tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74670993648869786932024-02-19T09:00:34.822-06:00Cold BroodWelcome to Cold Brood, a blog devoted to covering a hodgepodge of issues ranging from sports to literature to politics to worldviews. Nothing is off-limits or off-topic. Everything on-tap!Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-86263133249885264302020-10-29T16:22:00.003-05:002020-10-29T16:22:49.772-05:00Free Halloween story <p>Please enjoy a free story in the Halloween spirit. This exists within the Snow Globe universe, so readers of those books may recognize some lore and locales. Happy Halloween!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Stories Within Walls<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Aaron Gudmunson<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">From
the road, the house resembled a brick of melty mint ice cream, tilted and
wobbly. A wasp nest hung beneath the eave like a tumor, the only sign of life
about the place and even its inhabitants had died with the summer. Most of the
windows had been broken out years ago, victims of kids hurling gravel from the
edge of the lawn—none dared creep closer.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lWMOZwIKfE6o9d3Cd9sHL29fNlVfa3SE8UwZ08slkZ1Es7joZNWR1qKlwkCIOWIb2csVlycAwWLXAlLN-0pn7pdo4Mr7fNfm1aQLbud5L-H2DXcnsxCquJtZh-1Gzm5F2pgU2lQe14M/s957/stories2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="957" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lWMOZwIKfE6o9d3Cd9sHL29fNlVfa3SE8UwZ08slkZ1Es7joZNWR1qKlwkCIOWIb2csVlycAwWLXAlLN-0pn7pdo4Mr7fNfm1aQLbud5L-H2DXcnsxCquJtZh-1Gzm5F2pgU2lQe14M/s320/stories2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hilly Mascal had been one of those kids. He'd heard
the legend of the old place practically from birth; anyone who'd grown up within
thirty miles of Ashford had. The house had been the site of the Kern murders.
Allegedly, Mrs. Ida Kern had woken up one Halloween night after taking her kids
trick-or-treating, stepped into the kitchen, found the butcher knife her family
had used to carve pumpkins that day still drying in the dish rack, and had gone
room to room stabbing her family while a late autumn thunderstorm thrashed
outside. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rumor had it (based on a supposed
police report that leaked and had since woven its way into the Kern legend),
Ida slashed her husband's throat so viciously he'd been nearly decapitated. She'd
gone next to her daughter's room before visiting the twins on the ground floor.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When
she'd finished, she repeatedly asked her kids who among them wanted to help her
carve one last pumpkin? But when Ida received no reply from her slaughtered
family, she purportedly sat on her front porch and carved the final pumpkin
alone using the murder weapon before stalking through the storm to the police
station downtown. She'd brought the knife and bloody jack-o-lantern with her
and seemed more upset that her family refused to answer her than about the
atrocity she'd committed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was that final image that had
always struck Hilly hardest: a blood-spattered woman in a bathrobe and
slippers, hair wrapped in yellow curlers, trudging up Church Street, gripping a
knife in one hand and a sputtering jack-o-lantern in the other. Thinking of it
forced a shudder through him and he almost turned his Schwinn around and
pedaled home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Almost. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The train tracks ran a hundred feet
from the back door. They were rusted and long disused, at least by locomotives;
kids often walked the rotted ties from Ashford to Murdoch, a more direct route
than biking out on Red Pointe Road. Of course, biking was half the fun of
Indian Summer, but if it meant shaving off half an hour getting to Arch's
Market to buy bottle caps and baseball cards, the sacrifice was well worth it—at
least that's what they told each other. The real reason was that almost
everyone in town understood Red Pointe to be a haunted road. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
Kern house had become the usual starting point since it stood removed from the
rest of town as if quarantined and thus served well at bike hiding (sometimes
as necessary an activity as bike <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">riding</i>).
The place had been abandoned since the murders and the county seemed content to
let it rot over spending valuable funds to raze it. Or perhaps they hadn't been
able to find a contractor with guts enough to come tear it down.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
walked his Schwinn into the weeds flanking the tracks and scouted around. Sure
enough, half a dozen bikes lay like dead fish on a riverbank, baseball cards
clipped to the sprockets with splintery clothespins. He recognized Jason Bandy's
BMX Raptor, which meant the others belonged to his gang of goons. Jason held
the two-time title of master bully of Ashford Middle School. He was also the
starting quarterback for the junior high team, which made him the most popular
kid in school. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You
can't spell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">starter</i> without <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">star</i>," he often bragged. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And
truth be told, he was probably right. It simply wasn't fair. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
made up his mind to head back to town—being in the vicinity of the place on
Halloween seemed catastrophically stupid even in broad daylight, and besides he
wanted to grab a Coke at Buddy's Pump & Go, where his brother worked. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
gave it one last look, thinking, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I'll
come back, you mean old biddy</i>—and then stopped. Something occurred to him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When
kids left their bikes on the tracks, they didn't bother to lock them up. The
ragweed grew tall enough to hide them from the road, so no one worried about a
would-be thief ambling along. Hilly felt a smile split his face as if pulled by
puppet strings. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
unwound his bike chain from the seat tube of his Schwinn. He had an extra chain
at home—an assortment of them, really, lying in a coiled heap in one corner of
the garage like nesting asps—and wouldn't miss this one. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
dropped his bike into the overgrown lawn and hurried to the tracks to wheel Jason
Bandy's Raptor a few yards away to a spot where the iron rail had pulled up
from the gravel bed. Working quickly, he chained the Raptor down, snapped the
lock together, and spun the digits in all directions. That would slow down Mr. Star
Quarterback faster than a linebacker blitz. He jogged back to his bike and
slung a leg over the crossbar. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A
sudden clamor arose and Hilly spun toward the house. All too easily he imagined
Ida Kern stepping out, butcher knife clamped in one gnarled fist, mousy hair twisted
up in curlers, bathrobe hanging open to expose a blood-spattered pink nightgown
and matching slippers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Instead
he saw Jason Bandy and his hoodlums bolting helter skelter out the door. Apparently,
Arch's candy aisle had been forsaken today. They launched like great apes into
the sawgrass. Never had Hilly seen this bunch of tough guys look so panicked.
They didn't even seem to notice their potential victim straddling his bike near
the edge of the lawn. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Go-go-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">go</i>!" Jason screamed. Witnessing
their terror jumpstarted Hilly; in an instant he was standing on the pedals and
pumping hell and gone up Church Street. Distantly, he heard the others grabbing
up their bikes and joining the exodus. All except Jason Bandy, he of the
incapacitated Raptor. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
wasn't until Hilly reached the corner of Jackson that he heard Ashford Middle
School's star quarterback begin to shriek. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">#<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
didn't stop until he reached Buddy's Pump & Go. Jake's battered Plymouth
dozed in a back parking slot. He had no idea what exactly had happened at the
Kern place moments ago, but seeing his big brother was all he wanted to do
right now. And that said a lot. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jake sat on a stool behind the
counter, smoking and skimming the current issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Penthouse</i>. Buddy Fredette allowed neither on company time, but
Buddy happily left his managers in charge while he vacationed in Maui from Labor
Day through Easter. The job paid next to nothing, Jake informed anyone who
would listen, but the perks more than made up for it. Anyway, he might as well
get used to it; it was probably the best work he was going to find after
dropping out of school last year. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well, well. Look what the puss
dragged in," Jake commented. Then, noting his kid brother's pallor,
stubbed out his smoke and said, "Jesus, kid, what's the matter? Someone
kick your ass again?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I was down by the Kern place
and—"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Didn't I tell you to stay away
from there?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"—some kids came running out
scared to pieces."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"They probably saw a raccoon.
Those mamas will do anything to protect their pups."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I think it was Ida Kern,"
Hilly whispered. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jake laughed. "Dude, you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> stupid. Ida Kern went up to the
nuthatch, like, forty years ago. If she's still alive, she'd be pushing seventy
now."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hilly swallowed and whispered, "Maybe
it was her ghost."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Man.
Who would've thought the kid brother of Jacob Allan Mascal would be such a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">moron</i>?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hilly opened his mouth to explain
the prank he'd pulled—and its aftermath, whatever that was; he still wasn't
sure whether Jason had screamed in frustration because of how he'd found his
bike or for another reason—but stopped himself. He'd gone unseen, so no one
could pin the deed on him. For now, he'd keep it to himself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I'm serious, Jake."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jake licked his teeth. "Tell
you what. After work, you and me'll go take a look. More'n likely we'll just
find that raccoon and her pups. I'll bring my .22 just in case."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A gun wouldn't make a damn bit of
difference against a ghost, Hilly thought, but didn't say. His brother remained
steadfastly convinced he and his peashooter could take out the entire Russian Army
if called upon to do so. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It'll be dark by then,"
Hilly said. No one went to the Kern house on Halloween after nightfall. Not
anyone with any sense, anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Just
be here at six." He picked up a bottle wrapped in a paper sack from
beneath the counter and sipped before returning to his literature. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Gimme
some of that," Hilly said. A little nip of whatever it was would probably
be enough to settle his nerves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You
don't get to taste of the good stuff till you've earned it. Now get out of here
before I call the cops and report a shoplifter."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
helped himself to a Coke and pushed out into the late afternoon light. He rode
to the park at the center of town, brisk wind knuckling his jacket. The park was
a square of grass with swings, a merry-go-round that had probably resulted in as many child deaths as Ida Kern, and a single sorrowful basketball hoop,
silent as a cemetery. It sported a splintery bench at the far end. Hilly did
his best thinking there. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QhIU476f10eANK9MYBAhz2z66hB0obZxTNzIYx2Mnl_inD535G0juQStJvUiedmTwJR4NSXa6t9klUCoFX6XWsDYmG64kjf6NRxBO6qg-dhTNLE9Zh9f8fdxefs0EUuWGdz07ZWAMVA/s960/stories4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="960" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QhIU476f10eANK9MYBAhz2z66hB0obZxTNzIYx2Mnl_inD535G0juQStJvUiedmTwJR4NSXa6t9klUCoFX6XWsDYmG64kjf6NRxBO6qg-dhTNLE9Zh9f8fdxefs0EUuWGdz07ZWAMVA/w400-h265/stories4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
dropped his bike and plunked down, cracked his soda, and swigged, wishing he
had a paper bag to put it in to look cool. A sparrow regarded him from the
crossbar of the swing set with black BB eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">What
had happened to Jason? What had he and his goons seen that had made them flee
in terror? Had it really been only a raccoon, or had it been something else? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Someone</i> else? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Maybe
Hilly ought to go back to the Kern house and see if Jason Bandy had freed his
bike or whether he'd given up the ghost, as the saying went. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
finished his Coke and flipped the bottle into the steel trash bin then climbed
onto his bike. He rerouted to approach from the back. Fifty yards out (he could
just see the slanted roof stripped of most of its shingles and one leaning
wall, its windows dark and webbed over), Jason's bike came into view, still anchored
to the track. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
back door stood ajar. The boys had not bothered to close it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
made for home, shadows deepening around him like the collapsing walls of a
canyon. He arrived in time for supper, but found he had no appetite. What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> happened to Jason? It was maddening,
not knowing. He fidgeted at the kitchen table. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Something
on your mind, hon?" his mother asked, sliding a plate of spaghetti before
him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Just
school stuff."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Math
still giving you trouble?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"A
little."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Well,
Jacob should be home soon. He can look it over with you."<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Never mind the only math Jake
ever had success at was counting empty beer cans. Hilly stared at the damp sprinkle
of parmesan on Ragu. The clock stood at ten past five. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">His
mom wound noodles onto her fork while studying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear Abby</i> in the paper, one wrist tucked beneath her chin. Hilly
had to abruptly fight hard not to cry. She looked beautiful like that. He
wondered if Ida Kern's children had ever looked at their mother in such a way.
What could cause a mother to butcher her family? Children she had borne from
her own body and a husband she had vowed to honor and cherish? Hilly pushed
back his chair, came around the table, and kissed his mother's cheek. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"My
goodness, Hilliard, where did that come from?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Nowhere.
Everywhere. I guess I just wanted you to know I love you."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Why,
I love you too," she said, beaming. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
tried to smile too, but it felt as wobbly as the Kern house looked. He bolted out
the front door, barely hearing his mother call after him. He dragged his
Schwinn upright and pedaled for town. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A
gaggle of boys huddled in the park. It took only a moment to register they were
Jason Bandy's posse. Was Jason among them? It was hard to tell in the dusk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Hey,
Mascal, come here a minute," one of them called.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I
have to be somewhere."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Seriously,
dude. We got to ask you something," another hollered. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
knew he should keep going, but turned a wide circle into the park, pulling up
short of the gang. Treachery often exposed itself too late for escape. It had
happened to him at the hands of these kids more than once. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"What
do you want?" he asked, preparing to be blitzed any second. But these guys
weren't on the attack today. If anything, they looked like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they'd</i> been attacked. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You
seen Jay?" Greg Jessup, the football team's left guard, asked. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly's
mouth dried. "In science class yesterday. Why?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Not
since then?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
made a movement with his head that he hoped appeared as negation. "Is
something wrong?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
boys glanced around, unsure whether to divulge information to one so low as
Hilliard Mascal, a studious runt with the weirdo name who had no chance at
playing a team sport with any measure of success. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Derek
Francisco stepped forward. He played center for the Armadillos and as such was
tasked with snapping the ball to Jason Bandy. They were best friends. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"We
were all out to the Kern house today," he said quietly, as if that single
declarative explained everything. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
managed to keep his face neutral, he hoped. "You go in?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
boys traded another round of glances. Finally Derek nodded. His eyes shined
with some emotion Hilly couldn't translate. Fear, perhaps, or sorrow. Maybe
both. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"What
did you see?" Hilly asked breathlessly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Derek
opened his mouth, but Greg slugged his shoulder. Derek blinked. "Nothing,
kid. We just wanted to know if you'd seen Bandy. Get on out of here now before
we steal your bike or something."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
expected one of the others to make a crack about no one wanting a piece of shit
Schwinn, but the boys only studied the ground. Hilly didn't have to be told
twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
was still too early to meet Jake, so he sailed around the town's older
neighborhoods studying the quiet houses, gussied up with ghosts, witches, and
pumpkins. Each of them had a story to tell, entire lives which had occurred
within their walls. What could one learn if those walls could speak? Would they
whisper of snowy school mornings and ninth birthday parties? Would they murmur
of piano lessons and burnt pork chops and stomach flus and late night monster movies?
Would the mirrors reflect glee and grief? Madness? Death?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbEU4PA6xIVrj4ZOQ_2ZwDkbXLzXyfhuXII_CFkgvhQKALx1Ked0BgFRAp0nhjZdRisHjqJLIKyOAkOOLtCKtvig_fzD0cE0DgSLyDjJA7gXu3Avdteb9lIJF_vP9NckuPd2nIgMJGhc/s960/stories3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="960" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbEU4PA6xIVrj4ZOQ_2ZwDkbXLzXyfhuXII_CFkgvhQKALx1Ked0BgFRAp0nhjZdRisHjqJLIKyOAkOOLtCKtvig_fzD0cE0DgSLyDjJA7gXu3Avdteb9lIJF_vP9NckuPd2nIgMJGhc/w400-h299/stories3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">What
stories would the walls of the Kern house tell? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
braked in front of a Cape Cod and stared up at the bay window hung with paper
cats and skeletons in top hats. Who lived there? He checked for a name on the
mailbox, but the decals had long-since peeled away. Likely he would never know
a single detail about what went on behind that front door. A sudden deep sorrow
rushed through him. The world was such a private place. No one knew a thing
about you unless you wanted them to. Or unless you did something so horrific it
warranted telling. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Where was Jason?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">
Safe at home, living the story being told within his walls? Or was he living (or
dying) an entirely different story within the walls of a broke-down house by
the tracks? The idea that Ida Kern's bloodthirsty ghost chased him to the place
where his BMX had lain on lockdown, only to drag him shrieking back inside her
mint green prison seemed as plausible as it did ridiculous. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As
the wind scattered leaves, the thought of revisiting the place tonight even
with Jake and his pistol seemed bloodcurdlingly horrific. Maybe he would ride
back home and ask his mother to reheat his spaghetti. Then maybe he'd put on a
costume and troll the neighborhood looking for kids to scare out of their
goodies. He was too old to trick or treat, but not too old for candy. Screw the
Kern house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But
Hilly couldn't say screw Jason Bandy. He wouldn't sleep a wink until he knew
the bully was safe. He turned onto Arapahoe Lane and sped to Buddy's. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Through
the window, Jake was handing the keys to the next clerk on duty. He noticed his
younger brother looking in and gave him the finger. Hilly tried to calm his
pulse until the door jangled open. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Ready,
ding-dong?" Jake asked, striding for his battered Plymouth. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"What
about my bike?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Lock
it to the wall. Not that anyone would steal that deathtrap."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
thought he could truthfully say the same thing about his brother's car, which
he kept locked at all times, even at church. Instead he said, "You
kidding? It's Halloween. Someone'll take it and throw it in the lake. Besides, I
don't have a chain."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Well,
toss it in the trunk and get in. I want to shoot me a raccoon." <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When
they'd hit the road, Jake popped the glove box, pulled out his .22, and dropped
it in Hilly's lap. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Load
that sucker."<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Why?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"No
good without bullets."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
found a small box beneath a creased state map and a box of condoms. The gold
casings with their lead heads lined up in neat little rows of impending death. Guns
didn't kill people; bullets did. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">One
by one he inserted them into the magazine which Jake had likely fired empty
shooting at beer cans at the abandoned Jankowski farm out on Red Pointe Road, a
teen hotspot. Legend had it something as bad as what happened at the Kern house
had taken place on the property way back around the turn of the century, but no
one seemed to know exactly what. As far as Hilly was concerned, he never needed
to know. Having one murder house in town was enough. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Jake
jabbed the car into PARK after skidding onto the Kern lawn. Hilly relinquished
the firearm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Let's
have a little peek, shall we?" Jake asked, sauntering up to the back door
and kicking it open like he'd lived there all his life. Something about that
seemed strange to Hilly and it took a moment to place what it was. By the time
it came to him, his brother was already inside. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Jake,
wait!" Hilly screamed. The last time he'd come out here, the door had been
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">open</i>. "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jake</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">come back</i>!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There
was no answer other than the whispering of the wind through the leaves. Hilly
stood a moment in frozen indecision. He needed to pee. Finally rushed to the
door, stopping short of crossing the threshold. The jamb had splintered when
his brother kicked the door in and long, jagged spikes of wood hung askew.
Hilly selected the longest and stepped into the house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
kitchen wore laces of cobwebs along the countertops and in the corners. One
cabinet door hung ajar on a broken hinge and a single ancient can of Carnation
condensed milk peeked out. Jake's footprints on the dusty linoleum could not
easily be picked out because Jason's crew had tromped through it already. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Jake?"
Hilly called. No response. A sound issued from someplace deeper in the house, a
sort of shuffle-step across shag carpet. That would be Jake looking for a place
to hide, waiting to jump out as a little Halloween prank on his kid brother. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
looked over his shoulder at the overgrown lawn. The sawgrass bent in the wind
as if in worship of the house. Two blocks over, the sound of kids shrieking
"<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trick or treat, smell my feet, give
me something good to eat</i>!" rode the wind. He had half a mind to return
to get his bike and leave Jake here to shoot the stupid raccoon on his own. If
Ida Kern showed up, well, the jerk deserved it. Except the bike was in the
trunk and Jake had locked the car like always, so there would be no popping it.
From his place, Hilly could just make out the handlebars of Jason's Raptor lying
like a skeleton on the tracks. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Jake,
this is stupid," Hilly called. His hand stung and when he glanced down, he
realized he'd been gripping the sliver of door jamb hard enough to break the
skin. "I'm outta here."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hilly
turned and jumped down the four steps to the grass below, pitching the wood
into the yard. He took slow steps, giving his brother time to catch up, but
when Jake did not appear, he ran the rest of the way home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">#<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
listened for Jake's car to come squealing into the driveway. Most evenings,
Jake would cruise out to the Jankowski farm to see what kind of trouble he
could cook up. Halloween would be a guaranteed visit—the place would be loaded
with thrill-seeking teens hoping to catch a glimpse of some long-forgotten
ghosts and scaring themselves stupid in the process. People found the farm a
more appealing place for Halloween mischief than Ashford's other spook house; the
Kern place repelled troublemakers the way rubber repels rain. No one wanted to
get close to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> more recent, more
tangible history. Every so often, some idiot would stand on Church Street and stare
through the windows, but no one ever got closer than the sidewalk once full dark
fell on October's final day (although he'd heard rumors John Carpenter had
found at least some inspiration in the Kern story for his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween </i>film franchise). No one except him and senseless,
fearless Jake and he'd only gone in because he thought a gun made him
invincible. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So Hilly told himself there was
nothing to worry about when the battered Plymouth remained absent at eleven
o'clock. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He probably went home
with a girl</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">, Hilly thought, hoping the thought
would cheer him up, maybe even make him chuckle like an old lecher. It did
neither. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">By
11:30, Hilly knew he had to return to the Kern house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">#<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Seeing
the Plymouth absent from the Kern's side yard settled his mind. Jake had likely
gotten bored with hiding and headed out to the Jankowski place. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hilly took a few steps onto the
weed-choked lawn. The Plymouth's treads stood out plain in the moonlight. It
looked like Jake had peeled out fast. Hilly would catch hell for ditching him.
It would probably be the beating of a lifetime. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
back door stood open. Inviting. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Welcoming</i>.
Thunder mumbled distantly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jake might go easier on him if he
brought something home, some proof he'd gone back to the Kern house. On
Halloween night, no less. What could he take, though? What would be proof
enough?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The can of condensed milk, of course.
It was right there in the kitchen cabinet: ten paces in, ten paces out. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am,
as Jake often liked to say. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hilly took the steps two at a time
without a second thought. He could see the outline of the ancient tin in the
moonlight. The leaves made dappled patterns on the open door and the wind
shushed through the sawgrass. In an instant he yanked the can out of the cabinet
with the sticky kiss of a cobweb on the back of his hand, and spun toward the
door. The first flash of lightning flickered through the window.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then the door slammed and Ida Kern
stood behind it, dressed in curlers and a bath robe. The flesh of her face
appeared stretched over her skull and her lips looked like strips of raw liver
peeled back over teeth as crooked and eroded as Old West tombstones. Eyes the
size of ping pong balls bulged from blackened sockets. She gripped a butcher
knife in one knotted fist and cradled a pumpkin in the other. Hilly tried to
scream, but found his lungs on lockdown.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Care to help me carve, son?"
Mrs. Kern rasped, raising the knife, ready to write a new horror story within
the walls of her wobbly green house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFI6aqjZPCWk0C9GqgFctZ9aZ1S5twV-Spv72MLmyPA26mWROdDKXDwHkAkZxgVKXZPoT46XWaDbcNj8iNNDXCeOkkw8M69LN9XYlBE-lIXoZSCCr5PZUk1hZMWIVCrEYAvA8FYXe0pzs/s596/Stories5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="401" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFI6aqjZPCWk0C9GqgFctZ9aZ1S5twV-Spv72MLmyPA26mWROdDKXDwHkAkZxgVKXZPoT46XWaDbcNj8iNNDXCeOkkw8M69LN9XYlBE-lIXoZSCCr5PZUk1hZMWIVCrEYAvA8FYXe0pzs/w269-h400/Stories5.JPG" width="269" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The End<o:p></o:p></span></p>Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-41114164126700031022020-10-22T18:12:00.003-05:002020-10-22T18:13:21.757-05:00Election Day<p> I wrote this bit of flash fiction in the summer of 2012 for an open call for science fiction stories about the upcoming American general election. I missed the deadline, though, and never found another suitable market for it. I rediscovered it today and find it oddly analogous to this election cycle. In any case, I hope you enjoy and I would love to hear your comments about it or anything regarding the upcoming general election. </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">Election
Day</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">By
Aaron Gudmunson<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The curtain drops
behind me and I snap on the latex gloves. Carefully, I wipe the corner where I'd
picked the ballot up and place it on the podium. A trickle of sweat inches out
of my hair and down my neck like an earthworm. The old-fashioned ballpoint pen
clutched in my fist is a weapon, its tip dripping venom. It's a throwback to
elections of yore, when the world was a simpler place, meant to tie modern life
to traditionalism, but it does nothing to settle my nerves. If I don't vote
soon, my resolve could sway. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
should be no big deal. Pick a candidate who speaks to me and mark an X by the
name. Democracy at work. But there is more to it. Isn't there always? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
feel my eyes scan the ballot as though they are cameras, detached. The names
leap out in stark boldface font. Pick one. That's it. A flourish of the pen,
two swift slashes of ink and it's done. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Association candidate is driven, tall, genial, and claims allegiance to a
higher power. The underdog. The Gray. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiFs5TO1UgXWN6ohyu3vELNwG39oM1R8kpljJ28DgKGhg6olBNi6_pikfwVSKCaEztIpFEyXvsV7kJY9Hsj4frCXLFdmhhPerkx3MROzu370RqWGvHoHSmRNsYpaxcRSBGB0ft8Nray8/s720/alien.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="479" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiFs5TO1UgXWN6ohyu3vELNwG39oM1R8kpljJ28DgKGhg6olBNi6_pikfwVSKCaEztIpFEyXvsV7kJY9Hsj4frCXLFdmhhPerkx3MROzu370RqWGvHoHSmRNsYpaxcRSBGB0ft8Nray8/s320/alien.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> The
Union candidate is rotund, tidy, and flaunts his patriotism. The Old Guard. The
human.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
eyes, working independently, flick from one name to the next. My pen hand
wavers. I check over my shoulder to ensure no one can spy on me and feel relief
in the confirmation that the curtain hangs full-length behind me – no gaps. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I know how I want
to vote and I know how I should vote, the two odds with one another. Cat vs.
mouse. Dog vs. cat. Man vs. dog. God vs. man. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The eyes skim and
scan, over and over. Too much time spent in here will look suspicious, and they
observe everything. I must make my move. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Someone coughs in
the adjacent booth and I hear the scratch of pen on paper. I listen, setting my
ear against the curtain, but all I hear is the murmur of volunteers explaining
the process to new voters. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I check my watch,
alarmed to see five minutes have elapsed. Too long. They will grow suspicious
if I don't exit soon. Suspicion can be a dangerous trait in the New
Interstellar Union. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Against my
judgment, I twitch aside the curtain and peer out. People and grays mill about,
speaking in whispers as if attending a funeral. No visible threat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Gripping the pen
like a knife, I slash at the name of the candidate I think will bring about the
change so necessary for our continued survival. Then I just stare at what I've
done. Oh God. What I've done.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I ignore a sudden
vicious impulse to tear the ballot to shreds and request a new one. Then they
would know. One look at my pale, sweaty face and they would know my vote. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">With the paper
folded along the dotted lines, per the instructions printed on the reverse, I
move toward the curtain. Before drawing it, I take a moment to compose myself. I
remove the gloves and stuff them in a pocket, gripping the ballot along the
edges. I pat my hair in place and arm sweat from my cheeks. I wish I had a
mirror to consult, but too much time has elapsed anyway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Mustering my
courage, I pull the curtain and toss a glance over my shoulder to ensure I'd
not forgotten anything. That's when I see the eye, peering through a nearly
invisible tear in the fabric of the booth. Its iris is green flecked with spots
of red, the pupil black as the darkest nightmare. It looks innocuous, curious
even. It is without accusation, but it is there. It stares at me, memorizing my
features, marking my guilt. Then it disappears. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I have no choice. I
must submit my ballot. Maybe the eye hadn't seen my vote. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Rushing toward the
intake machine, I almost trip over a carelessly-placed shred bin and consider
tossing the ballot into it. Too late. The Ballot Master, a human, has seen me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Your ballot,
sir?” he asks, holding out a pale hand. He grins, his smile opening like a
surgery scar. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Can I put it in?”
I ask, not wishing to relinquish it even for an instant.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Be my guest, sir,”
he says.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I insert the
ballot into the machine, which draws it inward hungrily. Once it's gone, my
fate is sealed. Either democracy still rules the day or they will come for me
tonight. Either way, I'll be ready for the results.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I offer the
ballpoint to the Ballot Master, but he shakes his head. “Keep it.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0qKeLHe6r32tTrl0TpArn6mjyiq-Jeqkured7Ti5BoRcT0qh9qw4148accuc-981L-qt8uDmSbMGTMt2FCcN_mcOJ21MYhyphenhyphenFQU7KzjCK7e4XllrsxD6-_gTou4sY4Eax1Jmg1TVZc8gw/s960/alien3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0qKeLHe6r32tTrl0TpArn6mjyiq-Jeqkured7Ti5BoRcT0qh9qw4148accuc-981L-qt8uDmSbMGTMt2FCcN_mcOJ21MYhyphenhyphenFQU7KzjCK7e4XllrsxD6-_gTou4sY4Eax1Jmg1TVZc8gw/s320/alien3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Tucking it into my
pocket, I thank him and catch the first taxi I see. It whisks me skyward toward
112</span><sup style="text-indent: 0.5in;">th</sup><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Street, where my apartment awaits. On the way, I pop the
window and toss the pen onto the roof of Feed Factory #4. Those pens are
equipped with a tracking system. Some of them may even contain explosive
devices that can be triggered from a secret control room. I'm not stupid.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">At home I tri-lock
my door and bunker down. I keep the pan-vision tuned to election results. My
candidate is winning by a slim margin. After six hours, no one has broken down
my door. I relax. At some point, I doze.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">When I wake, the
election results are complete. My candidate won by 1221 votes, thereby securing
the popular vote (which, as you know, replaced the antiquated Electoral College
preceding the general election of 2064). The human opponent, of course, has
officially demanded a recall. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I laugh at myself.
All my foolish paranoia about democracy's decline. These past few years of
living under what I presumed was a neo-Fascist regime, all bunk. I'm extremely
pleased and looking forward to years of positive change. Maybe we can turn
things around for ourselves. Maybe there's still hope.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I'm just about to
turn off the election results when a breaking news bulletin cuts in. Feed
Factory #4 has just exploded, cause unknown. Everyone inside has been killed,
no survivors. I put a hand to my mouth and watch, tears blurring my vision, and
just then something kicks at my door. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6OnF8LJCdBxhnpPwpYxlb1mni5Ptfm8UbS3sbloNwgRx7espQWXJKucmThgf41x6M_J4qTc4D_704vq8ht4Uxyy13hLRNDqwM3T9H79lXqYntY6R3j_ldiMr931cGuGwiWtCw1Zj4E5c/s844/alien4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="844" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6OnF8LJCdBxhnpPwpYxlb1mni5Ptfm8UbS3sbloNwgRx7espQWXJKucmThgf41x6M_J4qTc4D_704vq8ht4Uxyy13hLRNDqwM3T9H79lXqYntY6R3j_ldiMr931cGuGwiWtCw1Zj4E5c/w400-h266/alien4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">The
End<o:p></o:p></p>Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-9674988018705860282019-12-23T17:27:00.000-06:002019-12-23T17:49:22.415-06:00Christmas Wishes from a Special Guest Blogger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZh9XpEbpGT77pZGeVc4TZYKsWG5j5T4O_UxCLMuzPc-mS-k7EICFtiOyg7cdhIjDt3qNltVzDwrwGkUyON_qHMo3bp3LMC0hIlAZ3-LY3TpRejq7ww8L7okAzDrLFtSnkhqVrDZfLQ9U/s1600/earth-christmas-ornament-peace-earth-footage-090365656_prevstill.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZh9XpEbpGT77pZGeVc4TZYKsWG5j5T4O_UxCLMuzPc-mS-k7EICFtiOyg7cdhIjDt3qNltVzDwrwGkUyON_qHMo3bp3LMC0hIlAZ3-LY3TpRejq7ww8L7okAzDrLFtSnkhqVrDZfLQ9U/s640/earth-christmas-ornament-peace-earth-footage-090365656_prevstill.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Today's post is by a special guest blogger, though this was written well before any blog existed. Before the internet existed. Heck, even before I existed, though I was on the way. Today's guest blogger is my mother, Lisa Jeanne. This piece was often included in outgoing Christmas cards to family and friends and though she has not been with us for nearly a decade, her words are as powerful as ever. Perhaps more so given these troubled times. They deserve to be shared with a wider audience this holiday season. So without further ado, please enjoy:<br />
<br />
______________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We wish for you what we wish for ourselves--a Christmastime of thoughtfulness and rest, of assessment and compassion. A time to look back on the year just passed and sort out wastefulness from growth. A time to plan a new year of work informed by respect for individual worth and love for one another. A Christmastime of realizing that time is all there is--and is not too late to change our lives. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We wish for all of us the courage to hold on to a vision of a world in which children are born wanted and loved with enough food and care and shelter to grow up whole. The vision of all people as perfectable and transcendent--free of social prisons of sex and race--and remarkable for the hopes and dreams and capabilities that exist in unique and unrepeatable combinations in each of us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This Christmastime it is too late to justify suffering with the promise of rewards in some other world. Too late for nationalism, for racism, for violence, or for the belief that one can win only if another has truly lost. Too late even for brotherhood of man because it has excluded the sisterhood of woman, and therefore the humanity in us all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At last we begin. We look into the god in each of us and say YES. We celebrate the world outside us. We say peace on Earth, good will to people. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Melissa Jeanne, 1966</span></div>
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Merry Christmas to those who celebrate the season, and a Happy New Year to all.Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-21903151396954172582019-12-22T12:18:00.000-06:002019-12-22T17:54:39.673-06:00How to Tell Your Kids the Truth About the Santa Claus Myth<br />
A few months ago, I posted a belated <a href="https://coldbrood.blogspot.com/2019/10/eulogy-year-removed.html#comments" target="_blank">eulogy</a> to my friend Rob who passed away unexpectedly in October 2018. It dealt with immortality and its many forms. Today I would like to revisit the subject with an important topic most parents who celebrate a secular Christmas must deal with at some point or another.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">For
years I agonized about how I would explain the Santa Claus myth to my children
once they got too old to believe (although are any of us really too old to
believe in the everlasting symbol and spirit of Christmas?). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">As
a child, after hearing kids at school claim there was no Santa Claus, I had to
know for sure and I asked my mother to give it to me straight. She sat me down
and explained the truth. I felt cheated. I felt like one of the happiest parts
of my life had been a lie and that I had been deliberately deceived by those I
trusted most. I vowed that if I ever had children, I would not lie to them the
way I had been lied to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">But
then kids happened. My older was born a few days before Christmas, so I had at least
a full year to figure out what to do about the St. Nick myth. Because that guy
is everywhere during the holidays. In songs, on television, peeking cryptically
from the covers of books and magazines, winking from greeting cards, his droll
little mouth drawn up like a bow everywhere you looked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So
that presented a dilemma. I could refuse to perpetuate the myth, but that would
merely cause confusion when every other source of incoming information says
that Santa Claus does, in fact, exist. Even the editor of the (now defunct) New
York Sun once insisted to a little girl that "Yes, Virginia, There is a
Santa Claus." And Santa symbolizes so much cheer and goodwill, wouldn't it
be cruel to deny my kids a decade of magic and merriment in imagining the right
jolly old elf visited once a year, courtesy of a team of flying reindeer, to
bring them toys and treats? I've seen Miracle on 34<sup>th</sup>
Street and always thought the mother character so cold in denying her
daughter the joy of Santa Claus (well, the joke was on her, am I right?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So
we went with it. We perpetuated the myth, all the while dreading the day I
would be asked to elucidate on exactly how one man can traverse an entire planet
in a single night with enough room on his sleigh for toys for every single
child. Or how he could live for so long, being the benevolent bearer of gifts
for generation after generation of kids from one to ninety-two. For a while, as they grew older and more dubious,
certain sources would act as a salve to their doubt. The Polar Express deals
with doubt and belief in a beautiful fashion. The various Rankin/Bass
stop-motion specials provided Kris Kringle <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Claus_Is_Comin%27_to_Town_(film)" target="_blank">origin stories</a> and explanations and
affirmations and perfectly perpetuated the myth for years. The aforementioned
Miracle on 34<sup>th</sup> Street, which proved, irrefutably, in a courtroom,
that Santa Claus exists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Then,
one day, it happened. My older came home from school and reported a teacher who said
that Santa Claus didn't exist and that anyone who still believed in him was too
old for such. Okay, real quick: If you're not the child's parent YOU DO NOT GET
TO DECIDE WHEN OR HOW THEY LEARN ABOUT SANTA CLAUS. I cannot stress this
enough. You <i>do not</i> get to do that. Go have your own children and tell it to them,
but leave mine out of it especially when it's none of your damn business. They'll come to you when they're ready to know. Kids are smarter than they're often given credit for; trust their instincts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So
I sat her down and asked her what she knew about immortality. Being a Star Wars
fanatic, she cited blue force ghosts and Luke Skywalker sagely advising:
"No one's ever really gone." We talked about different forms of
immortality. I told her no one physically lives forever, not even Santa Claus,
but he's very much alive in other forms. Dozens of songs and poems keep his
spirit alive. Hundreds of programs and films. I played the man once in a 3rd grade play. I told her to just look around at
Christmastime: Santa is everywhere. She asked if he's not alive in body, then
who delivers all the presents on Christmas Eve? I explained that St. Nicholas
is based on a real <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Nicholas" target="_blank">person</a> who did deliver presents to children at one time and
that while he may no longer be alive, his legacy lives on. He's become bigger
than a living person could ever possibly be, not a myth, but a legend. Santa
Claus is the most recognized face on the planet. He has become an idea and an
ideal. He has been immortalized in song and story, and in that way can never
die. She still looked doubtful and said, "So you're Santa Claus
then?" This is the question I had been waiting for. I clinched it for her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I
said, "Anyone who knows the truth about Santa Claus <i>becomes</i> him. Yes, I
am Santa Claus. Your mother is Santa Claus. So are your grandparents, your
aunts and uncles. Everyone who has ever given gifts in his name <i>is</i> Santa
Claus. And now, with this knowledge, <i>you</i> are Santa Claus. He lives on through
you."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">That did the trick. All was well. She was satisfied. I'd done my job as a parent as honestly as I could and didn't cheat her (at least I hope; I'm sure some will attempt to correct me on that). I proved to her that Santa <i>does</i> exist, as sure as <i>she</i> exists. Or as her idol Luke Skywalker might have paraphrased: "A thousand generations of Santa live in you now."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">And then, as a kind of epilogue, and, admittedly, to not destroy all belief in one fell swoop, I told her--and this is 100% true, something I'll swear to with my dying breath, whether or not you choose to believe it--that shortly after I learned "the truth," I fell asleep on the couch one Christmas Eve and around midnight blinked awake to see Santa standing nearby, admiring our tree. He turned his head to me, touched a finger to his lips, smiled, and vanished. I'm sure it was nothing more than the fading remnants of a kid's last hope clinging to the myth he'd believed for nearly a decade. That has to be it. Right?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Right?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Merry Christmas to those who celebrate the holiday and best wishes for a Happy
New Year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-6738550849820331152019-10-09T17:07:00.000-05:002019-10-09T19:56:19.443-05:00Eulogy, A Year Removed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit David Scharenberg</span></div>
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A year ago today, a close friend of mine passed unexpectedly. We met in the late 90s through an acquaintance when the ragtag outfit of musicians I consider my first band badly needed a drummer. No one we tried out even came close to the personality or musician we sought.<br />
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The acquaintance told me, "Hey I know this complete animal who would fit right in. Better yet, he's a great person." He introduced us to Rob, who had come home on military leave, and he could not have been more right. Rob was both an animal of a drummer and a great person, who became a great friend. Who became a brother.<br />
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I could spin endless threads about the adventures we shared in the two decades plus that I knew him (half of that time playing in various rock outfits), but I won't. Not here. Ask my sometime face to face. That's where they belong, not in this cold web deadspace. I will tell you this, though:<br />
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In my memories, I can feel in all five senses. I can smell the tang of weed and ancient ashtrays of each backstage of every venue we played; I can hear the audience clamoring, a raucous, multi-headed creature, hungry to hear what they paid for, and their cheers and catcalls and croons of "Play 'Freebird,' dudes!" (Rob <i>hated</i> that); I can taste every beer we ever shared onstage or backstage and every greasy meal in every grimy road house or diner while touring; I can feel the ground-and-pound bass throbbing through subwoofers and the driving backbeat of the drums like rail spikes through your rib cage and the guitar screaming like a demon unleashed and the way the stage shook beneath our sneakers and the sweat and blood that baptized everything in the path of our thrashing.<br />
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And I can see Rob. Standing right there, stage left. Or seated behind his Pearl drumkit like an artillery captain locked and loaded. Like it was yesterday. Like time playing on a loop, that one drunk friend dropping in your favorite disc and hitting REPEAT for eternity.<br />
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But that's the thing, isn't it? They say time heals all wounds. So does music. Music is salvation. Music has the power to transform. It binds people together. It ignites and incites and invites. It unites. That's precisely what it did with Rob and anyone whoever shared music with him, whether onstage or off. Music makes memories.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit David Scharenherg</span></div>
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And that's the beauty of memory. Memory is a path to immortality. As long as someone is remembered, they're never truly gone. And unless I'm very wrong, stories about Rob will trickle down for generations.<br />
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Speaking of, Rob was a storyteller too. Ask anyone who knew him. He told some of the best goddamned stories I've ever heard. Fiction <i>and</i> factual. Real jaw-droppers. He could tell a ghost story that would slush your blood. His jokes could make you laugh until you popped an ab. And some of the most impulsive off-the-cuff things that came out of his mouth still make me double over if I think of them today (most of which I can't repeat here, but ask me about them sometime). I'll be standing in line at the supermarket and remember one of Rob's one-offs and you should see the stares I get when the laughter bubbles up.<br />
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There's probably not much else I can relate here that hasn't already been said about Rob by people better than me. I'll finish by saying Rob was inspiring. Charismatic. Charming. He would have risked bodily harm to defend his true friends (and did on more than one occasion). We may have drifted apart in later years, but the bond of <i>true</i> friendship remains. It always does once it forms, distance be damned. That goes behind friendship.<br />
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That's brotherhood.<br />
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Rest in peace, Rob.<br />
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You are missed. You are loved. You are my brother.<br />
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You are immortal.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit Samantha Schramer</span></div>
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<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-23496594829282195922019-03-07T19:16:00.001-06:002019-03-16T10:50:58.870-05:007 Steps to Completely Fix America<br />
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Hiya folks! I recently posted a snapshot of my <a href="https://coldbrood.blogspot.com/2019/03/the-only-certainty-in-life-is-death-so.html" target="_blank">views on death</a>, so I thought I'd take the time to tackle another unpleasant subject: the mess we call America! Never in the longer than four decades I've inhabited space in the U.S. have I seen it this divided. Now look, I'm not going to get political here. I'm not blaming anyone in particular, nor any group in particular. Too often that's the easy way out. The cheap way. Nope, not going to do it here.<br />
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That said, I've identified 7 steps to begin correcting what most see as uncorrectable. Now it's going to take some compromise, but that's what our republic is built on, right? Compromise. So without further ado, let's begin.<br />
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1. Cut Her Up. That's right. Divide this big busty nation right smack down the middle along a longitudinal line. Let's say, for our purposes, the meridian 100<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">°</span> west (+/- 10<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">°</span>). The reason we'll go vertical this time instead of horizontal (as we did last time the nation was divided in the midst of the Civil War, for those of you unburdened with the knowledge of history), is because we'll want everyone to be able to live happily in whichever climate they choose, be it tropic or tundra. Now, you'll have to be willing to relocate, but believe me it will be worth it. (Choosing not to relocate is acceptable, but you will be required to abide by the new laws of your location.)<br />
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2. Build The Wall. That's right. In this scenario, the President gets his wall. Except it won't be along our southern border. No, it will be right along the dividing line between East and West. It can even be a big, beautiful wall. Make it impregnable from both sides. Do you see where this is going?<br />
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3. Pick Your Side. One side of the wall will be reserved for so-called "red states" and the other for "blue states." It doesn't matter which side is for whom (we can flip a coin for all I care), but it would seem intuitive that the east would become blue states and the west would become red. Sure, California would have to be ceded to the reds and Dixieland to the blues, but bear with me. We're getting to the good part.<br />
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4. Alaska And Hawaii Are Neutral. For those who do not wish to participate in this new separation, they can choose to live in a tropical paradise or the chilly wilds, whichever better suits their climatological tastes. These territories will be wholly neutral to either red or blue status and political fighting shall not be tolerated here. Lebanon, Kansas is also neutral, but we'll get to that shortly.<br />
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5. Everyone Now Lives In Utopia. Here's the fun part! Red states, you get all the guns you want and can carry them concealed or in the open. Gun-free zones are outlawed. You're free to fire at will anytime you wish with impunity. Revenue from unchecked firearm sales fund infrastructure upgrades. Your healthcare premiums remain morbidly high and deductibles higher, but you get to see any doctor or specialist your HMO covers. All abortion is instantly outlawed. Bibles become a staple of public school curriculum. There is not, nor ever will be, a Green New Deal and you power your homes and businesses with all the fossil fuels you can mine. Hell, I'm sure the blue states will even trade you all of theirs for all the kale you'll harvest in your new Californian territory. Electric cars DO NOT EXIST here and, in fact, leaded fuel makes a surprising comeback. Moonshine is 100% legal. President Trump can be retitled King Trump and hereditary rule will be instated to ensure his family succeeds him at the time of his demise. Las Vegas is named the red state capital, and is ruled from Trump Tower (natch), which is rebranded as Trump Palace. King Trump hires a private contractor to add his face to Mount Rushmore. MAGA hats (facial tattoos also allowed) are not only encouraged, but are soon required to be displayed in most public places, like casinos and churches. And casino-churches, which will be introduced in a pilot program which rolls out slots on the back of pews in place of hymnals.<br />
<br />
Blue states, you get the free healthcare, housing, and education you desire. You can plant as many trees to hug as you wish. You also get guns, but with sensible laws in place. You implement solar, turbine, tidal, and geothermal power to provide sustainable energy. Church and state remain separate entities, though religious affiliations are now required to pay taxes which will fund universal healthcare, housing, and education. Megachurches earning more than a billion dollars annually will pay a steeper tax. High-speed rails are installed that will whisk passengers from Maine to Florida in under two hours, and pollution-producing commercial air flight is eradicated as a result. <a href="http://www.solarroadways.com/" target="_blank">Solar roadways</a> replace outmoded asphalt, creating thousands of new jobs and safer driving conditions. Washington D.C. is dissolved as the capital and the entire city is turned into the world's largest escape room, just for fun. New York is named the new capital and the Statue of Liberty's age-old visage is re-sculpted into an uncanny likeness of President Ocasio-Cortez (yes, I realize she's too young to serve as president under the current U.S. Constitution, but the Founding Mothers will draft a new constitution on the framework of the old one, only . . . you know, updated). Weed is legal and cheap.<br />
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6. If You Live In A Politically Divided Family Never Fear! The city of Lebanon, Kansas and the surrounding area (considered the exact center of the U.S.) will be used as a neutral meeting ground. Here, the wall will extend into a large cubicle formation where scheduled meetings of split families will take place. A variety of restaurants, parks, and events will be available within the Lebanon Free Zone and families can spend up to twenty-four hours at a time visiting and reminiscing about the good ol' days.<br />
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7. Free Trade Between The Divided States Is Encouraged But Not Expected. Sure, the states can trade if they wish. Delegates from each side of the wall will often meet in the neutral territories to discuss matters of policy and determine if there will ever be a reason to tear down the wall between the states. These talks, unfortunately, will not go far and ultimately both sides wind up heading home in a huff, both vowing to never return to the negotiating table. Also, all former U.S. military forces are divided equally and agreed upon to be solely used for defensive measures against potential invading foreign entities who view a divided nation as easy prey.<br />
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So that's it. This is how to fix the mess that is America. Anything you'd add? Subtract? Multiply? I'd include "Divide?" but we're all pretty well divided as it is.Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-48836675725171407392019-03-04T12:46:00.002-06:002019-03-08T07:41:15.549-06:00The Only Certainty in Life is Death--So Why are We So Afraid of It?<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
have for many years held quite different views on death than I believe many
people hold. These views have come from many years of meditation and
introspection, and I share them here so that if I should die—or, rather,
when—those who read this document may better understand my state of mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The
old adage says, "The only certainties in life are death and taxes."
Nah. Taxes are fleeting; they will one day be long gone to the dustbin of history
while death will remain the lone certainty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Death
is literally the only predictable aspect of any living thing's existence. Think
about that. The only </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">100% guaranteed</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> certainty.
Until science says otherwise, at any rate. But as of this writing, every single
man and woman understands that one day they will no longer exist in their
current form. Many of us fear for when that day will come because there is 0%
certainty of what happens afterward. Heavenly harps and halos? A wandering
spirit, invisible to the living? A space ghost cruising the cosmos?
Reincarnation? Complete obliteration of consciousness? <i>No one knows</i>. It's the
greatest mystery humankind has ever faced.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Which
is why it's pointless to fear it. It is </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">going
to happen</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">, whether we wish it to or not. While I'm currently not ready for
that day to come, I know its eventuality is inevitable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And
yet people are constantly shocked when someone they know passes. Shocked. As if
they never saw it coming. As if they've completely forgotten that death may
come for any of us, at any time, at any moment, of any day. Adds a pinch of
spice to life, doesn't it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And
let's be real a moment. We treat death like the ultimate Bad Thing, the Thing
To Avoid At All Costs. We stand in lines at the doctor's office or the
pharmacy, hoping against hope to prolong our terms in these bone prisons as
long as humanly possible. Like it's a race in reverse and the goal is to be the
last to cross the finish line.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But
listen. It all amounts to nothing. Naught. Zero. So you eat your pills and your
kale and your gluten free muffins in an effort to live to be eighty or a
hundred. Centenarian or bust! Why? Because of <i>fear</i>. We're terrified of what we
might find behind door number one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Speaking
of doors, I liken death to letting my dogs outside. We have
a back door and a screen door, just like you probably do. And each time I open
that back door, my dogs shuffle forward until they realize there's a second
door barring their way. They ought to know it's there, but they never do.
That's like how most people are. They know death is waiting for them on the
other side of the door, but they're always shocked to see it. It's a conundrum
I've baffled myself through for years and still have not come to any conclusion
as to the cause of this mass self-delusion.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And
then I thought of something else. With a majority of mortal earthlings
subscribing to some form of afterlife governed by a benevolent omniscient
creator, why are they afraid of death at all? If anything, they should yearn to
reach their divine paradise rather than stick around in a stinking meat mechanism.
Those most certain of a divine reward are also those most reluctant to go to
it. Again, baffling. <i>Baffling</i>, I tell you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Yet,
the same people terrified of their mortality happily and gleefully go on to
create other people who will likely one day become terrified of their mortality. BAFFLING.
We are a strange breed, we humans who bear the burden of being aware of our own
demise.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The truth is, I don't process death the way I
imagine most folks do. Sure, I go through the same five phases of grief
everyone does, but they hit all at once, one after the other, and then it's
done. No drawn out period of mourning, no existential suffering (or a
reasonable facsimile thereof). This is neither good or bad; it simply </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">is</span><i style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> how I process death</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">. You process how
you do, I'll process how I do. No judgments here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So.
In the eventuality of my departure, please do not weep for my loss. People
rarely weep for the departed, anyway. They weep for themselves. They weep for </span><i style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">their</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> loss, not the loss of the
deceased. It's really quite selfish, but that's a quality many of us reserve
the right to retain, and do so, happily in love with our misery.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
know everyone says, "When I die, I don't want anyone crying for me!
Celebrate! Party! Have fun!" And of course no one ever honors that
particular wish. But the point is, death is every bit a natural part of life as
laughing and lovemaking and eating and excreting. Don't be shocked when I am
gone. Don't be sad. Be happy I had a chance to check this place out. It's not
bad, mostly. Could use more kindness and less hate. Less anger. Less fear.
(I've got ideas on how to accomplish that, but we'll save that for another
day.) My point is, ultimately, please do not mourn my loss, folks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And, hey, just maybe
I'll see you on the other side.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Recommended reading: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fall-Freddie-Leaf-Story-Life/dp/0943432898/ref=sr_1_1?qid=1552052412&refinements=p_27%3ALeo+Buscaglia&s=books&sr=1-1&text=Leo+Buscaglia" target="_blank">The Fall of Freddie the Leaf</a> by Leo Buscaglia</span><br />
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<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-37699719377439184432018-06-28T13:36:00.003-05:002018-06-28T14:24:27.288-05:00Civilization: How NOT to LiveSome years ago, I got heavily involved with a game called <a href="https://civilization.com/" target="_blank">Sid Meier's Civilization</a>. Perhaps you've heard of it or even played it. Each of its iterations (they're up to Civ VI now, I'm told, though I haven't played much beyond Civ IV's final expansion pack) has a fantastic multiplayer feature wherein you can challenge friends and strangers via the Internet or LAN connection. Many evenings were spent in such a fashion, drinking brews and decimating cities, but the longer I played, the more I learned. Hang with me a minute, okay?<br />
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In the game, you choose to be one of many historical leaders. From Abe Lincoln to Zara Yaqob and Boudica to Queen Isabella, pick your favorite and get to work. And what work is that, you may ask? Well, you start with a single settler family on a map of thick wilderness in the year 4000 BC, where all manner of hungry beasts lurk and raging barbarians hope to pillage all you have.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Wolves pose an early threat to your vulnerable civilization, but just wait till you tap a uranium mine!</b></span></div>
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The family must find a permanent place to settle, preferably close to valuable resources like horses (which you can eventually domesticate) or gold (which you can eventually mine). Once you've established your first city, you must improve it through gaining new technologies. For instance, when you discover masonry, you can build a wall around your city to better protect it from exterior threats. Learn the ways of pottery and you can build a granary to better store your crops. Keep learning, keep improving. Get the idea?<br />
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Civ IV also has a feature in which players can found various religions. If you're the first to discover meditation, for example, you have the choice to convert your people to Buddhism. Polytheism will get you Hinduism. Monotheism=Judaism. Theocracy, Christianity. And so on. The game designers were careful to create all the religions equally so as not to offend players. Wise choice, given the behavioral tendencies those of opposing religions sometimes display. And guess what? If a neighboring civ happens to follow a different religion than you, might as well ramp up for war at some point during the game. Because it's coming. And we all know we simply cannot accept someone believing something different than we do. Just like real life, right?<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Queen Isabella urges you to adopt her religion under threat of war</b></span></div>
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But I digress. I'm here to tell you what playing Civilization taught me. Ready?<br />
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It taught me what <i>not</i> to do. It taught me what we, as a global population, should <i>not</i> be doing, even though we do it every single day, happily, and with abandon.<br />
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If your civ is "lucky" enough to have access to uranium and is advanced enough to have discovered the rocketry tech, you can develop nuclear weapons. Both short-range tactical jobs or full blown ICBMs. Then, if another civ slights you, you can blast away. As expected, the target city suffers enormous damage and population loss and the other civs regard you as a global villain and then you can pretty much kiss any shot of Diplomatic victory (see below) good-bye.<br />
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You see, there are six ways to "win" the game, at least in its 4th iteration. I'll list them here individually and let them sink in.<br />
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Conquest - You must eliminate all other civilizations<br />
Cultural - Possess three cities with "legendary" culture<br />
Domination - Lead the world in population by 30% and have 65% of the world under your control<br />
Diplomatic - Win a United Nations election as world leader<br />
Time - Have the highest score when the game ends in the year AD 2050<br />
Space Race - Build and launch a space craft to get to Alpha Centauri before your rivals<br />
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Okay. Let's break that down. First off, ignore Time victory. That's just a default in case none of the other conditions are met. It's boring and tedious.<br />
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However, at least two of those "victories" sound absolutely horrifying. Eliminate all other civilizations? Yeah, pretty sure that's the definition of mass genocide. That's a way to win the game?<br />
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Or what about Domination, where you control greater than half the world? WTF, man, right?<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>A parade to flaunt your military might sounds just right</b></span></div>
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Diplomatic victory means the most popular leader gets voted to be in charge of the world and we know where electing "popular" leaders gets us.<br />
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Oh, guess what else? As time passes, and your civ builds forges and factories and coal refineries and nuclear plants, guess what else happens? Climate change. Yeah. Where once you farmed corn, wheat, and bananas, now you've got completely worthless dead brown patches. Your workers cannot irrigate them. Your cities begin to starve.<br />
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By the end of a given typical game, assuming you survive to AD 2050, your civ resembles a ragged war-torn nation. That's some win. You go on and fly that W.<br />
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This all sounds familiar, thought, right? Because we're working toward this W every single day. We're living it.<br />
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About the only hope this game offers is the Space Race, in which your civ gets to leave all the mess they created behind in the hopes of messing up somewhere else.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Be the first to haul ass off the uninhabitable planet you created!</span></b></div>
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I can recall few times when art so clearly imitates life. And few times as ugly. Are we ready to try something else yet? I am.<br />
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But, hey, at least your civ can drink wine. Assuming you're lucky enough to have wineries within your borders. *sobs*<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>How about a nice chardonnay while we watch the world burn, dear?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sid Meier's Civilization VI: Rise and Fall is now <a href="https://civilization.com/" target="_blank">available</a>.</span><br />
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<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-35211093493596079162018-06-23T11:02:00.001-05:002018-06-23T12:06:07.097-05:00Of Keto and Kindness<br />
My wife, Samantha, embarked on a new journey in March, in which she gave up eating carbs and sugar. That's a startling sentence for many of us. I know what you're thinking. Or maybe I don't. Because it seems many of us are making that leap of late. Me? No way. Huh uh. Give up bread and sweets? I'd rather die.<br />
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But that's me. And I'm not you.<br />
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Nor am I Samantha, who since beginning this incredible journey, has lost 30 lbs and gained a fantastic new perspective. She's more alert. She has more energy. Many of the daily aches and pains she endured have flown the coop. It's like she's a whole new person. It's been amazing to travel with her on this odyssey.<br />
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However.<br />
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As previously intimated, I'm not yet ready to take that plunge. I mean, why should I, right? I'm not too overweight yet (give it time). I don't ache anywhere (usually). And, damn it, as much as I hate the act of eating, I love to enjoy the taste of my food. I will gladly forfeit a few years at the end of the line to enjoy a hamburger today.<br />
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So this will not be a post prepping to proselytize you to a keto lifestyle (because it is a lifestyle, not a "diet" -- make no mistake). No. Because I'm not there yet, even if millions of you are.<br />
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Quite the opposite. I'm here to talk bread, literally and metaphorically. Hang with me a minute, 'kay?<br />
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I'm of the educated opinion that 75% of what makes a good sandwich is the bread. Don't skimp. Don't settle. Pay extra at the supermarket. Because, by God, the gluten you use to house your meats, cheeses, and condiments <i>matters</i>.<br />
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Skip the store-brand white bread. Skip the name-brand too. I mean, unless that's your jam. But if it is, you're missing out. A nice whole grain goes a long way. A hearty rye can make the meal. And if you're really feeling feisty, try a fresh loaf of pumpernickel. Supreme stuff.<br />
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This post could easily go off the rails if I got into the necessity of a quality core, but I'll save that for another day. Let's get into the meat (heh) of what I'm really trying to say here.<br />
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If we can all agree that the wrapping you use to bind your sandwich matters, then so do so many larger issues. Take your pick. Or rather, I'll choose one. Mostly at random. But not really.<br />
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Let's go with <i>kindness</i>. I keep seeing memes crop up on social media about how being kind costs nothing. That's true, but kindness runs deeper than that. Kindness pays dividends. And it can be contagious. I've stood in lines at a coffee shop where someone pays for the beverage of the person behind them and dammit if it didn't run all the way to the back to the door.<br />
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I won't go into how damaging cruelty is. Not here. I'll save that for a different day. Today is all about kindness and how it can enrich us, each and every one.<br />
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Growing up, I watched a lot of public broadcasting. <i>Sesame Street</i>, <i>The Electric Company</i>, <i>3-2-1 Contact</i>. All great shows. My favorite, though, hands down, was <i>Mr. Roger's Neighborhood</i>. I recall watching, jaw agape, as our host stepped onto set and did nothing but act kind for the duration.<br />
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At first I thought it must <i>be</i> an act. The kids at school, the ones who spat bad words and laughed as they pushed me down, could have stood a healthy dose of Mr. Roger's medicine. I wondered if their parents cared enough to even introduce them to the Neighborhood.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Check out the trailer for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhwktRDG_aQ" target="_blank">Won't You Be My Neighbor</a> and don't tear up. I dare you.</span><br />
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Over time, though, I realized the stuff Fred Rogers pedaled was genuine--the real deal. Here was a man who was <i>actually</i> kind. Not just acting kind for his TV audience. The man truly wanted to help people, not harm them.<br />
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But this is nothing new. We've all heard this quote:<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't help them, at least don't hurt them.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></b></span><br />
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What a concept, right? It's not hard to enact. In fact, according to this, you literally have to do nothing. But it takes real effort to be cruel. Cruelty is not a crime of passion; it takes premeditation. It takes a determined mind to wake up every day and act ugly.<br />
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You know what doesn't take determination? Changing. If you're tired of wearing the bully mask, you can stop anytime. Just don't put it on. Go out into the world and espouse happiness. Those you interact with will return your glee tenfold. Try it. You'll see. It takes no effort whatsoever.<br />
<b style="font-style: italic;"><br /></b>I guess what I'm trying to say here is:<b style="font-style: italic;"> Kindness is the bread in which we should wrap our lives.</b> (Is that a little ham-fisted? Sure, but I couldn't help myself.)<br />
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But, dude, aren't you equating bread and kindness and people who've cut bread out of their lives must also cut out kindness? Not at all. I've tried some keto bread and damn if it's not as delicious as full-gluten. Okay, you know what? Don't mess with my metaphor. I know it's as wobbly as a newborn calf, but let me have it, will ya?! JUST LET THE MESSAGE FLOW THROUGH YOU.<br />
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Because you know what takes real effort? Converting to a keto lifestyle, like Samantha and so many others have. That is true, hard, sometimes painful change. If they can change, so can you. You simply need to want it.<br />
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<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-61165757997200286762018-05-06T19:45:00.001-05:002018-05-06T19:45:34.816-05:00The Slingerman Cover Reveal!<br />
The long-awaited prequel to my debut novel <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Snow-Globe-Aaron-Gudmunson/dp/1941987257/" target="_blank">Snow Globe</a> is nearly over. Check out the cover here and feel free to let me know what you think in the comment section!<br />
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Available May 8, 2018 in digital formats; print editions to follow in short order. </div>
Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-27723365067644264962016-12-28T18:03:00.000-06:002017-01-29T14:04:10.206-06:005 Toxic Byproducts of Civilization (and a Parable)<br />
This post is going to take some imagination. It's going to take some pondering. But that's okay because I know you're both imaginative and ponderous. Oops, scratch that last one. You're not ponderous, but rather have the ability to ponder. And away we go.<br />
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Let me make a prediction: You're miserable. It isn't really a prediction, though, so much as it is a glaring reality. I know because I'm miserable too. Everyone is. Sure, we can pancake over our inherent agony with all manner of sticky sweetness. Sports. Sex. Cinema. Booze. Drugs. Video games. Religion. Hell, a good spy novel takes the edge off.<br />
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But it's always temporary. It always wears off and that ugly misery resurfaces.<br />
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You ever see some fool in the comments section of a Yahoo article begin a rant with "The problem with this world is . . . " before going of on some half-cocked and wholly inane argument about gas prices or schools quashing the Pledge of Allegiance?<br />
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I'm here to tell you what the real problem with this world is. The singular root of all evil. (Spoiler Alert! It's not money.) Ready? Here goes.<br />
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We live in a society deliberately designed to make us as miserable as possible for as long as possible. Ah, I can almost hear the sound of all the keyboard warriors heading straight for the comments to dispute what they know, in the darkest and most secret chamber of their essence, to be certainty. But as I am the one making the claim, I bear the burden of providing evidence to support it. Here are five terrible byproducts of civilization:<br />
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1) <b>Labor</b>. How many of you love your day job? Truly, unabashedly, full-on <i>love</i> it? Like, if you won $564 gazillion dollars in the Gonzo Megabux Lottery, you'd keep your job because that's how much you can't get enough of the place you spend 40+ hours every week? None of you. Good. How many of you lament (often loudly and with generous profanity) about the horrible conditions under which you toil and still insist everyone <i>must </i>work? Homeless people simply need to "get a job" and "pull themselves up by their bootstraps," right? If you can't see the sheer contradictory madness in this, I fear you are beyond saving.<br />
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2) <b>Wealth. </b>Money. Moolah. Bread. Greenbacks. Strips of germ-ridden fibrous papers are what we've collectively determined hold value in our sick society. Let that sink in. Take as long as you need. The thing we've assigned the most value to is <i>literally</i> one of the filthiest. You can cut the irony with a butter knife. A suitcase full of these bills is worth more than your life to some people (I first wrote "most people," but revised because I haven't quite lost that much hope in humanity yet). There are people walking around right now, probably in your city, maybe even in your neighborhood, who would happily take your life for a suitcase full of paper rectangles bearing the faces of our forefathers and, no doubt, traces of Colombian cocaine. The idea of grimy paper worth more than human life is utterly alien to a healthy mind. Or at least it ought to be.<br />
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3) <b>Power</b>. A civilization--especially one with a capitalist base, such as we've inherited--is constructed as a hierarchy. Those with the greatest wealth have the ability to attain the greatest power, or at least have greater control over how much power they wield. That's why some folks wouldn't blink twice at gunning a fellow human being down for a suitcase full of cash: They seek power. Easiest way path to power is, say it with me, wealth. I often wonder, though, what happens after someone GETS ALL THE POWER. Then what? Look for more power, of course. When does seeking power just get boring? I can only answer for me: It already has. Power is boring. It's imprisoning. It's false and it's damning. I pity those who resort to extremes in order to attain it or who even go looking for it in the first place.<br />
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4) <b>Demeanor. </b>Observe human interactions. Watch the way films and television bitterly imitate life. What do you see? You see people berating others. Shaming them. Laughing at someone else's expense. Gordon Ramsay bellowing into some sorry sous chef's face rather than sweetly coaxing confidence out of her. Know why? Because when you're miserable, you feel better when you can make someone else feel worse. It's so intrinsic to the nature of civilization that most of us fail to see it. Nine out of ten TV ads feature such behavior; everyone is always so <i>angry</i> at someone else, or degrading them, or laughing at them. That's what you do, though, when you live in constant wretchedness: You hurt others to feel better. It's why kids bully--to feel better about their shitty little lives. You could even make the argument that it's some sick perversion of empathy. YOU SHALL FEEL MY AGONY, WORM! YOU SHALL KNOW MY PAIN.<br />
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5) Speaking of pain, what about <b>depression and anxiety</b>? Okay, technically, these are separate byproducts, but they seem to go together like buggy whips and buggies, so they're addressed here simultaneously. What causes them? People just love to use the classic "chemical imbalance" as a fallback. Of course, some cases of anxiety and depression are undoubtedly caused by chemical imbalances, but give it a longer look. People who live in a state of constant stress are bound to be anxious and depressed. Cause and effect.<br />
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I want you to try something. This is where I want you to use your imagination. Close your eyes, if it helps (but only after you've finished reading!). Ready? Okay, imagine this:<br />
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<u>_________________________________________________________________________________</u><br />
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You awaken in a foreign land. You are surrounded by waving grasses, tall trees (oak, you think, or maybe ash), the rocky face of a mountain range, a stream burbling nearby, and maybe a species of yellow bird twittering from above. You don't know where you are, but at least you know its not on an extraterrestrial craterscape or hell's hottest furnace and so you journey in search of answers. (You take your time, though, because once you find your way home, the mortgage needs paying, the boss wants a 12-page report you haven't started yet submitted first thing Monday morning, and both cars could use a wax, so what's the rush, right?)<br />
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After hours of hiking you happen upon a village. You are hot, hungry, and exhausted. The villagers greet you with smiles, though they don't speak your language. They offer you strange but delectable fruit and a thoroughly thirst-quenching beverage. They provide you lodging in the grandest chambers of their inn. You try to offset their overhead by doling out bills from your wallet as payment, but these folks don't understand why you're trying to force on them odd, grubby, funny-smelling portraits of old men.<br />
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Okay, you think, they're generous. It's kind of them to help a poor, lost stranger in a strange land. But hospitality doesn't solve the larger problem of getting home. I mean, it's not as if they offered you Dorothy's ruby slippers. So what's the next logical step?<br />
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You want to speak to their leader, right? Someone in control, someone in command. Someone with connections, who can point you toward the nearest airport and send you back to the land of plenty. After much frustration on your part (your hosts are ever-patient in your constant stumbling over the language barrier--after all, you bear the burden of learning their language), you at last convey the concept of "leader." Or think you did. As it turns out, they have no term for "leader" in their vocabulary. It's a concept utterly foreign to them, just as the <i>absence</i> of a singular leader or a committee of leaders is foreign to you.<br />
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<i>How do you govern, then?</i> you manage to ask them at length. <i>Who has the most power?</i><br />
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The power is shared, they tell you (and look at you go! You're starting to pick up the lingo already!) There <i>is</i> no one person or group of people who control everything. Everyone works together for the good of the whole. Every person is vital. No one hordes possessions. Everyone is crucial.<br />
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And then it dawns on you. Every person you've met in this village is <i>happy</i>. Not just happy, though. <i>Overjoyed</i>. Thrilled to be alive, to be a part of a greater good. No one scorns anyone else. No one is left languishing in despair because she cannot pay her debts. All are nurtured and loved. Maybe civilization <i>isn't</i> the best, you think. Maybe we aren't as smart or cultured or advanced as we think we are. Maybe there <i>can</i> be something better, where people actually matter more than materialism. It's something you'll have to take time to ponder because you've been conditioned all your life to think otherwise. Yes, time is what it will take.<br />
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You ask the villagers if you can stay a few days, which become a few weeks, which become, of course, months and years. You stay forever because you're happy, overjoyed, and thrilled to be alive. You love and are loved. You don't worry any longer about making it home again because, at last, you <i>are</i> home. And, as a cherry on top, you don't have to worry about submitting the damned report to your overbearing boss.<br />
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I can practically hear you seething through your screen. <i>Communist! Liberal! Hippie! Tree-hugger! How dare you question the American Dream, the Cradle of Democracy, The Flag of the United States of America and the Republic for Which It Stands? </i><br />
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Settle down there, chum. Take a deep breath. First, none of those labels apply to me and I'm not questioning America, the flag, or the Republic. I'm simply offering another viewpoint. Because you're miserable and so am I. We all are, everyone. I'm not suggesting we shoot for Utopia because we all know there's no such thing--people are just too different to ever agree on what defines a perfect world. But we can shoot for something <i>better</i>, because it's out there. I know it. You know it, too. It may only take you time and imagination to accept it.<br />
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So to those denouncing, denigrating, and/or degrading me right now, it's all right. It's what you've been taught to do. It's not your fault. Say it with me <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQht2yOX9Js" target="_blank">Good Will Hunting</a> style: It's not your fault. It's. Not. Your. Fault.<br />
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It only becomes your fault if you are too shortsighted or hardheaded to imagine something else, something better. We <i>can</i> be better. We have to be or we won't be around long enough to have to worry about it. Civilization's lone virtue is that it has produced a creative, intelligent, and imaginative population. Let's use those gifts, not squander them. How can we be prosperous if our default setting is misery?<br />
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Love to all and Happy New Year. Let's try to make it the best one yet, shall we?<br />
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<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-25522623458554245992016-07-27T18:16:00.005-05:002016-12-30T11:33:30.832-06:00Not Delilah<div class="MsoNormal">
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Hiya, friends. It's been over a year since I've posted anything here and . . . I know. It's bad. It's real bad. I've been busy, but I have no excuse for letting my blog lapse for a damned year. It's reprehensible. Please enjoy an essay I wrote in college about the end of the world. </div>
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<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">Look, I'm no mystic. I don't buy into portents and potions or
psychics and spirits. Nostradamus was a primitive John Edward, delivering to
his audience a bunch of hokey hocus and cold-reading rhetoric, having no more "vision"
than a sun-blinded bat. I'm pretty open-minded on most issues, and I certainly
subscribe to the preternatural world (you'd have to be a jerk not to), but let's
be realistic about it. There are things that exist outside the human realm of
experience – a new species, for example, is discovered on our planet virtually
every day – but you have to draw the line somewhere. </span></tt><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> My motto
is this: if it's tangible, it's possible. Faith? Faith is like rhythm –
you either have it or you don't. It can be learned, but then it takes on a
certain awkwardness and the learner never quite dances just right. It's simply
not natural.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">But something happened one night that stirred my tenuous faith. </span></tt><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"><i>May, 1997</i>. It rained that morning. I woke to it pattering against
the window above my bed. Nice way to wake up. I showered, washed my grunge-rocker hair, dressed, and went about my
day. But something was growing. A feeling. A premonition, maybe, as
I came to believe. Something was wrong. But isn't that the understatement of
the century? Something was horribly, hideously, fatally off beam. As that
spring day in 1998 wore on, a nameless, sickening dread
blossomed in my mind like some poisonous flower. I tried uselessly to ignore it. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">At work, I smiled at customers and bid them come again. I half-expected one to morph into a disfigured creature and
begin pillaging the store and its patrons. But none did. That nameless dread
just continued to unfurl until its noxious pollination threatened to suffocate
me. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">That evening, after band practice, I retired to my room and
strummed my acoustic guitar in hopes of clearing my head. I listened through the wall to
Rob, my friend and bandmate, negotiate a date for Friday with a nice
young woman he'd met at a show. Jared, the singer, was uncharacteristically
quiet, staring at the evening news without so much as blinking. I decided to
take a walk to clear my head. Jared called for me to wait up and asked if he
could tag along. </span></tt><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">It was not my intention to tell him anything about the feeling I'd been wrestling all day for fear he'd think me
senseless. Or perhaps I was worried that he may think me a new subscriber
to the world of the occult and thus would label me "new age-y." But he remained reticent and reflective on that long-ago night walk. We
mumbled a few banalities. We watched the sidewalk slip beneath our
feet. The stars revolved and the trees shook and the smell of rain rinsed the wind.
Eventually, the conversation broke when I stopped and said, "Hey, man. Do you feel that?" <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">And he said, "Yeah." Because the dread had infected him as well.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">Someone died. Or perhaps an Antichrist was born. I didn't have the barest hint of what it could have been, only that something large and
terrible had happened. Was happening. A tipping point had been reached. I sensed it the way a stallion senses the
approaching tempest and stomps a helpless hoof in reply. Somewhere,
something had <i>tipped</i> and Jared and I both felt it. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"><i>April, 1996</i>. It really began with the dreams, I suppose. Nightmares
pulsing with the vividness of summer dawn were nightly born behind my eyes. These
monstrous displays could not be tethered to mere invention on my behalf – I did
not sire them. They were <i>sent</i>. I know this as I know my middle name replicates
my father's first. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">These were warnings. Must have been. Never before or since
have my dreams crackled with such surging energy. They were
living things. I can recall each sliver of detail down to the final agonized
scream. I could not bear to relate them here outside of a few brief glimpses; nor
would I expect you, reader, to shoulder their weight (though one day you may have no
choice). Suffice to know that they were apocalyptic in nature. Global ruination.
Our demise will not come about by the wreckage of war or the demolition ball of
a marauding meteor; it comes about through . . . <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">. . . an
explosion. Somewhere, far to the south, something blows sky high. My hair is
cropped close to the skull, and saturated with sweat. I am stalking through the
remains of a building, gutted by some long-gone fire. The walls are scorched
and smell of cordite. The ceiling has caved in and the sky outside is purple-tinged.
I am carrying an assault rifle. Though I've never touched one before in the waking world, I know
how to use it here. I breathe soot. Somewhere behind me issue the calls of men in
pursuit. I am hunted. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">Weaving
through the labyrinthine corridors, I find myself at a dead end. No exit,
except the way I came – which is, of course, blocked. In the center of the room
sits a young girl on a folding chair. She is crying. When she sees me, she gains her feet and,
sobbing, wobbles forward. She stretches out her arms, seeking comfort I cannot
offer. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"I
want my mommy," she whispers, sniffling. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">I tell her
I can't help her. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"I
want my mommy!" <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">I tell her
to hush and shoot a glance toward the dimming corridor where the hunters draw near. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"I
want my MOMMY!" the child shrieks and before I know what I'm doing, I
shoulder the rifle and trigger off a volley. Fire spits from the muzzle. Shell casings bounce at my feet. The girl is lifted from the force and tossed
against the wall before crumpling to a pile of rags.<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">Sickened, I
peer wildly around. There are only shadows, and shadows upon shadows. There is
only the lingering ghost of damnation. I start back the way I came, seeking an exit, but knowing it
is useless. </span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">And then I hear it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"I
want my mommy," the voice chokes. It is calmer now, but drowned. I turn,
and the gun drops from nerveless fingers. The girl is renegotiating her feet. She
is not dead, though her hair is now a straw mat of blood and her face is gone. "I
want my mommy," she says again and takes a tentative step toward me,
stretching her arms in embrace. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLx5ZKsuah0V3ZuOhOK11c6m-OhZu5xIpA5ij3w0E3wZARiCcyrFf-WndesOzL_BnmJmQU_y0z4BRcXcCEnu4NYIQoEOC57buwznqzqI8FoGwEWKaFbXs9OFn8kFWoaWm6TjI-vWunfcU/s1600/ChildFactoryLabor.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="579" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLx5ZKsuah0V3ZuOhOK11c6m-OhZu5xIpA5ij3w0E3wZARiCcyrFf-WndesOzL_BnmJmQU_y0z4BRcXcCEnu4NYIQoEOC57buwznqzqI8FoGwEWKaFbXs9OFn8kFWoaWm6TjI-vWunfcU/s640/ChildFactoryLabor.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">According to the
latest reports, America's population has now topped 318 million. China and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>
already have us beat, each exceeding 1 billion souls. Global pop <a href="http://www.worldometers.info/world-population/" target="_blank">increases by about 75 million annually</a>, by conservative estimates. What the dreams were showing
me was simply the consequences of expanding unchecked. An explosion.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">What happens, according to these visions, is this: humanity's
growth accelerates so rapidly that resources are soon exhausted. We need more
food to support more people, but we now have require so much housing that
habitable structures are built on the only land left available – the rich soil
needed to raise our foodstock. Essentially, we choke off our food supply with
housing. And then it happens: total collapse. People outnumber usable
resources, equaling mass famine, disease, rioting. It's ugly. And I
already see its precursors. They're everywhere. Two hundred acres of cornfield
near my in-laws were paved over last year to put up a subdivision. A local forest
was leveled in favor of a shopping mall. We're burning ourselves
out and, for some reason, I was allowed a sampling of the end result.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">There is a
lake with a car sinking into it. The car is red, compact. It belongs to my
friend Jared, and he is still inside. He does not move. He is not singing now; he
is smiling. The captain, going down with the ship. He remains oblivious to my
frantic screams to save himself. He doesn't care, because everyone is going
down with the ship. The big cabin cruiser S.S. Earth is capsizing and no amount
of bailing will save its passengers now. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">As the
radio aerial slips beneath the surface, I watch the concentric rings of water
ripple out and away, a fading bulls-eye. For a time, I watch the surface where
that target floated, willing my friend to rise. Willing him to change his mind
and rejoin me in what is left of this world. But he does not, and I flee this
tortured gravesite scrubbing a hand through my devastated hair. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdW4T10xdmJNrVRk3xy8w7JLghxQgOW65sAnsZQvYeawziHn8Bi8Pvlq-joIN8Zi0Y9L-M02WDx3TQgktlY6Cn2hchkP_LR0JR53bF8iMoBUDOKfC-59i7H28ZCvXX6qr4Pvxolu1DEE/s1600/car_sinking_tn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdW4T10xdmJNrVRk3xy8w7JLghxQgOW65sAnsZQvYeawziHn8Bi8Pvlq-joIN8Zi0Y9L-M02WDx3TQgktlY6Cn2hchkP_LR0JR53bF8iMoBUDOKfC-59i7H28ZCvXX6qr4Pvxolu1DEE/s400/car_sinking_tn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i></tt><tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">After the dreams, I vowed never to cut my hair. Since all these
visions displayed me <i>sans</i> ponytail, I
figured that if I kept my hair long indefinitely, none of these terrors would
befall the world. What psychiatrists would, I suppose, label <i>rationalization</i>. But maybe I was like
Samson. Just maybe I carried not only my strength, but the strength of the
world in the winding strands of hair. If I preserved it, I could
preserve the world; save it from the suffering I knew was coming. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> Like Samson, though, I lost the hair
because of a girl. Her name was not Delilah and she did not wield the shears. After
an arduous breakup, she began dating a rival. Out of a desperate need for
change, I cut the hair off (pathetic, I know, but I was but a young lad then). In my defense, the fate of the world was the
farthest thing from my mind that winter; I didn't give it a single passing
thought as I trooped into the barbershop. So, if these portents
ever emerge, you may blame the destruction of the world on a woman whose name
is not Delilah. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> The
city is all but empty. Winds hush down vacant alleys. Automobiles rust along the
curbs. It is dark, except for certain places where the few remaining
inhabitants have scrounged generators to light the quiet places of this
necropolis. At the top of a skyscraper, I survey what remains. On the wall of
the penthouse, someone has scrawled a message in mud or blood or excrement: ALL
DEAD HERE. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">But not all.
<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> Boots
scrape on the rust-flaked fire escape. Still they pursue me, though now I am
unarmed. The breeze stirs their voices away and riffles the hood covering my scalp.
I pick my way down
the opposing side. When I reach the ground, a cat with a torn ear hisses from an overturned garbage can. I flee into the streets of a city acrawl
with silence. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">I'm aware this all sounds like an enormous load of bunk. Hell, for all I know it is. I'm no
scientist. Humanity's not about to collapse under its own weight. Mother Nature
won't retaliate by striking down two-thirds of the world population. Global
warming's a myth devised by men in suits to keep us subservient. AIDS has been
contained. The Greenhouse Effect is certainly not melting the ice caps and the
world is definitely not lorded over by a shadow government. It's all
scaremongering, propaganda, new age-y rubbish. Dreams are dreams and mean
nothing beyond their surface luster. The exploding population is by no means
an issue worthy of attention and strength is not carried in locks of hair. As
long as we're all comfortable in our two-bedroom homes, eating our sushi,
raising our 2.5 kids, and taking our puggles out for walks, we'll be okay. Right? <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">It's not a
prison cell, really. It's a prison suite. A fire snap-crackle-pops on an
antique hearth. A queen-sized bed with a down comforter sprawls in the corner. There
is a television and a radio (both worthless because there is nothing now to
broadcast), and a desk with a candle where I can write. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">I'm not sure why I'm in custody; the days of Miranda are long gone. I'm to be
tried sometime in the near future and a guilty verdict will undoubtedly lead to
execution. I kneel on the woven rug before the fireplace and peer into its
depths as if the flames will hold answers. As if anything holds any answers.
The door unlatches and my hood stirs in the breeze from the corridor and I
stand to meet my fate.<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"Aaron,"
says a voice, familiar. It is Rob, whom I believed dead, victim to the initial
catastrophe which claimed so many lives. He has joined the other side (whatever
that side may represent), and has traded in his drums for an assault rifle. Rob
and I embrace, then he stands aside to let me pass. He has come not to kill me
but to free me. The corridor leads to an exit and I take it, out, into the
night. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<tt><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_lbvBecgBlWXdBuTIss3C6-M51rgcRVGa4tJ91gtTmnBxUNqwgwRDgdOTzFa1CFBjBzuhY_a-nX5LYuxzO9HBVjlrzAdcnctJ44DIKKmtHHyzOrH-lFURpfY3syvDLwBfhtvLVY1k6g/s1600/b12architecture_exteriors024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_lbvBecgBlWXdBuTIss3C6-M51rgcRVGa4tJ91gtTmnBxUNqwgwRDgdOTzFa1CFBjBzuhY_a-nX5LYuxzO9HBVjlrzAdcnctJ44DIKKmtHHyzOrH-lFURpfY3syvDLwBfhtvLVY1k6g/s400/b12architecture_exteriors024.jpg" width="300" /></a></i></tt></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">We all still have an exit, I'm sure, though I don't know if we'll
have a friendly steward to open it for us. We'll have to open it ourselves. We
needn't blindly fumble for the latch. We need merely open our eyes and <i>see</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">Which is what I'm attempting. Since that night those years ago,
when I felt the nauseous dread of something nefariously awry, I've come to understand we
are doomed unless we do something to initiate a reversal. Our ship is sinking
and we are all unwilling captains. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">I've gone so far as to try to grow my hair out again, but it doesn't
seem to work. It's thinner now, and weaker. Or maybe it's the stuff its rooted
in that is not conducive to growth. Perhaps the brain has grown soft and
clayey, porous and silty, no longer rich with the topsoil of thought and
ambition. Perhaps all it can do now is grow dreams that disguise themselves as
visions and visions that disguise themselves as dreams. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">And speaking of dreams, I'll leave you now with a final sample. The
last of those pseudo-prophetic reveries that plagued me all those years ago:<o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">On the bank
of a river, far from any vestige of humanity, I watch the water whirl south in
spits and eddies. A reflection appears over my shoulder and I turn, startled,
certain my relentless pursuers must have at last caught up with me despite Rob's
head start. However, though this newcomer walks upright, he is not a pursuer
(or even human). It is a dog. Its legs have evolved to hold its entire form
erect, and it seems particularly proud of this achievement. Its center of
gravity has shifted. It wears a purple cloak and a leering grin. I get no sense
of danger from it. For a long while we watch one another; I swallow and it
licks its chops. <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">At last I
manage, "Have you come for me?"<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"Mm-hm,"
it answers, its voice perhaps yet unfit for the full use of human language.<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"Are
you going to help me?"<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"Mm-hm,"
it replies.<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"Can
you show me the way?"<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">"Mm-hm,"
for the third time.<o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
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<tt><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">And I
follow this man-dog into the woods, where, at last… <o:p></o:p></span></i></tt></div>
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<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBD41nRAj4Bxa1t3xrW3WKWyjPLDOatYsYOQkdMKnbajp3Y1s23huN1wPIzD1oplqJW6L1dYZQ6tO6R3dgbw0F3_NSRW6azjxRMFKBfUXSBZ6eRUkEt6l-iB_svNqkL2FQIJY1iO89Zws/s1600/800px-Southwark_Park_Evening_Shadows.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBD41nRAj4Bxa1t3xrW3WKWyjPLDOatYsYOQkdMKnbajp3Y1s23huN1wPIzD1oplqJW6L1dYZQ6tO6R3dgbw0F3_NSRW6azjxRMFKBfUXSBZ6eRUkEt6l-iB_svNqkL2FQIJY1iO89Zws/s640/800px-Southwark_Park_Evening_Shadows.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></tt></div>
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<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></tt></div>
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<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">…the dreams vanish in a wisp and I am released from their
burdening yoke. So where does this leave us?
As I've said, I'm no mystic, I'm no scientist, and I'm surely no
interpreter of dreams. Who really knows what the resurrected girl, the sinking
car, the pursuit, the release from captivity, the dog speaking in indefinite
affirmations truly mean? How much
strength can hair really hold in its slim follicle? How dangerous is a population that rises
unchecked? How much damage can global
warming really do? Who knows? <o:p></o:p></span></tt></div>
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<tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;">I can really only glean two things from this: a) I
experienced a rash of nightmares in the spring of 1996 and b) I experienced a
bout of deep malaise a year later. Beyond that, what can I tell you? I'm no prophet.</span></tt><tt style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span></tt><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> (</o:p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Originally published in a slightly altered form in <i>Withersin Magazine</i>, Spring 2008.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> )</span></div>
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Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-8945796323317697272015-07-22T11:43:00.000-05:002016-12-30T10:28:40.125-06:00Mountaineers of the Information Age<br />
Hello, folks! Sometime back, I <a href="http://coldbrood.blogspot.com/2012/05/slap-on-wrist-for-trolly.html" target="_blank">tossed up a post</a> in response to a hateful (and, naturally, anonymous) comment this blog garnered. Generally, I'm all for free speech but speaking your mind doesn't entitle you a Get out of Jail Free card from consequence. Thus, the troll in question found him- or herself appropriately spanked and later (also anonymously) apologized via an undoubtedly false email account.<br />
<br />
I can hear you now: What's your point, Gudmunson? You're rambling! Get on with it already!<br />
<br />
The point is, we've come to a sorry spot on the ol' timeline, folks. In eras past if people felt the need to confront someone on an issue they did it face to face or, at worst, over the phone (e.g. in real time with the identities of both parties taking responsibility for their words and actions). Now a big bloody chunk of confrontation--real or contrived, the latter of which seems to be cropping up with greater frequency--is channeled through the wonderful cybersage of the Information Age: the Internet!<br />
<br />
Yes, the Internet, that insular filter which ironically serves to <i>remove</i> all filters. Through the 'Net, and specifically social media, individuals are now able to hide behind false faces to lob their insults . . . and the best part for them is they can do it <i>without threat of retribution</i>! They feel safe throwing stones because there are no glass houses online.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">But what happens when the identity of a cyberstooge sockpuppet floats to the surface like the stinking carcass of something lying decades at the bottom of a cesspool?</span> </i><br />
<br />
<br />
What does one do when one realizes the person is someone without the benefit of a social life, someone whose upbringing included stark oppression under an inflexible belief system? What happens when you find out the person behind those pitched stones is only pitching them from out of the pit of a pathetic existence?<br />
<br />
Well, you kind of feel sorry for them, that's what. You realize you're a target because <i>they've</i> been a target. Because they feel pain. Because, just maybe, they feel jealousy and are seeking some form of vindication for perceived slights.<br />
<br />
Then you kind of just want to give that person a hug and tell them everything's going to be okay. Because you're not like them. You don't want to hurt, you want to help. Sometimes life can seem a lot like climbing a mountain--let's call it Mt. Motherfucker. And Mt. Motherfucker is one monstrous son of a bitch whose apex is lost in a fleet of thunderheads veined with white lightning. Climbing to the top is far easier if there's someone beneath you to scurry over, to drop the tread of your Pacific Trail size 9 onto, to leave behind in the grit.<br />
<br />
But one thing's for sure. It's far more difficult to climb that fucking mountain alone than it is without full support of fellow climbers. You brave mountaineers of the Information Age, all limping alone into the terrifying stormy future ahead of you, might do well to remember that before dropping your little stones into a sling and flinging them for all you're worth.<br />
<br />
Which, let's be honest, isn't much.Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-2892838859137476472015-05-03T16:58:00.000-05:002015-05-03T17:06:06.058-05:00Enter at Your Own Risk: Dreamscapes into Darkness Available Now!<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Enter-Your-Own-Risk-Dreamscapes-ebook/dp/B00UIZPSXQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1426123511&sr=8-1&keywords=dreamscapes+enter+risk" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLQZAF3wTNGZemiyFs1Z_qN_wDaUL8_t8NnQfNekrkArdszN9irUmwNp3QqJHQUCmrqTZv7xUJt98rg1JIkwHxCUDVGrYGN4wAgSRieKBfx2tFCZXxljcHC6YVZSsgXVlDaFghTnkUfw/s1600/28.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.firbolgpublishing.com/" target="_blank">Firbolg Publishing</a> has recently released <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Enter-Your-Own-Risk-Dreamscapes-ebook/dp/B00UIZPSXQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1426123511&sr=8-1&keywords=dreamscapes+enter+risk" target="_blank">Enter at Your Own Risk: Dreamscapes into Darkness</a> - a wonderful anthology combining stories from classic genre writers and their contemporary counterparts. With tales from Mary Shelley, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, H.P. Lovecraft, Saki, D.H. Lawrence as well as <a href="http://www.jonathanmaberry.com/" target="_blank">Jonathan Maberry</a>, <a href="http://www.bescully.com/" target="_blank">B.e. Scully</a>, <a href="http://www.gregorylnorris.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Gregory Norris</a>, <a href="https://ktrapjones.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">K. Trap Jones</a>, Holly Newstein, Roxanne Dent, and many others. Edited by Dr. Alex Scully. Contains my story "The Morgue." <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsVWY4apBsn9I_DDrXP83tP7DOX-66L58pfW_kCly0DYaI4WoQM3pDVq0N7qvKSEH_OnPX3IUgtDCfgM4mkdMNQ6G03BHs2sFqeWB10pwle8N9o6mXwqlyQBFiz36C-EflOZsm9K3lqBU/s1600/11161345_560611754042046_8301713490790935650_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsVWY4apBsn9I_DDrXP83tP7DOX-66L58pfW_kCly0DYaI4WoQM3pDVq0N7qvKSEH_OnPX3IUgtDCfgM4mkdMNQ6G03BHs2sFqeWB10pwle8N9o6mXwqlyQBFiz36C-EflOZsm9K3lqBU/s1600/11161345_560611754042046_8301713490790935650_n.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">"The morgue, my friend informed me, was the place old newspapers went after their publication date. In essence, the place they went to die..."</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.firbolgpublishing.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcaZLgq-Pgf_-_XmmXKlF0FXGNTwTGIP2dqoAF_mcqe48b7y4GcKwDzFFSjWq7Utz2zTzNKBwnllVicfC8q0b064VdVLtQJ7tQMP0lROs0GO-Jj1WRjMMHhRoSXd_ixbHHTqHAKhy09p0/s1600/11182100_563464953756726_2690430385269777119_n.jpg" height="640" width="580" /></a></div>
<br />
Order your copy today! Available in paperback and Kindle editions.<br />
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<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-77154774198557456062015-05-01T11:39:00.000-05:002015-05-01T11:40:19.261-05:00The Age of Entitlement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="line-height: 200%;">I watched a reality TV program the
other day which focused on people who let their parking meter expire. Okay, to
be honest it was only the commercial. I couldn't actually bring myself to watch
the show. Anyway, cameras were on-hand to film the reactions as violators
returned to their vehicle to discover a parking ticket. The violators
invariably freaked out. "It was only a minute!" they argued. My response (and
the response of the official who issued said citation) was: tough.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe it’s just me, but have you
noticed the growing sense of entitlement in America? Sure, we’re the world’s
only superpower and the defenders of liberty and all, but does that give us the
right to act elitist (especially among ourselves)? Now before you denounce
this as simple paranoia, let me cite a few instances based on personal observations and see if you can apply them to your experiences. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The Shoppers</b>. I deal with
this every time I go for groceries and the experience inspired me to postpone
this errand as late in the day as possible to minimize occurrences. Few people pay attention where they are going, you see. They push their carts obstinately forward,
staring off at oblique angles as they browse. Without a few dexterous maneuvers on my part, collision would be inevitable. And
while shopping cart crashes do not tend to be fatal, they certainly fall squarely into
the nuisance category. I realized many modern Americans subconsciously (or
perhaps consciously) remove responsibility from themselves and, in doing so,
place it on others. Thank goodness these entitled folks pay greater attention
behind the wheel, right? Wrong. Read on: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The Non-signalers</b>. Speaking
of driving, I estimate roughly one-third of motorists whom I encounter fail
to engage their directional signal when making a turn. Big deal, you say. But
this is more than a petty inconvenience – it’s dangerous. It’s not
their fault, though; they have their hands full. One hand clasps a cell phone
against an ear (despite growing <a href="http://www.ghsa.org/html/stateinfo/laws/cellphone_laws.html" target="_blank">distracted driving</a> laws) and the other tips coffee against the lips. Mother Nature
made feet for pedal controls and knees for steering wheels, but neglected to
add an appendage for signaling. How unfortunate. And can
someone please tell me how it’s possible to speak into a phone and drink coffee
at the same time? Entitled yet talented, I admit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The Pedestrians</b>. Non-signalers
aren’t the only road hazards. The Pedestrians feel so entitled they imagine
themselves immortal. I’ve stood on my brakes so frequently in the past year to
avoid hitting jaywalkers, it’s a wonder they haven’t yet required replacement. (The
brakes, that is, not the jaywalkers.) If
I had a dollar for every time someone has traipsed into the street without gaining the right-of-way or a even so much as a flippant
backward glance, I’d be writing this post from a luxury resort in the
Caribbean. It’s a good thing I bought pedestrian insurance – I have a
feeling I’ll need it one day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It is not my intention for this
discourse to be a rant. It should be read merely as a warning for a few things
of which to be wary in our ever-expanding world. No one wants to claim
responsibility for anything anymore and, really, who can blame them? Entitlement
is so much more glamorous…and easier. I move that we make a conscious effort to
resist this temptation and accept accountability for our actions. Who’s with me?
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, you may disagree with me
completely. No problem. You are, after all, entitled to an opinion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-24350594744085221812015-04-21T14:22:00.001-05:002015-04-29T09:14:34.989-05:00It's a Mean, Mean, Mean, Mean World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I first noticed it in college. Overt
rudeness, that is. Before that time, I was evidently lost in the syrupy
oblivion of youth. But when I hit my college years, I was suddenly and rudely
shaken awake by the perpetual foul moods greeting me at seemingly every turn. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I
thought – hoped, actually – that it was isolated to the fine, stalwart
university I attended. Boy, I couldn't have been more off-the-mark. Since recognizing blatant discourtesy
running rampant at my alma mater, I have since discovered it everywhere. So
when did this happen? When did the world
get mean? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I
tried an experiment. Each day while walking to class, I greeted ten people. Invariably, at least eight failed to respond. In any way. Most appeared utterly unaware of my
presence. The rare subject who bothered to reciprocate would do so with a curt nod or a mumbled
monosyllable. Then I started to worry. Was I real? Had I died without realizing it and now
haunted the route between my apartment and the Student Center? Did Bruce Willis and I have far more in
common than I suspected?<o:p></o:p></div>
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No.
That was almost certainly not the case, though I wish sometimes it was. It
would at least illuminate this inexplicable lack of cordiality. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Soon
I tested my experiment elsewhere. The movie theater, a rock concert,
grocery shopping. Same results. People simply did not wish to return simple salutations. It was easier to look away than it was to smile. The world
has soured like a cup of cream in the sun. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I
should recognize the small minority of friendly folks who prove the exception to the rule: the loud hailers, the high-fivers, the huggers, the goosers. I'd laud them for keeping me from losing all faith in humanity, but these overly-aggressive individuals are somehow worse, as if they felt invading another's personal space with as much fanfare as possible was their obligation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh,
we could start listing reasons we no longer seem capable of fellowship and good
will. We could debate the whys and the hows. We could pontificate
for hours on the subject, but why bother? Reasons don't matter; solutions do. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Here, I'll
start. I'd like to take this opportunity to extend a warm hello to everyone. If
you see me on the street and don't wish to return my simple greeting, I'll not
hold it against you. It is a sign of our times. Every man, woman, and child for
him- or herself. Forgive me, though, if I long for the days when neighbors
borrowed cups of sugar and chatted idly over fences. Human beings have turned a corner somewhere on this twisted road. We've grown up,
grown jaded, and grown resentful. We live in bubbles and refuse to step outside their gossamer comforts.</div>
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It's
time to lighten up, folks. I wish you no harm and I hope that
sentiment is mutual. I know there are more of us today than ever before, but
it's no reason to let slide our most fundamental manners. Let's make our
parents proud. What do you say?<o:p></o:p><br />
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Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-68733457217335828212015-04-15T13:02:00.000-05:002015-04-25T13:56:49.110-05:00Sprung<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24pt;">I saw the first robin of spring a few weeks ago. It touched down in the
back yard, pecked twice at the soil wet with snowmelt, and took off again in
search of terra firma. It was a happy occasion for me, even if Ms. Robin fluttered
away empty-beaked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Why? Because the first robin
signifies the end of winter. It is as much a symbol of spring as holly is
for Christmas or Cupid is for love. A few tattered rags of snow still clung to
the ground along the fence line where the sun daren't send its oblique rays,
but Ms. Robin appeared undaunted. It picked my yard, of all the yards in town,
to try for a meal. And even though it found the pickings slim, I
still felt a wave of happiness at the sentiment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I also felt happiness that spring
had finally sprung. Because, let me tell you: it has been one cruel crone of a winter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As a child, I loved snow. What
wasn't to love? Snowballs, snow forts, snow angels. There was no worry about
how to get from Point A to Point B when the roads were iced over; that was the
concern of my parents. All I had to look forward to was no school over winter
break, Christmas presents, and three solid months of sledding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course, all that changes when you
grow up. Now I am the one who must worry about frozen patches on highways and
scraping windshields and shoveling driveways. And, of course, the bitter cold
that Old Lady Winter flaunts like a white-frosted frock. It's no wonder many
folks suffer from seasonal depression. Something to do with serotonin
deficiency due to the remoteness of the sun in relation to the earth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">While I've never been officially
diagnosed, I would make an educated guess that such a malady afflicts me to
some degree. Winter just isn't the same now as it was twenty-five years ago. Instead
of breathless exhilaration at a blizzard warning, I feel only a kind of thick,
gelatinous angst . . . how I imagine Charlie Brown must feel each and every day. Instead
of graduating from toboggans to snowmobiles, as seems the natural progression
from childhood to manhood, I feel only a dull, devouring winter
weariness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The worst part of seasonal
depression, though, is an exaggerated sense of cabin fever. That deep, numbing
cesspool of the soul that comes from being closed up for weeks indoors, desperately hoping to keep subzero temps at bay. The holidays are an instant remedy to seasonal maladies, but
they zoom by so quickly and often present more problems than they cure. They leave behind a nostalgic-steeped hangover before we are forced to face the wicked one-two punch of January and February, with a goodly stretch of March still squeezed in Old Lady Winter's gnarled
fist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But now I can breathe a little
easier, thanks to Ms. Robin Redbreast and her brief foray in my back
yard. Sorry the provisions here were lacking, ma'am. Wish I could have been more
help to you, but I'll tell you what--you
sure were a big help to me. Happy spring, little friend. And happy spring to
all of you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It's about damned time, wouldn't you agree?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3sAKb1MKE4YLoin4k6Cxnp5W-7PFCg5FIZQoI5u6f2FLiZfZXkQLsdz3O96hmqCuIc-fOpxW7lym6x7qZwzY-sZmwez5_RRWb2cYRC5cw-f3miceO63Xa79JDwddExt9QJMGUY5AvZs/s1600/b11architecture_exteriors001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3sAKb1MKE4YLoin4k6Cxnp5W-7PFCg5FIZQoI5u6f2FLiZfZXkQLsdz3O96hmqCuIc-fOpxW7lym6x7qZwzY-sZmwez5_RRWb2cYRC5cw-f3miceO63Xa79JDwddExt9QJMGUY5AvZs/s1600/b11architecture_exteriors001.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-76051386912367491042014-12-15T12:22:00.000-06:002014-12-24T12:22:59.940-06:00Cover reveal for Snow Globe's new edition!<br />
Hello, folks! As you may know, <a href="http://www.angelicknightpress.com/" target="_blank">Angelic Knight Press</a>, publisher of my debut novel Snow Globe, was recently acquired by <a href="http://www.ragnarokpub.com/" target="_blank">Ragnarok Publications</a> as its horror imprint (read the full press release <a href="http://www.ragnarokpub.com/#!Ragnarok-Publications-Acquires-Independent-Publisher/caet/20E96CC3-8F53-4AA9-927A-95C111278E72" target="_blank">here</a>). What does that mean? Well, many of AKP's titles will be re-released as second editions with brand-spanking-new covers! Check out Snow Globe's:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKdSmdw2hHiIGpS7N8CK3sVwnLV82zXIhK9iYGRLkzhLYSV1sIL56QsU9UNRRVwCcj6RAgcE314d6ieU6qOVHddTdf-uV2IidSVmVtfXmMoQCixRCP-HtnKgX88qUiQVjHpdJ3Uvbx5w/s1600/Snow+Globe+2nd+ed+final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKdSmdw2hHiIGpS7N8CK3sVwnLV82zXIhK9iYGRLkzhLYSV1sIL56QsU9UNRRVwCcj6RAgcE314d6ieU6qOVHddTdf-uV2IidSVmVtfXmMoQCixRCP-HtnKgX88qUiQVjHpdJ3Uvbx5w/s1600/Snow+Globe+2nd+ed+final.jpg" height="640" width="412" /></a></div>
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What do you think?</div>
<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-23127429543674245442014-11-08T08:19:00.006-06:002014-11-08T08:31:33.480-06:00New Story Appearances<br />
Two wonderful new anthologies featuring short stories by yours truly are now available. The creep factor on both are jacked sky-high, so lovers of horror are urged to check them out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.cemeterydance.com/page/CDP/PROD/o_parker01" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQrrEhFSSoGuXqwYgbnhNb1OtpiFsrjZwL3dtJdI3_enH7WWkEeCg4wZfn9fb1NV__vaBNaBbX8HHcyQ4RE3_wH549bIhR9nJUfDLiIwDiEaV2WSZjr6ESb0PklF_fDy3eA3rtQWg3QU/s1600/25.jpg" height="640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="432" /></a></td></tr>
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This volume contains 50 stories over 700 pages and includes many of the top authors in the horror industry as well as several up-and-comers. Edited by Mark Parker of <a href="http://scarletgalleonpubl.wix.com/scarletgalleon" target="_blank">Scarlet Galleon Press</a>, join us on this maiden voyage into darkness. By clicking the image, you will be able to order it via <a href="http://www.cemeterydance.com/" target="_blank">Cemetery Dance</a> and your copy will come signed by CD founder Richard Chizmar and his son Billy (celebrating his first story publication here!)</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wrapped-In-Black-Thirteen-Witches/dp/1502512378/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1415456317&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbWvti2YLS8QDohU6U7Htu_B7q9IqPMRKP28vgKvTANdjAqPDd2aVncoEPo3wH2qKiKB9UYzZ6ml1f3SOBZueTPfPhzDJbITA3CHfIXYHLrpdfKHHjqRkg9Ldg8NDeMMpkxAusqkl0fSc/s1600/24.jpg" height="640" width="406" /></a></div>
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Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult is the third in <a href="http://sekhmetpress.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Sekhmet Press</a>'s Wrapped series. My contribution, "Pig Roast," well, wraps up this wonderful anthology of the black arts. Click image to order yours today!</div>
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Halloween may be over, but the horror has just begun!<br />
<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-48624622428797445372014-11-07T17:50:00.001-06:002015-04-21T15:21:23.836-05:00Primer Course for Aspiring Writers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHL-Vu-JlgVgpRyGWG13UdpSo4blHV88n2kmarD_epceqSBrEdv-li9HiWDPMQAKz2jrgBuKVVhEwFVfFgoK5tLrhe7XTDV6OPTJM8Q2YN8F28Z_leiz_hvgugyAjh_mvd4wvI-LT61hQ/s1600/Picture-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHL-Vu-JlgVgpRyGWG13UdpSo4blHV88n2kmarD_epceqSBrEdv-li9HiWDPMQAKz2jrgBuKVVhEwFVfFgoK5tLrhe7XTDV6OPTJM8Q2YN8F28Z_leiz_hvgugyAjh_mvd4wvI-LT61hQ/s1600/Picture-1.png" height="320" width="400" /></a></div>
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Aspiring writers and editors, pay attention. Class is now in session.<br />
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The modern literary world is a tough place to live. The quality of the craft has dropped off a cliff while the quantity has proportionately spiked. Anyone who can scrawl a few sentences suddenly thinks he has what it takes to write a book. I assure you, he does not.<br />
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Learning and mastering the craft of writing takes years, if not decades. One cannot simply "decide" to write a novel one day. Just as specialized knowledge goes into, say, building a house, the same is true for writing. This means understanding mechanics, punctuation, grammar, spelling, and syntax. These are the required materials to build a book. If they're even a little crumbly, the whole thing will collapse. Essentially, being an effective writer also requires one to be an effective editor.<br />
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Some so-called editors with whom I interact have a shaky-at-best grasp on the aforementioned aspects of writing. For example, in the United States periods and commas always goes <i>inside</i> the quotation marks at the end of a sentence. However, I consistently see editors place it <i>outside</i> the quotation marks. Incorrect uses of ellipsis, dashes, and apostrophes (never add apostrophe-s to pluralize a word) abound. Also, I don't care what you learned in sixth grade Language Arts - unless you still use a typewriter, please stop using two spaces between sentences. It's archaic, a throwback to a more primitive age in literacy, and nearly no editors want to see them any longer. (For more in-depth reasoning behind this, read <a href="http://www.cultofpedagogy.com/two-spaces-after-period/" target="_blank">this</a> and adapt accordingly.)<br />
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My question is: who do you think you are? You "writers" and "editors" who come at the craft full of passion, swagger, and good intentions (and often delusions of grandeur), but lacking elementary understanding implicit to successful writing? You don't just get to say "I'm going to be a writer (or editor)!" without paying your dues. Learning to write and edit requires education. It requires a tremendous amount of reading. Most of all, it requires years of practice, of trial and error, of harsh rejection.<br />
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Of course, with the dumbing down of modern readers, all this is probably moot. Readers are not the discerning, discriminating, lovers of fine art any longer. They don't care if someone splashes comma splices, dashes run-on sentences, or misspells every other word. This has led to a complete saturation of the industry, an embarrassment and obstacle for those who still cherish it and hold it sacred. Those who've paid our dues, in other words.<br />
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I've spent decades honing my craft and am finally beginning to see some return on it. It's only fair others do as well. If you're an aspiring writer, do yourself (and the rest of us) a service and take basic writing courses. Then take advanced courses. Then take pride in what you write. Learn from your mistakes. Share your talent with the world. After all, your work is your legacy. Do you want it littered with dangling participles and misplaced modifiers?<br />
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Make the world a better place, not more unbearable than it already is. Make it one where the real masters of the craft can make their name.<br />
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Class dismissed.<br />
<br />Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-51849268019995080932014-06-17T12:25:00.001-05:002015-04-25T16:18:57.998-05:00The Writing Process Blog Hop<h5 style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
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<span style="background-color: white;">I was tagged in a blog hop by author of all things macabre Rose Blackthorn. The purpose of this particular blog hop is to allow a peek into an individual writer's process. Check out Rose's entry <a href="http://roseblackthorn.wordpress.com/2014/06/09/writing-process-blog-tour/" target="_blank">HERE</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So you want to know a bit about my writing process? Read on, friends! It will be quick and painless, I assure you. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></strong>
<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">1. What am I working on?</strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I recently finished the first draft of a crime/sci-fi thriller tentatively titled <i>Nothing Men</i> and I'm currently shopping a middle grade book entitled <i>The Newton McKnight Mysteries</i>. These projects could not be further apart in terms of genre and content, but I like to keep my horizons open when it comes to writing projects. As for what I'm writing now, aside from the sundry short stories which always seem to crop up of their own accord, my time is divided between three novellas: <i>The Wailing</i>, <i>House Z</i>, and an untitled period piece which involves the arrival of a killer who disrupts the normalcy of a rural town in 1940s northern Illinois. </span></div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white;">2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?</span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">It doesn't, frankly. I write scary stories - their job is to scare. I suppose if there's a difference, it would be that each author's imagination is wholly unique and thus by definition must differ from all other works in a given genre.</span></div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white;">3. Why do I write what I do?</span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">If there's a story to be told, I write it (or try to, at least). Some stories must be chiseled out of the bedrock of imagination while others practically do everything but pick up the pen and paper for me. I write the stories I'd want to read and hope others share my sentiment. </span></div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white;">4. How does my writing process work?</span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Each project germinates in its own way, but usually it will start with a single idea or image and the rest of the story unfolds from there. I never outline because each time I've tried to, the story meanders from it. I find it best to not try to map the tale ahead of time - let it grow on its own, become its own master rather than try to master it. For example, in my novel <span id="goog_772455583"></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Emma-Tremendous-A-D-Goodman/dp/0991153413/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1403025518&sr=8-1&keywords=Emma+Tremendous" target="_blank"><i>Emma Tremendous</i></a><i><span id="goog_772455584"></span></i>, I was shocked to discover one of the main characters who'd been a "good guy" throughout the story suddenly turned in the last thirty pages into one of the most cold-hearted villains I've created. Had I worked from an outline ahead of time, this absolutely necessary change may not have happened organically and the story would be lesser for it. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Aside from that, I write at least 1500 words each day, often far more, in hopes of always improving my craft. That's really the way to go about it: write, write, write. And when I think I'm tapped out, when I think I've got nothing more to give, and my fingers and soul feel numb and dead, I sit down and write more. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Well, that’s my entry on this blog hop. I tagged <a href="http://staceyturner-authorspot.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Stacey Turner</a>, owner of <a href="http://www.angelicknightpress.com/" target="_blank">Angelic Knight Press</a> (publisher of my debut novel <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Snow-Globe-Aaron-Gudmunson/dp/1496189116/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1403026507&sr=8-1&keywords=snow+globe+gudmunson" target="_blank">Snow Globe</a></i>) to participate in next week's Blog Hop. Not only is she an excellent industry professional, but a hell of a writer to boot. Be sure to check out her sure-to-be insightful answers on Monday!</span><br />
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Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-27217856525485915322014-06-13T14:05:00.001-05:002014-08-29T14:59:17.924-05:00Snow Globe Excerpt and Book Trailer<br />
Happy Friday the 13th, folks - to celebrate this unluckiest of days (with a full moon scheduled for tonight, no less), please enjoy an excerpt from my debut novel Snow Globe and its <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p--cIoAZTuY" target="_blank">book trailer</a>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Snow-Globe-Aaron-Gudmunson/dp/1496189116/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1402687098&sr=1-2" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9hk0vT8mubMYa7YNW2f2I6JmquIWjt1DFVXj0Uq-GIIV-I3sdxwa_RPoXLySoaXI6rK0ApbxjEz3CJNRjKg7SHPkZVuBSaSi1DeM44Ael1WsVXkMLhRhrJHuYGGwjmu0G4tYU9gKFNQ/s1600/Snow+Globe.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 13, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dearest
Diary,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh, the worst
thing has happened! Someone stole all our livestock and killed our hound dog. Papa
(of course) blames our neighbor but I have spent all forenoon trying to convince
him not even Alain would act so low. He's mean and he's drunk and he's gone
soft in the head (oh please don't let Doug ever know I wrote ill of his kin!)
but he wouldn't try to kill us. Never-Never-Never!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Likely to
blame is a strange man who's been coming round the house these past few months.
He claims he's a land developer who wants to help Papa expand his interests but
he looks part Indian to me with his long black hair and strange manner of speech.
Or worse, he could be a Gypsy. Charlie and Jake told me they heard Gypsies have
been spotted roaming this part of the country.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> This
man and Papa have been setting in the parlor, talking until all hours. I can
hear them sometimes through the floorboards. It sounds like serious business. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But now,
disaster! Our animals all vanished as if they'd never been and our poor cellar
violated as well. Someone is out to get us and we can't even get to town
because of all this wretched snow!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Mama
said she's seen snowfall like this once, back around the end of the war when
she was itsy-bitsy. It snowed so hard for days that the drifts come right plumb
up to her windows, and she slept on the second storey! She calls a
hundred-years' snowfall because it only happens once each century. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oh,
Dear Diary, what in Heaven are we to do?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 14, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dearest
Diary,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Second
straight day of snow. Already we are hungry. We had some cornmeal and beans in
the pantry, but scarce enough to feed us all as well as we are accustomed. With
no beef or fresh milk, my belly is grouchy. I hope this snow stops soon so we
may perhaps dig out the auto and make a trip to Mr. Darrow's General Store. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Papa is quiet
today and I can tell he feels helpless without being able to make good for his
family the way he always has. He has been staring out the window at the house
across the way. He says he is watching the weather, but this is false. Oh, why
cannot we all live in peace with one another? I miss love greater by the day. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 15, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dearest
Diary,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
have just finished breakfast which saw the last of the cornmeal. A half-sack of
rice and a few beans remain. Charlie and Jake have been away since dawn hunting
rabbit, but with all the snow I feel their luck may be stretched. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
sky cleared for a bit this morning and I allowed myself hope that an end may be
imminent, but it began again in earnest. Papa has closed himself in his study
and is hard at work on something (aside from the small cask of Christmas glogg
he stashed away in there). He will admit no one to see him, not even Mama who
has spent many hours these past days in her rocker either knitting or watching
the snow. She tells me Charlie and Jake will bring back some game for supper;
rabbit or squirrel most likely but perhaps even a buck to skin for venison. Oh,
Diary, it does sound wonderful!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 16, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dear
Diary,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> No
luck for Charlie and Jake. They saw a few rabbits, but the creatures were too
swift. Jake lost his rifle when he dropped it in a snow bank and was unable to
find it even after half an hour of digging. My brothers' faces are so chapped they
practically seem like they're wearing masks. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> We
had only rice and black beans for breakfast and supper; no lunch to speak of.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Papa set a
strict ration for our remaining food, but since then has not unlocked his study
door since late last night. His boots clunked around for awhile as if he might
be pacing, then I heard him leave by the front door only to return after
quarter-hour's time. I wonder what he's up to, Diary?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
watch Douglas's window by night. It has been dark these past three days. I dread
the day I shall have to tell him my secret. What will he say to that? Will he
still love me? I've verily put it out of my mind in recent weeks. I've not written
of it until this minute…but, Dearest Diary, how do I tell my beloved? Do I dare?
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 17, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Diary,
this is nothing like how Christmastime should be. The snow has finally stopped
falling, but it is so deep we have no hope of making it to town before a thaw. We
are so hungry. So hungry. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> When
Papa poked his head out of his study today, Mama told him he ought to pick his
way across the road to seek some Christian charity, but Papa said he would
rather die than commit such an act. Then he pulled Charlie, Jake, Donald, John,
Tommy, and Stevie into the study for some time. I think they might be planning
a raid on Douglas's house! I can only hope that is not the case. I could not
bear if Douglas were hurt. Or my brothers, of course. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 19, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dearest
Diary,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Success!
Some, at least. Jake came across a wounded fox and killed it with a rock. We're
going to have meat tonight! I never would have thought I'd be excited about
eating fox, but the thought of hot juicy hanks of meat makes my mouth wet. I
can't help it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> And
Charlie found a bottle of our rendered syrup in the barn…I am going to
positively drown my food in it. Oh, tonight is going to taste so wonderful! <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Mama's
calling! Supper is ready!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 19 (later)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
fox wasn't good even with the syrup. Very little meat on its sickly bones and
what it had was stringy. Gosh, but I'm hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 21, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> We've
run out of food completely, even after Papa's careful ration. Not even a grain
of rice or drop of syrup remains. I bundled into my parka and galoshes and spent
ten minutes making my way out to the granary, but it was just full of feed-corn.
Couldn't eat it. I tried, but it hurt my teeth. I ate some of this horrid snow but
it did more harm than good, I fear. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I'm so hungry.
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 23, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Papa
and the boys tried the raid, but were turned back. Douglas's people were
waiting. They are always waiting, have always been waiting. Where is Douglas? Where
are our cows? I would do any-thing for a taste of true meat. Any-thing. My
belly feels shrunk and swollen at the same time, somehow. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
hate to put this to paper, but in Papa's silly raid Thomas sustained an injury.
No one fired any shots, but Thomas busted his ankle somehow in all the snow and
came back bellering like a cow too heavy with milk. He's been screaming for
hours. I wish he would quit. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 24, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> If
I could make one wish this night, I'd ask St. Nicholas to come down our chimney
and take us with him on his sleigh. I'd forfeit the rest of my Christmas
presents forever and ever if jolly old St. Nicholas would take us from this
house. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">If he hasn't
any room in his sleigh, perhaps when we wake in the morning he will have left
us honeyed hams and golden turkeys and sweet yams and plum puddings and crocks
of cream beneath our tree! Perhaps our socks will be full of candied apples, juicy
oranges, and plump, ripe strawberries like the ones Douglas and I ate from
Mama's garden when we were small! Oh, please St. Nicholas, please send us some
Christmas cheer! <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 25, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
love my Lord and Savior for He shall deliver me from evil. Amen.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 27, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Papa
decided Thomas's foot ought to be cut loose because the boy won't stop making
noise. He and Charlie did it quick and poor Tommy blacked out from the pain. The
foot set there for a bit before Mama got the idea to boil it. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">December 30, 1912<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
keep watching the window of the man I love. It remains dark. I wonder if
Douglas is dead…as dead as I feel. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Still
no way to town. Blocked completely. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Tommy's
grown worse. Papa keeps quiets him with sips of whiskey, but my big brother
will never walk again. Not without that foot. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> But,
my land, it tasted so good. I'm sorry, Tommy. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">January 3, 1913<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> We
ate more of Tommy, after his leg went bad. He died of shock, Mama said, so he
wasn't using his meat any-more. So we used it. I feel sick and sad but we have
no choice. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Lord
Jesus, please don't be mad. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">January 6?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
snow and cold are terrible. If I ever get out of this, I'm heading to California
where it never snows and I can sit by the sea. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oh,
Douglas! Where are you! Please come!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">January 7? <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We lost Celia.
My sister, my lord, my LORD. She just gave up this morning, the shock of it all
being too much for her. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It only took
Papa a few hours to decide to carve her up. My heart is empty but at least my
belly is full.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">January 8?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
am having terrible pains in my belly I at first mistook as hunger (because
hunger is a real thing…like a demon. People who never felt it don't know). But
now I know these pains are not hunger. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It's the baby.
I hope it's all right. Please God, please let my child be all right. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">No one stirs
any-more. The house is silent. Papa has been living out in the barn. I haven't
seen but Steven these past two days. I don't know where every-one else went. I
keep my door locked in case they decide to come for me. I don't know who is
alive and who has been eaten. This has become a house of ghosts. Hunger makes
everything go quiet and no-one stirs any-more. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The snow is
still up to my window pane and it is so, so cold. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">January 9?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
Lord forgive me! Last-night our child was born too soon in blood. So much blood
I knew not if I would live to see morning. I birthed it alone without aid from
Mama, if Mama's even still alive. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The poor dear
scarcely looked human. More like a skinned squirrel, pink and bloody. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"> </span></i><i style="line-height: 24pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">O, Dear God, please forgive me, but I
could not stop my mouth from filling with spit at the sight. I still can't,
even now as I boil broth on the hearth. The last thing I will do, after my
meal, is burn the pages of this Dearest Diary. I'm sorry, sweet baby. I'm sorry,
Douglas. But I'm just so hungry.</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></i>Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-24977322256457165002014-04-29T17:06:00.001-05:002016-01-31T18:02:13.737-06:00Fix Your Story: Let's Strip! Eliminating Two Utterly Unnecessary Words from Your Manuscript<br />
Hello again! As promised, here is the second blog post in the series entitled Fix Your Story. Today we'll focus on paring down unnecessary words from your manuscript. Well, two words in particular. (We'll start small and branch out later.) Ready for the two words you must, <i>must</i>, MUST kill in your writing? They are:<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">JUST</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>THAT</b></span></div>
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Do this experiment. Pull up your documents folder and pick a work in progress--any ol' tale will do. Now activate your FIND function and type <i>just</i> (or <i>that</i>). How many instances of each do you see? Whatever the number, plan on cutting 90% of them. </div>
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I can hear you now: "But I've already <i>revised</i> this story!" Well, revise it again. Review each and every time one of the aforementioned words appears in your manuscript. Why? They are unnecessary. Utterly, completely, truly superfluous. Clutter. Garbage. </div>
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Before submitting a story to a given market you want it as polished as possible, right? So do everything you can to heighten your chances of acceptance. Remove those <i>justs</i> and<i> thats</i>. Take out the trash, why don't you? No one likes to see refuse, so dispose of it. When you're finished, reread your story and see if it doesn't shine a little brighter.<br />
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Look at this example:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgur-HPD3NGSAhIFMZZCw_trNU6PmQ_is01YbDXVgOCpITA1zKpRkJp43LX5DrPNHADqWULG4e7l-tcTuKXzToLvTzu-hiHCrq3jlGtV5QYaq7Hn2eOMG5hbwp7s1wDmRCFwAk1W8dZeT4/s1600/IMG_20120529_174548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgur-HPD3NGSAhIFMZZCw_trNU6PmQ_is01YbDXVgOCpITA1zKpRkJp43LX5DrPNHADqWULG4e7l-tcTuKXzToLvTzu-hiHCrq3jlGtV5QYaq7Hn2eOMG5hbwp7s1wDmRCFwAk1W8dZeT4/s1600/IMG_20120529_174548.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Can't we as easily rephrase it to say: "He's not into you" and still come to the same meaning? And see! In one quick stroke, we've scaled back our text by 1/3 of its original content. Now that's the power of <i>revision</i>! </div>
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Of course, you won't want to pull <i>every</i> instance of these pesky words from your story--there will be cases when such words are the only ones you can use . . . but those cases are rare, my writing friends. <i>Very</i> rare. Use these tiny four-letter words sparingly and your story will read all the tighter . . . and just may be the difference between a rejection and a sale. </div>
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Cha-ching!</div>
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Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-44531163235902218602014-04-26T11:05:00.001-05:002014-05-02T10:51:13.279-05:00Fix Your Story: Punctuation and Quotation Marks in American Writing<div style="text-align: left;">
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Hello, folks. This is the first in a planned series on the nuance of writing.<i> </i></div>
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<i>Learn to write effectively and you can have anything you want in life</i>. - Sean Shesgreen, English professor, Northern Illinois University</div>
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Many of my writer friends are wonderful, capable writers. A few are true masters of the craft. A <i>very</i> few. As in I can count them on three fingers. Mastering <i>any</i> craft takes years of practice and honing. Trying and retrying. Creating, scrapping, recreating. Writing is <i>not</i> something a person can just "decide" to do with any measure of success. Just because one can string words together into a coherent sentence does not make one a writer. One cannot hope to write the great American novel if one has not spent years - if not decades <i>- </i>devoted to understanding the nuance of the craft.<br />
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To write effectively, a writer <i>must</i> master punctuation, mechanics, grammar, and syntax. If you do not understand these words, please take a moment to Google them before reading on. I'll wait.<br />
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Welcome back. Let's start with one aspect of punctuation today. Far too often, I see errors like this from American writers (why the country distinction? I'll explain in a moment):<br />
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<b>I just read Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher", and it was great!</b></div>
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Can you spot the blemish? No? I'll give you a hint: it's in the punctuation. Go ahead and Google "comma usage." I don't mind waiting; I'm patient. Incidentally, while we're waiting, patience is another thing every writer must have - you're going to learn to wait a long time for responses from publishers.</div>
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Here's another example to peruse while our Googlers are Googling:</div>
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<b>My favorite story is Ambrose Bierce's "Chickamagua".</b></div>
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Same thing, only this time look up "period usage." In the U.S., at least, comma and periods defy logical placement. You'd think they would fall <i>outside</i> the quotation marks in these examples because they're not part of the title, but they don't. In Britain, logic dictates where to place those pesky punctuation marks, but not here. 'Merica: defying logic since 1776.</div>
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As an American writer, you need to know this. NEED. TO. KNOW. THIS. If you don't, professional editors/publishers will mark you as an amateur. And if the editor/publisher doesn't care about punctuation placement, then, as a writer, you should question <i>their</i> professionalism. </div>
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The only exception to this rule is if you are enclosing a single letter or numeral in quotation marks as in these examples:</div>
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<b>Shelly stepped through the door marked "A".</b></div>
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<b>Bob's jersey bore the number "3".</b></div>
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On a similar note, colons and semicolons go outside the quotation marks in both America and Britain, like so:</div>
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<b>In October our class read "The Monkey's Paw"; we also read other scary stories.</b></div>
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<b>These players must report to the room marked "Athletics": pitchers, catchers, and infielders.</b></div>
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I've spent thirty years writing stories. I went to college to study writing because writing is what I wanted to do: I wanted to <i>be</i> <i>a</i> <i>writer</i>. But not just to write stories; to <i>learn</i> to write them effectively. And doing that begins and ends with the nuance of the craft. </div>
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Writing is like any other job: you learn to do it effectively or you fail. Period (see what I did there? Heh.).<br />
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No one who's never built one wakes up one morning and says, "You know what, I'm going to build a robot today!" and then does it with any degree of success. Same goes for writing. You must learn <i>how</i> before you can do it successfully. So get busy learning. Then go write the great American novel.<br />
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(Next post: Let's Strip! Eliminating Two Utterly Unnecessary Words from Your Manuscript)Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7467099364886978693.post-62598176422934640772014-02-26T14:01:00.000-06:002014-06-12T09:55:44.192-05:00Cover reveal for EMMA TREMENDOUSMy young adult shapeshifter novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Emma-Tremendous-A-D-Goodman/dp/0991153413/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1398815997&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Emma Tremendous</a>, which is due for release soon (in hardcover, trade paperback, and e-book formats), now has a cover!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEw5MAi__WNelMnDnOO8zNCiu_0ER7oNXaAJ5S4a7tzOKFOzWLp86uwEL8p5TW2hdPOAklt_Kjsa2O_CmW3LE05R7Y6LHoNKTV6KLZU8uCLmFXZhjeoZi25GMKRj9_3HZ4CkYfh3naiEw/s1600/LDB.ET.cover_CSyellow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEw5MAi__WNelMnDnOO8zNCiu_0ER7oNXaAJ5S4a7tzOKFOzWLp86uwEL8p5TW2hdPOAklt_Kjsa2O_CmW3LE05R7Y6LHoNKTV6KLZU8uCLmFXZhjeoZi25GMKRj9_3HZ4CkYfh3naiEw/s1600/LDB.ET.cover_CSyellow.jpg" height="640" width="396" /></a></div>
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<span id="goog_691263713"><br /></span>Aaron Gudmunsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00387485565850518972noreply@blogger.com0