and think on being that brick.  Nothing makes a brick sad or angry.  A brick is strong and hard and true, nothin' ever bothers that brick.  Don't you worry about going away, understand?  Bricks don't go away.'  Then a car stopped and honked.  I told him to stay there and pray 'til he felt better and I'd try to check on him later.  But the trick led to a party, and that led to a raid, so I didn't get back for a couple of days.  I didn't worry, the other Sisters would keep an eye out."  


"Vic was still there.  He was part of that wall, mortar and brick, his face still raised to Heaven and sadness on his mouth."  Edna's black eyes held Tim; he didn't even consider looking away.  "That's the day I decided helping kids was my calling.  I owed a debt for my part of what happened to that boy and I swore to God I would do everything in my power to save as many lives from ruination as I could."  She leaned back, wiped tears from her cheeks and silently waited for his response.


Though Tim had already decided she was messing with him, chills raised hair and goosepimples along his arms.  He decided to treat it as a friendly hazing and ignore how creeped out he was.


"You almost got me there, Edna," he said without a tremor.  "You do this to all the new guys, I bet."  He forced a chuckle.


"Had you going, didn't I?"  She leaned forward again, held his wrist.  "But you better believe your words have power over these children.  Don't you ever doubt that, understand?"


"I promise," Tim said around the knot that appeared in his throat.  He put his other hand over hers.  "I'll do my best."


"That's all me and the Lord ask for," she responded and they shared a few moments of quiet contemplation.  Then the party swept over them and Edna went to open the presents to their cheers.  To Tim she seemed older, more tired than the woman he'd sat with a few minutes ago.


The next day dawned spectacularly, reds and oranges heralding an offshore storm.  Tim spent Saturday morning at a family brunch his mother had insisted on to celebrate his new job, followed by a bachelor party for cousin Gary.  Sunday morning saw the storm roll in.  Tim decided to skip church with the family; Edna's story still had a few teeth in him.


Fine rain drifted down when he reached Green Circle drive.  Thanks to the weather he was able to park his Prius next to The Green.  Rain gave the brick walks and topiarys a fresh gleam.  The air was too muggy and warm to wear a raincoat, so Tim strolled from one work of art to another under his umbrella.  Near the center of the park he finally saw the boy made of brick. 


As he approached it he felt both apprehension and relief.  It wasn't a brick wall, it was a sculpture of brick depicting children climbing playfully on a giant book.  The detail was wonderful.  He stopped beside a young black woman in a dark raincoat who was also admiring the work.  Tim looked for a sign or plaque giving information about the brick sculpture, but there was neither.


"Excuse me," he said, "do you know how long this has been here?"  The woman looked at him quickly, as if startled.  She was younger than his first impression, but her eyes were swollen and red from crying.


"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention."  She swiped at her face with a snuffle.  "What did you ask?"


"Oh, nothing important, sorry."  He moved close enough to put his umbrella above her.  "Something wrong?"  Before she answered, she closed her eyes and squared her shoulders.


"My grandmother died here yesterday."  She faced the sculpture again; chills crawled on Tim's arms and back again as she continued.  "This was her favorite place.  She came here every week."  Pride pushed away the waver in her voice.  "She saved this, you know.  When the city wanted to tear down that wall for the new park she stopped them, and then when they tried to take it out to make room for a new sculpture she fought them until they agreed to keep the brick boy."  She stopped with a sob.


"I'm very sorry for your loss," he said, suddenly surer of himself, "but I don't think Edna would want you to stand in the rain and cry."


"You knew my Grammy Edna?"  The rain stopped as the girl smiled at Tim.  He stepped closer to the bricks so he could see the boy's face.


"Yes," he replied, heart swelling with joy, "yes, I think I do know her now."


The brick boy's face was turned upward, eyes patiently watching the sky, but his mouth was curved into a tiny, cherub's smile.


The End.

Welcome to 30 October Nightmares

I met someone on Google+ who challenged me and a hundred others to write a horror story each day of October, each based on a different image she would supply.  Here we go -

Leviathan Bloom

I recall my life of sanity and blessed ignorance, but no longer can I understand. The mouths of madness slurp away the blood of memory, leaving incomprehensible mime. My name was Jacob Drake, though a new name grows within me. Perhaps you are stronger than I. . .

"It's perfect, I tell ya," asserted the young researcher, adjusting his Cabana Club ball cap. He leaned over the rail. "They got no place else to go here." His wave included barren tidal flats and clumps of stunted trees around the stretch of Skull Creek.

"You really think the water's brackish enough?" Scratching his greying beard, Sid squinted into the early afternoon sky. "And they won't sunburn?"

"That's right," Jake said. "You see the net over that main pool for shade. I put chicken wire in the tidal channels. Even when the tide's up they have to cross all that open space." Pride colored his voice. "It's a regular maximum security prison for octopus."

"Awright," Sid said. He slapped the boat's rail and turned to Jake. "Here's the deal. This is on your own time. I cut you in on the grant from North Carolina, you get the pick of the pots to stock your project. Work for you?"

Work was the operative word. Up at 6:00 a.m., Jake would put in a full day at sea aboard Sid's boat 'Henrietta' harvesting octopus pots for the State Fishery's research study, then motor the pontoon boat up Skull Inlet to his own project. There he spent the afternoon and most evenings struggling to master aquaculturing the octopus.

And it was a struggle. Natural escape artists, the creatures would take every opportunity to climb, swim, or squeeze out of the ponds. Chicken wire barriers kept adults from swimming to freedom during the daily brief tidal innundation, and slowed attempts to cross open ground. Every day the first chore was to rescue escapees from dehydration.

Still, each night found Jake kicked back on the deck enjoying Coors and takeout from Docksiders while entering the day's notes into the project journal. He was weary, but satisfied and happy with what he was accomplishing.

Dozens of octopuses occupied the connected pools, mostly thriving. Weeks passed, filled with Jake's daydreams of a master's thesis and fame domesticating the octopus. Then it changed.

Late September came with lingering Summer warmth. That day started beautiful and clear. Distant thunderheads rose in the unseasonable heat as Jake and Sid ran the pots.

"Yeah, we'll go 'til the weather breaks, maybe mid-October," Sid pontificated as they pulled up the last pot of the day. "Damn. Heavy, isn't it?" Jake just grunted as they heaved the line. They were the last words Jake heard from Sid.

The squall blindsided them, sudden gale winds whipping the sea to a frenzy. They managed to get the pot aboard before driving rain turned everything grey and cold. Jake tossed pot and all into the live well, turned back to see Sid smiling with a thumb up.

Something grey rolled up over the side, a wetly gleaming mass. For an instant Jake thought a shark had landed on-deck somehow. 'Henrietta' pitched as a large wave swept in; Jake dimly heard the other crewmen yell warnings.

Jake didn't listen, watching in growing horror as the mass slithered over the deck behind Sid. Revealed were large sucker pads, each with jagged, toothy mouths at the center and red eyes beside.

In the space of those seconds before the wave hit, Jake could only hold on and witness. The tentacle flopped about, feeling around until it touched Sid. The man had just enough time to look down, then wide-eyed back at Jake before it twisted around Sid's body and snatched him into the Atlantic.

The search went on until dawn, but Sid was gone. Jake told the rest of 'Henrietta's crew what he'd seen, but they just shook their heads and made him stay below deck. Another wave of search craft came with first light and the "Henrietta" retired to refuel. They left Jake on the dock with yesterday's catch and returned to the search.

Robotically he worked through the chore of documenting the catch, weighing and recording measurements of each octopus, then into the ice for later market pick up. Jake felt disconnected from the world, unsure if what he'd seen was real or a dream. Maybe it had all been a hallucination, making him insane. But if it was real. . . Either way he was terrified.

The last one was a gravid female from the final trap. She was big, one of the largest they'd ever caught. Out of habit he placed her in a 5-gal plastic bucket for his project and pointed the pontoon boat toward Skull Creek.

Once at the project ponds he went through the motions, but paid little attention until it was time to introduce the new octopus into the pond. When he popped the lid off the bucket she was glaring up at him, tentacles coiled under her mantle, waves of black and red pulsing over her skin.

Chills raced through him at the strange behavior. Octopods were rarely aggressive, much less this enraged. He tried to tip her from the bucket, but she clung to the bottom even when Jake upended the bucket and roughly shook it.

Jake's calm boiled away, replaced by anger - at Sid's loss, at whatever Jake had seen on the boat, at this contrary octopus. He flipped the bucket back over and grabbed her mantle in a harsh grip.

As he tugged, she released her hold inside the bucket and wrapped around his arm. He saw the black rock she held just before it thudded against his temple. Stunned, he dropped to his knees. He felt a sharp, burning pain on his forearm before blacking out.

Jake awoke to more pain, this time from his stomach. He tried to double up in reflex, but couldn't move. He could hardly believe what he saw holding him - what must have been every octopus in the pond was coiled around his arms and legs.

Pain tore at him again. He could move his head just enough to see the large female octopus clutched to his torso, using her beak to rip through into his abdominal cavity.

At the ragged edge of sanity, Jake struggled uselessly. He realized she'd stung him, leaving him partially paralyzed and weak. She tangled a tentacle in his hair and made him watch as she shoved strings of amber beads in his guts - tens of thousands of eggs destined to hatch, eat, and destroy.

And each one fathered by the thing that took Sid.

Jake didn't know when the octopuses released him and slithered back into the water. He didn't hear himself babbling, taste the blood from chewing his own tongue, feel his limbs shudder in convulsions. Madness protected him, shielded him. . .

Soon her children will blossom forth; they squirm along my bones, slide through my veins, peek out of my pores. Soon they will worm behind my eyes and I will have no voice but Leviathan.

The End.

Gift of Blab?

Wish I had it, like to learn it, but there it is; I don't have the skill yet to write hundreds or thousands of words a day.  Sometimes this not-so-large blog entry takes two or three hours, something like 50 to 100 words an hour.  I know professionals who can produce 20 times that all day long.  Why?  


I edit as I write, and that's bad.  Putting down the words that approximate an idea should come first, errors and all.  Once things are out, then proofread, edit, and rewrite.


I don't put aside enough time in a day to write.  Like any skill, the more you do it, the better you become.  I took up this very blog to motivate myself to write every day.  If I want this to be more than a hobby, I need to devote a daily 'shift' to writing.


I don't plan enough.  Maybe I'm impatient, perhaps it's Adult Deficit Disorder, but I jump into a story with little more than an idea in my head.  There are steps that can make the process easier; thematic statement, plot outline, character 'bible.'  I must practice these basics.


If I want my writing to be more than a hobby, there is a path - the path that leads to the Gift of Blab.

Evolution Rules

Everything has rules.  Evolution works, but not because of faith or miracle, but thanks to rules.

Rule one: Sex.  Without procreation there is simply no evolution.
Converse: Barriers.  Separating populations results in speciation.

Rule two: Mutability.  Without variation improvement is impossible.  Failure to adapt means other species will improve and out-compete, forcing the unchanged to extinction. 
Converse: Stability.  Change can be dangerous.  Too many mutations drown positive, useful adaptations in a flood of useless limbs, maladaptations, and tumors.  It's a balancing act with extinction on both sides.

Rule three: Death.  It's no good for favorable mutations to occur if previous generations keep passing along the old-fashioned, less favorable genes.  Even asexual microbes must self-destruct to divide into the next generation. 
Converse: Survival.  Adaptation to the environment isn't enough; nature shakes things up now and again with extinction events.  To stay in the evolution game, species must possess some strategy to pass both tests and survive.

Scary Speed

It is damned hard to figure out how fast you're going without a speedometer.  Apparently, that goes for astronomers and cosmologists as well.  A new(ish) theory proposes that present observations of our Universe's speed are skewed.

For decades scientists of varied disciplines have struggled with a physics-busting problem.  Careful observation of our Universe seems to show it is expanding ever faster.  This is completely opposite of what standard Newtonian theory demonstrates.  Gravity should pull the Universe together, steadily slowing everthing.  Instead, scientists are calculating from observations that the expansion of the Universe is actually speeding up.

Much work has been done to explain those observations and calculations.  The observations date back to Mr. Hubble, a fellow with a constant and a space telescope named after him.  Since then science has slowly improved distance and speed measurements of stars and galaxies, allowing better models of the expanding Universe.

More and more clearly, it seems the expanding Universe isn't coasting to a stop from the Big Bang, but somehow speeding up.  Dark Energy and Dark Matter are popular explanations for accelerated expansion; Dark Energy is a pushy anti-gravity and Dark Matter accounts for missing mass in acceleration calculations.

All this depends on accurate measurements of the direction and speed of distant galaxies.  It also depends on an assumption that everything in the Universe is moving in a more-or-less even fashion, including us.

Christos Tsagas, a cosmologist at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki in Greece, proposes an elegant alternate theory dubbed 'Dark Flow.'   What if our local bit of the Universe was moving rapidly in a somewhat different direction from most of the rest of the Universe?  Taking into account a different vector of Earth and a 'bubble' of local galaxies, his calculations show the Universe is obeying gravity.  Dark Matter and Dark Energy would no longer be needed.  Accelerated expansion is an illusion of our own atypical motion.

Mr. Tsagas theory is not being met with open arms, but also not with total dismissal.  However, my question is this - just what is sucking us away from the rest of the Universe?

Scared?

Beats For Pain?

You'd think I'd have heard of a phenomena 180 years old, but here I am, learning.  Thanks, Harmoni 8)

The phenomenon I'm writing about is binaural beats.  We're all familiar with two slightly different musical notes creating a 'beat' which is caused by the two tones interfering with each other.  A fellow named Heinrich Dove first discovered the patterns, but it was simply a curiousity until some other fellow named Gerald Oster worked out that there seemed to be promise of medical use in binaural beats.

What Oster saw was possible correlation with an ability to detect these sounds and physical conditions.  He found certain beats couldn't be detected by subjects with Parkinson's Disease, and women subject's ability to detect certain beats varied with their menstrual cycle.  While many other diagnostic and therapeutic uses were investigated, binaural beats haven't entered mainstream medicine.  However, there are many (mostly undocumented) claims now of more useful effects.

As the brain works to percieve two slightly different low-frequency tones, a binaural beat is also detected.  With extended exposure, the brain begins to synchronize with this beat, actually altering the signals detected by EEGs.  This is called brain wave entrainment.  We already know meditation can alter brain waves, which can lead to health benefits.  Brain wave entrainment can target specific brain wave patterns, such as Theta or Alpha waves, producing specific results such as relaxation or alertness.  Another claim is that binaural beats can activate regions of the brain controlling the release of pain control hormones like beta-endorphine and dopamine. 

We are going to try this at home.  I bought some tracks from Amazon with pain control claims and my Wife will see how this works on her chronic back pain.  If you want to know more, this Wikipedia article is a good start.  If you already know more, I invite you to share what you can in comments below.

Confusion Rules

Sometimes the spin must be such a rush that the media and government just do it for fun.  For instance:

The United States of Our America has been working for decades to bring some peace to Israel's neighborhood.  In particular, we've spent a lot of time, words, and money to get Palestine and Israel to come to some agreement over a Palestinian state.  At the same time we have fumbled, if not outright torpedoed, positive results in the same arena.

Now Palestine, not Hamas or other terrorist group, goes before the UN seeking official statehood so they can determine their own fate.  What are we doing?  Spinning so fast sparks are flying.  Block them, back them, veto, or negotiate.  It's enough to make us dizzy.

Two young men accompany a young woman on a journey to experience family roots in Iraq.  While hiking near the border between Iraq and Iran, they ran into Iranian 'border forces' and were taken captive.  This happened over 2 years ago.  Since then the story of their kidnap by an enemy of America has spun 180 degrees.

When the three were first captured, neutral representatives delivered their story of following a trail on the Iraq side of the border and being kidnapped at gunpoint.  A few months later the story changed; the three young Americans 'weren't sure' where the border was.  A year in prison, and the media begins to spout something else; the three inadvertently crossed the border.  Almost immediately, in a 'humanitarian' move, Iran accepted a $5 MILLION dollar bail to free the woman while awaiting trial.  This week the two young men were released after conviction for $1 MILLION dollars each.  When poor Somali punks do this, it's called piracy; when it happens here we call it kidnapping.  When Iran does it, the media calls it humanitarian.

Dizzy, I tell ya.