Three more, all raw

Practically unedited - I like them better that way.

----

"Lighthouse"

I'm so little
this big man's body
swimming in the deep waters
where is the horizon
who will
anchor me
in this vastness
You are the shoreline
I long to see
Lighthouse
Your love
makes the meaningless
meaningfull
Your love
a beacon
to my lost soul
Your love
flashing out
sweeping out
the darkness
light me home

----

"pinocchio me"

all the broken birds
are flying back
to roost in my soul
all the weary memories
walking the back roads of time
seeking a temporary rest
in my mind
the universal home
of passion
and truth
lies
and ugliness
who will fire
the clay sculptures
that form this
claymation world
of my dreams
who wouldn't want
to be a real boy
if it meant being something
more
i watch
you move
one frame
at
a
time
through the broken birds
and winding roads
come
make me real

----

"ashes"

my words
are just a reflection
cast from the dim fire
in the cave
of my soul
feeding on the litter
of days gone by
tattered memories
curling in the flame
i see you
reduced to ashes
then me

Poetry Day

Dang - so I guess today is poetry day.

stone rising

squeeze
the blood
in this stone
a hint of life
among the dead
rise sun
rise again
i will walk
among the daisies
in your glory
and run again
sqeeze
this stone
that is my heart

talking to the void

thank you mental illness
for all this art
and fear
how i wish i wasn't this
beautiful, ugly, monster, child
this is where i live
this is home
why

can you
really talk to
the fault line
in your soul

what will
the void say
anyway

too much

jigsaw

broken like me
can't you be
i just want to be
alone
no more
put the pieces
on the table
where we can
see the jagged edges
a picture
of what i used to be
won't you play
this fatal game
with me
put it back together
just to fall apart again

"Ten Penny Alley"

Here's another story. I started working on it a while back and just finished the first draft tonight.

When I was five, a dime would buy you a small candy bar or ten round gum balls. It was something of a magician's trick to me and my brothers, that you could turn a small silver slug into all that bounty. We were fascinated by the trick and wanted to get as many dimes as we could collect. Our pockets were often filled with the steel slugs and washers we collected from the streets where we played, a counterfeit for the true thing and not nearly as magical - the only thing they produced was my mother's ire; she would berate us loudly for dragging home trash from the streets when she turned out our pockets at night.

In the neighborhood where we lived, dimes were hard to come by for a boy, but harder still for me and my brothers. My father worked nights at a convenience store and was rumored to go for a drink most mornings before returning home. My brothers and their friends would talk about it sometimes when they discussed the things other parents whispered when they thought us boys weren't listening. Hearing it shamed me. I was still touched by the natural hero-worship that arises in the heart of a small boy when he thinks of his father and didn't want to believe it. Not that it matters much to the truth what a small boy wants to believe.

That summer my brothers and I were at war with the Delabells. They lived next door to us and would throw hard green apples at us from the tree in their yard. We didn't have an apple tree, so we threw rocks.

The first time one of the Delabells hit me with an apple, it was at close range. I had gone out to play not realizing that they were in their tree. With my back to the fence between our yard and theirs, I bent to pick up a toy from the yard. A burst of pressure and fire exploded through my lower back. The pain was sudden and shocking. The force of it stopped my breathing for a moment. As soon as I could suck air into my lungs, I screamed.

Jack, my oldest brother rushed from the house and covered my mouth. "Shut up!" he said, roughly, dragging me off to the side yard. "You'll get us all in trouble." Behind us the Delabells laughed and jeered as they continued to throw apples, "Crybaby! Crybaby! Run to your mama, crybaby!"

In the shadow of the house Jack looked at me fiercely. "You can't cry. And you can't tell mom. She'll make us stay in the house all day." I continued to cry under his hand. "You can't let the Delabells think we're crybabies." He said glaring at me. "You gotta stop. If you don't, I won't let go." He squeezed his hand more tightly over my mouth.

Crying had filled my nose with snot and it felt like I was suffocating in it. I stopped crying and waited for him to let me breath.

"Good." He said, letting go of my mouth and patting me on the back. I gulped in a breath of air, hicoughing and sniffling. "If you want to do something about it, get a rock and come with me." He picked up a golf ball sized rock, then disappeared into one of the bushes that lined our yard. I dug a rock out from between some roots and followed him, but the rock was oddly shaped and my aim was bad. Jack's aim, though, was deadly accurate - he hit the oldest Delabell square in the forehead, knocking him out of their tree.

The Delabells' father was quiet, but mean. All of us brothers shared a room on the side of the house, the side next to his garage. In the summer my mother left the window in our room open for the breeze. His garage was right next to the window and he liked to work on his car late into the night.

One night, early in the summer, he was out in his garage working. He kept the engine idling the whole time and once every five minutes or so he would rev the engine until it roared. A gray and noxious smelling smoke began to fill our room. He kept it up until well after dark. We coughed and held our noses, but couldn't sleep. Finally Jack crept down the hall to my mother's room.

We heard her leave the house, then saw her appear in their yard. She went into the garage. We were all at the window, straining to hear what she said. At first we couldn't hear anything, just the idling of his engine. Then, suddenly we heard muffled voices, more angry tones than actual words. She stepped out of the garage into our view. When she appeared, she looked upset, almost in tears. "You wouldn't've said that if my husband were here!" She said angrily. We could see the Delabells' father now, just inside the garage. He looked at her coolly, then spit on the floor and drawled, "Well he's not, is he?" When she didn't leave, he turned away and disappeared back into the garage. A second later he reved the engine again and a cloud of smoke poured from his garage.

Whatever he said must have been pretty bad. When my father showed up the next morning, my mother wouldn't even tell the story in front of us. She took my father into another room and when he came back out his face was cold. We all heard the door slam when he went next door to talk to the Delabells' father. This time there wasn't any yelling, but when he returned his face was bruised and his fists bloody. Seeing my father's bloody fists and his bruised face scared me, but it also made me proud. My mother fussed over him, but he just said, "It's been handled, Maggie" in a tired voice. Then he took his coat off the hook in the hallway and headed out the door.

"Probably heading to the bar," I heard Jack mutter under his breath as the door he watched the door close behind my father.

As the summer dragged on, our battle with the Delabells ebbed. The days were too hot for any real intensity of feeling. I spent my time exploring the small fields near our home, scouting out shady spots to play under the larger fruit trees that grew in the area.

One day as I was tossing the old football we all shared against the trunk of a thick, old apple tree, I spotted the youngest Delabell throwing pebbles at something in another part of the field. Although our battles had fallen off, seeing him made me uneasy. I looked around, but didn't see any of his brothers nearby. He continued throwing, with a look of intense concentration on his face. Curiosity triumphed over uncertainty about the location of his brothers. After seeing him throw a few more times, I carried the football over to where he stood.

"What are you throwing at?" I asked warily. He flinched and looked startled to see me there. When I didn't do anything, he responded, "Nothing." Then, "Just an old snake."

I looked at him. He was about my age. Like me, his clothes looked like they'd belonged to his brothers before him. "You think it's still there?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," he said. "You wanna go look for it?"

"Okay."

We spent that afternoon playing in the field. He told me about what had happened after my father came over. The fight had been hard on his dad, but harder on his mother. Finally his older brother had stepped in, but his father had only gotten angrier. It made me want to cry to hear that stuff, but he said it was like that a lot.

After that, we talked about other things, like what it's like to be the youngest or how everyone thinks they're your boss just 'cause your smaller. Toward the end of the afternoon, we were joking and laughing like friends. When the sun started to disappear, we split up and headed for home.

I thought I might see him again in the field the next day, but I never did, not that day or any of the days after it.

Although the war had stalled, my brother Jack hadn't forgotten it. I was playing in our front yard one afternoon when he motioned me over to him. "I know where the Delabells are," he said quietly. "If we hurry, we can sneak up on 'em." He gathered some rocks and put them in his pockets. Dutifully, I did the same, but with less conviction.

Jack headed towards Main Street. I followed. When we got near the alley that ran behind the grocery store, he stopped. "They're back there," he whispered, excitedly "playing in the creek. Now's your chance to make 'em pay for what they did to you." I felt like I'd swallowed one of the rocks we were carrying.

“I don't wanna.” I said. I felt tears stinging at the corner of my eyes and my throat tightened.

“You gotta.” He said. “Think about dad.” He motioned down the alleyway. “I'll be right behind you.” I thought about my father's bloody knuckles. I'd thought he was a hero when he'd come home that morning, but I wasn't like him. I didn't know how to fight.

“C'mon,” said Jack, “if you do it, I'll give you a dime.”

When I didn't move, Jack gave me a rough shove from behind. Once my feet started moving, I kept going. Up the alleyway I crept until I could see them playing in the small stream of water that flowed behind the grocery. My brother moved off to get a better angle on them and disappeared into the foliage around the creek. I crept closer, then raised my throwing hand, rock clenched tightly.

“What're you doing, boy?”

The voice I heard stopped me cold. He'd never spoken to me before, but I knew his voice from all those nights listening to him in his garage. "You Hansen boys think you're pretty tough, don't you, always throwing rocks at my boys.”

He looked at me coldly.

“Well, let's see you prove it now." He grabbed me roughly and dragged me down to the creek.

“Look what I found, boys.” He said, almost gleeful. The Delabells looked up from their games. The older ones laughed, but the youngest just stood still.

“Karl,” he said, motioning to the youngest, “he's about your size. Come show him what you're made of, boy.” Karl stepped forward. He looked trapped.

“Go on,” his father said, shoving us together, “let's see what you can do.” I thought about our day in the field. Karl gave me a shove, but without much strength. I caught hold of him and dragged him to the ground. He struggled, but I still ended up on top of him. I felt sick inside.

“Go on, if you're so tough, hit'm!” His dad shouted, standing over me.

Again I felt tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. I raised my fist, but couldn't bring it down. Unanticipated, I felt the sudden burst of pressure and shock of pain from a blow. I was knocked off of Karl and onto my side, a burst of light clouding my vision. I felt the oldest Delabell try to trap me below him and struggled to get out. Rolling, I kicked out at him wildly. He pulled me back under and hit me in the face. With my free hand, I punched him in the side. He hit me more savagely. He struck me several more blows. I saw him raise his hand again, then his dad stepped forward and caught it.

"Ease up, there, now, Rocky," he said laughing as he looked at my bloodstained face. "I think he's had enough." He pulled the oldest off of me, pulled me to my feet, and shoved me roughly back toward Main Street. "Go on, boy, go cry to your mama."

I started walking back toward Main Street. I thought about my mama and Karl. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jack sneaking back to join me. I remembered the rocks in my pocket. Turning, I threw one as hard as I could. For once my aim was good. It struck the Delabell's father full in the face. I ran as fast as I could without looking back.

Jack caught up with me near home. He had stayed behind in the tall brush near the creek and had seen the shocked look on the Delabells' father's face when my rock struck home.

“You did good,” said Jack. He reached into his pocket and put something in my hand. In spite of it all, I didn't cry until that moment. Jack had given me ten pennies, but I wanted a dime.

Mission Reunion

When I was younger, I served a mission for my Church in Chile. This Friday, I flew out to Utah to participate in a reunion of my old missionary friends. I must thank two in particular, Zach and Shawn, for making it possible. Shawn hosted it at his house and let me stay the night, and Zach offered to fly me out when I told him I didn't think I could justify the expense this year. Then he did. (Thanks, Zach!)

It was great to see so many people I hadn't seen in over ten years. They're all approaching middle age now, but to me they will always be the young men I knew and loved during my mission. We were all full of potential then, but I was amazed by the things many of them have done since we came home.

Shawn, for example, was someone you could always count on to have something fun going on (like the reunion) or for a good laugh, but it never occurred to me that he would become a stand up comedian. Or an entrepreneur, for that matter. But he is both (see below for a clip of one of his bits) and doing quite well for himself.



Another good friend, a former AP (for non-Mormon readers, that's "Assistant to the President", the highest leadership position a missionary can hold while in the mission), caused a bit of a scandal by discussing the movie he wrote, directed, and produced. It's in distribution now. Below, I've included a clip of the trailer and a link to the IMDB entry for the movie.



As you can see, it is not your typical Mormon movie (hence the scandal). But, I have to say that Brian never really was your typical missionary. (He used to do some pretty crazy things during mission conferences to get the other missionaries motivated.) Before the movie he helped with the research and production of "Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap... and Others Don't" by Jim Collins and traveled the country speaking to companies about his research.

Another friend turned down an offer to join a prestigious Wall Street firm and instead started his own business. Eventually he made enough money to spend a significant amount of time traveling the world with his family. But living on vacation wasn't for him. He wanted to continue making a contribution and got back into the business world investing in several new businesses. Now I think he's into something like 20 companies. Of course, he's still the humble guy I remember from the mission - he didn't tell me about most of this. The other missionaries who've stayed in touch with him did.

My favorite mission friend, one who served with me when I was assigned to the mission office for a month, is a writer in Los Angeles. He's written for several well known "reality" shows and some that are lesser known, including "Fat March", "Dancing With the Stars", and currently, "Supernanny". Who knew that they had writers? (Alright, I did - because he told me so about two years ago when he told me about "Fat March".) In any case, this is the guy who told me to follow my heart and become a writer. Well, he's still working at it, while I'm just pursuing it as an occasional hobby.

I only mention these stories because they are so amazing. The other guys from my mission days were also all doing well. It was great to see them and catch up after so many years. For my next post, I'm going to have to scan in some pictures from our mission days and do a little "then and now" post.

George Bush doing R.E.M.'s "The End of the World" - Awesome!

Those of you who felt more loyalty to the last administration than I did may not enjoy this video as much as I did ...

Baby On Board ...

A devil baby, astride a raging dog, shooting lasers from its eyes - now that is something I would try not to crash into!

Jumping Off a Cliff (a short story)

So, I wrote this story after reading an article about Hemingway. One of the individuals interviewed in the article, a contemporary of Hemingway's who'd known him in Spain, claimed that Hemingway was obsessed with death, that it was his obsession that drew him to bullfighting. As I read the article, I was drawn into a confrontation with my own obsession with death. It is so inevitable and such a mystery at the same time, that I find it hard not to dwell on it. I'm particularly fascinated by people who choose to give their own life for something. In this story, I've chosen to imagine what it must be like to make that decision in a situation, that like death itself, is particularly inscrutable to me.

"Jumping Off a Cliff"

by Michael Hunter

A long time ago he saw a man do something crazy: jump headfirst off a cliff. He'd been playing near the cliffs with his brother when a sudden motion - something arcing away from the cliffs in a free fall that was both beautiful and chilling - caught their attention. As it fell below the horizon, his brother shouted, "it's a man!" "No, it's not!" he shouted back as they both raced to the edge of the cliffs to see what such a fall would do to a thing.

But it was, it was a man. Standing at the top, they could see him down below, laughing and splashing in a small pool hidden at the base of the cliffs. When he caught sight of them looking down at him, he whooped and shouted something in a foreign language.

"It's an infidel" his brother had cried out and they'd both run home, hearts pounding.

His brother. The thought brought him back to the present. He felt the restless boredom of the crowd around him: the bus was late. What had happened to his brother? he wondered, fingering the device in his pocket.

When he was older, the infidels had come into the village where he lived. One of them had spoken, his language broken and accented, "American G.I.s, are you knowing where they are? Soldiers, American soldiers? Are you knowing?" His words sounded funny, but his eyes were deadly serious. The people in the village - his aunts and uncles, his sisters and cousins, his rivals and enemies - none of them had spoken, their fear was like a gag.

"Islam is greater than you all!" his brother had shouted suddenly into the silence, then he'd broken into a run. One of the infidels raised a rifle, but the one who'd been talking pushed it down again. Others chased his brother down the street and brought him back.

"Are you knowing?" The man had asked his brother while the others held him down before the silent crowd. "Are you knowing?" Now his brother, too, was silent. What was there to know? His brother had said what the village felt, but no one knew where the Americans were. When his brother offered nothing to fill the emptiness of their waiting, the infidels had consulted with each other, their language a strange and evil incantation, inscrutable in its power. At the end of it, his brother had disappeared, taken by them and never returned.

The woman beside him spoke, snapping him from his reverie. The bus was coming. The crowd began to shuffle together, jostling for place. He saw their faces now, each one beautiful and tragic, they were more than just the sum of their parts, this mass of bodies waiting for a bus. His pulse quickened.

He watched the bus approach, its wake a ghostly plume of dust, dancing briefly in the air before falling back to earth. It came to a halt, brakes squealing their quotidian complaint. The crowd began to board, bearing him forward to the threshold. Was this what the man had felt, standing at the top of the cliff? Fear and doubt fusing with an intensity of hope, a desire to know and feel what comes next?

The door was before him. He hesitated, a man about to jump off a cliff, his finger poised on the trigger hidden in his jacket. Though the morning air was cool, he was sweating, but didn't feel it. He hoped it would be like that man - one crazy motion, a leap into space, and, then, a joyful celebration in his own personal paradise. He took a last breath and boarded the bus.

Video of Me Losing My Last Judo Match

So, tonight our Sensei had DVDs for us with our matches from the last tournament on them. The only match of mine that was recorded was the one between me and my friend from the club. Enjoy!

Judo Master (or, as my wife likes to say, "Judo MasTAH!")

Well, last Saturday was the big day. I've been taking Judo with my kids for about a year and a half. Since starting, I've had two personal goals:

1. To eventually get a black belt.
2. To start competing in local tournaments.

No, I don't have a black belt - I'm still working on that goal - but I did compete in a tournament sponsored by our club. It was my first tournament, and I had two primary goals. (Yes, I like the number two - I don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with Western Civilization's obsession with duality, maybe it is my background in computers - binary numbers and all that - maybe it's a potty obsession (think about it), or maybe I just don't like to count to three.)

Anyway, my two goals:

1. To not get hurt.
2. To not look too stupid.

I was concerned about them in basically that order - if I was forced to choose between getting hurt and looking stupid, I knew I would be choosing to look stupid. And my concern about that was ramped up the week before the tournament when one of the other members of our club, a strong little eastern European who used to compete in mixed martial arts, showed up with a nasty bruise on his forehead.

"Did you get that in an MMA fight?" I asked, trying to reassure myself that a beast of a bruising like that couldn't have been caused by Judo. (It is the "gentle" way, after all - look it up, you'll see what I mean.)

"No", he responded enthusiastically. "I fight in tournament. Other guy, his Judo better." Greeeat, I thought, I may be showing up at work in a week looking like I grew a really ugly third eye.

But I put that thought behind me (after all, the tournament was still almost a week away) and didn't really feel any nerves about it until the day of the tournament at the weigh in. In spite of the fact that I've been dieting basically since the day after New Years, and that my scale at home says I weigh 195, I weighed in at 200, which put me at the lower end of the 195 to 220 bracket. I had been hoping to drop enough to weigh in at the upper end of the bracket just below that, but I guess I'm still too fond of eating. (I'm an American, after all - I've got a reputation to uphold.)

The tournament was held in the gymnasium of an academy up the street from the rec center where our club meets. After weighing in, I climbed to the top of the bleachers and settled in to watch the officials setting up and to try to guess which of the other competitors were my likely opponents.

I'd been told I may be competing in the Masters division (Yes, thanks to my age - over 30 - I'm already a "master" of Judo, never mind that I only have a green belt, the first belt after white.) so I was looking for guys over 30 who were about my size or 20 pounds bigger. It wasn't long before I spotted a graying black belt with the posture of a military officer and the quickness of a dancer. Although he had a bit of a gut, it was clear he would be a formidable opponent. Having just learned that in the Masters division it isn't unusual to mix rank beginners like myself with much more experienced players, like the guy I was watching, I realized there was a good chance I could end up fighting the guy. Great, I thought, my first tournament will be over before it even begins.

Eventually I spotted another member of our club, a friend who I practice with quite a bit since we are close to the same size, and went down on the mats to warm up with him. After we started warming up, my nerves went away and I started to get excited. We did some light sparring, and I concentrated on getting in close to set up for a throw since I felt like that was where I was the weakest. (For some reason when we spar during practice I tend to hang back out of throwing range until the other guy closes with me - which is not a good thing, since that usually means the other guy has the position he wants and you don't.)

After the warm up, the officials had us all line up and bow in. Then the games began.

I had to wait for several matches before my name was called to come down to the officials table to check in for my first match. Although I'd been feeling pretty good after the warm up, my heart rate really spiked when I heard my name called and my nerves came back worse than ever. After checking in, I stood in the holding area trying to convince myself that my nervousness was a positive thing - I could harness it to give me extra energy during the match, like those mothers who get a jolt of adrenaline and lift cars off of their children. Then my name was called to go to the mat.

I was encouraged when I realized my first opponent was a short, slightly paunchy green belt close to my age. Perhaps I had a chance of winning my first match after all. It wasn't until the match started that I realized I'd overlooked some basic physics. HIS center of gravity was already below mine WITHOUT requiring any extra effort on his part. I managed to hold my own with him for close to two minutes (the matches last four) before leaving myself open for a throw. In Judo, if the other player throws you correctly, the match is over. Our match was over.

After my match, I watched my friend compete against an older, taller, heavier guy. My friend has a blue belt, the next rank after green, and his opponent had green, so I thought my friend had a good chance of winning. Wrong again, although he did get good position on the guy several times.

Although we are similar in weight and build, it wasn't until my second match, when I had the same opponent, that I realized my friend and I were in the same division and bracket. My friend is in his mid-to-late teens - given that my first opponent was closer to my age, I thought I was competing in the Masters division. Not so. (I guess they recognized I wasn't a master after all.) I had a fleeting thought about competing against him before my second match began.

With this opponent, who looked to be in his mid-twenties and clearly outweighed me, I decided to change my strategy. With my first opponent, I'd worked at closing the gap and ended up rushing into his throw. With this guy, I worked the legs. Every time he started to move, I tried to sweep his leg. I could tell it was messing with his game (that was confirmed when he came by after the match to tell me it had), but never found a way to capitalize on it. In the end, I stepped into a throw he was setting up and that was the end of my second match. Again, I managed to last about two minutes.

After that I watched my friend lose to my first opponent (it seems short, heavy guys may have a natural advantage in Judo) and knew we would end up competing against each other. By now I'd realized our division consisted of just us four. Whichever of the two of us - my friend or I - won the match would take third place.

After several matches in other brackets and divisions, we were called to the mat. Having sparred with him a fair amount and watched him compete all day, I knew my friend's weakness was that he didn't always close on his throws, leaving him open to a counter throw. I decided to stay in tight and try to keep my center of gravity lower than his so I'd be in good position to throw him if he failed to close.

Our match went longer than the others we'd competed in. At one point, although I don't recall how it happened, he ended up upside down, wrapped around my leg while I basically sat on him and tried to work him free so I could pin him. To get the picture, imagine one of those cartoons of a monkey shimmying up a coconut tree. Now, flip the image upside down. My friend was the monkey and my leg was the tree. So much for not looking stupid. (Turns out you don't care that much about looking stupid when you're in the midst of a match.) In the end, I couldn't work him free, the ref stood us up, and the match continued. Although later some other club members pointed out that I'd almost thrown him several times if I'd've (double contraction score!) just followed through (oh, the irony!), he ended up throwing me with a feint we'd been practicing in class the week before. So much for bringing home a win.

I didn't go home empty handed, though. Continuing my personal leitmotif of winning by losing, it turns out they award two bronze medals - one for fourth place, as well. That's right - all you suckers better fear me - I'm a bronze medalist in the light heavy weight seniors division for Judo.

Fireball is Dead

Tragically, just after commenting that if my blog were a pet it would be dead by now, I discovered that my son's pet toad, Fireball, had died. This is relevant because I was the one who had most of the responsibility for feeding Fireball. Unfortunately, she only ate crickets and the occasional wax worm, both of which had to be bought in small quantities from the pet store, and she only ate them once or twice a week, so I would, on occasion, forget to feed her for a week. Once I found her little dried up body (a toad's body MUST be 90% water), I realized the last time I had fed her was about two weeks ago, just before we left to visit my cousin in Ohio. Apparently she was hardy enough to make it one week, but not two. The day I found her I felt really bad and kept thinking about it all the next day, but it was much harder on my poor son, who kept crying every time he thought about her death. Ah, Fireball, you were a good pet. I'm sorry I forgot to feed you.

S.M.A.R.T Goals

If you have ever at any time had to engage in goal setting in a business environment, you've probably heard of S.M.A.R.T goals, but perhaps, like me, you can't always remember what the acronym S.M.A.R.T stands for. Well, trouble yourself no more - I have the solution to your problem. That's right, I've documented below what each one of those capital letters stands for.

S is for Smelly - You know the old saying, "so close I can taste it"? Well, your taste buds are part of your olfactory system - if you're going to get close enough to that goal to taste it, it's gonna have to be smelly.

M is for Marketable - What's the point of having a goal if you can't convince others of its value? You've got to think like your goal is a street whore and you're it's pimp - get out there and hustle that goal!

A is for Aardvark - If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand. Every goal needs an aardvark.

R is for Retractable - How can you be a winner if you sometimes lose? You can't - that's why your goals always have to be retractable.

T is for Table - You're going to need somewhere to put your goal. I like to put mine on a table.

There you have it. If you'll just remember this simple mnemonic, "Smelly Marketable Aardvarks with Retractable Tables", you'll always have S.M.A.R.T goals.

The Washington Post Magazine's 2009 Valentines Fiction Contest

Well, I'm back. To those of you who follow along, bless you for your patience. Obviously, if this blog were a pet, it would be dead by now.

Anyhow, those of you who have been following along may recall that I entered a short story in the Washington Post Magazine's 2008 Valentines Fiction Contest. (See this post if you're interested.) Well, for obvious reasons, I didn't win, nor was I a runner up. What I submitted held the embryonic outline of a story, but I never fully freed it from the dark incubator of my imagination to live on its own. That said, really, my goal last year was simply to submit some kind of fiction to something, soooo ... as they say in school, I'm a winner just for trying. (Go, me - win by losing - woo-hoo!)

Anyway, there's a new contest, and another chance to lose, this year. See this link for details. I've copied the image for this year below. (Yeah, it's small. If you want to see the full image, go to the link.)



For some reason, this year's image was more inspiring to me, and I ended up writing two stories. (Which is good because my goal this year is to write two stories a month.) I've included them below. If you're inclined to comment, I'd be interested in knowing which of the two you like better and why. For both stories, I'd also be interested in what you think works or doesn't work. (Of course, if you don't want to be my virtual editor, feel free to just *read* the stories.) I've got until May 4th to choose which one to submit.

Story Number 1: The Illusion of Leaving

That day, my daughter, Carrie, showed up at my door, claiming she was on her way home from work and wondering if I had a moment to look at her clutch. Though I'd helped her with her car in the past, I suspected she'd really stopped by just to be sure I was okay. At the time, my wife, Marlene, and I had recently separated after twenty-seven years of marriage; of our two daughters, Carrie was particularly concerned that I wouldn't know how to get a long without her mother.

“Sure,” I started to say, “come on in. I'll be happy to look at your, uh, your, uh, ...” But for some reason I couldn't say the word “clutch”. I kept opening my mouth, expecting the word to come out, but it just scuttled deeper into the recesses of my mind, away from my grasping tongue.

“Dad,” Carrie said, concerned, “Dad, are you okay?”

I looked back at my daughter, baffled. For a moment, she looked like herself, and then she didn't. Things shifted in my head and she looked briefly like a very blurry version of a Vegas showgirl and then she didn't look like anything.

That was the last sight I ever saw, and, strange as it might sound, the most beautiful. That vision of my daughter as a blurry Vegas showgirl was a revelation to me.

When I woke up in an intensive care unit a few days later, I learned I'd had a stroke. It affected my speech and made me blind. Although the doctor told me at the time that there was a chance my sight would return, it never did.

It's difficult to explain the revelation that came to me in my blindness without telling you about my marriage and why it fell apart.

By the time I separated from my wife, the bitter kernel of dissatisfaction I'd been tending in my heart for the latter half of our marriage had hardened into a cold disdain. Shortly after our daughter Carrie was born, the vitality began to seep out of Marlene. She seemed to lose interest in almost everything. Our sex life was the first thing to suffer. The two month waiting period after Carrie's birth stretched into a year. Whenever I'd try to touch her, she'd make an attempt to participate, but her heart wasn't in it.

When I'd first met Marlene, she'd had a beautiful, almost bewitching quality, that made me ache physically when I looked at her. Though we were both virgins until our honeymoon, when I'd touch her, it was like touching a beautiful instrument: I could feel the music in her body, waiting to be released. After we married, though, and our daughters were born, she began a gradual fade into the caricature of the dowdy housewife. Bit by bit, she built a wall of television, laundry, housecleaning, and children's school activities between us. I tried to feel my way around the wall, but, as time went on and things didn't improve, I retreated into my career. If the girls were out for the night, I'd find reasons to stay late.

Through all this, our daughters grew; as they did, Carrie reminded me the most of Marlene. It was as though at her birth, she'd captured Marlene's soul and taken it with her. As she got older, she looked like a younger Marlene. It was like an echo of Marlene had returned to me, but in a form that I could never touch or hold. You might expect that I'd resent Carrie for that, and yet, just the opposite happened: as she blossomed into a young woman, I found that I could laugh and joke with her and almost live again. I was always careful to avoid confiding in her too much; I never wanted to turn her against her mother. If anything, I hid my feelings too well – she became convinced that I'd never be able to make it without her mother around to care for me.

By the time Carrie left for college, I'd retreated to magazine pictures and movies to fan the fading embers of my passion. I longed to recapture all I'd given up to be with Marlene. Throughout everything, I'd never been physically unfaithful to Marlene – I didn't want to hurt Carrie or her sister like that – but I was increasingly haunted by images of women in enticing poses, young women who made me wonder if I'd made a mistake never daring to look outside the confines of my marriage. I began to fantasize about going away to Vegas and paying a beautiful, young showgirl to live out my fantasy with me. Looking online, I found a woman who seemed to offer what I was looking for. That act finally brought things to a head.

“What are you doing?” Marlene had said, when she'd come across me that evening in the den looking at the web site where the woman advertised for new clients. “What are you looking at?” The confusion and disgust in her voice was too much for me.

“I'm looking at someone who enjoys sex, someone who might actually want to be with me – even if only for money!” I said angrily. Marlene just looked at me, then her lip began to quiver.

“Don't start crying now,” I continued roughly. “You haven't cared about me or what I do for a long time – why start now!” Marlene turned away from me, her shoulders shaking. After a moment, she left the room.

“That's right,” I called after her, “Go back to your television!” I felt a sickening rift in my heart, like the words I was saying were tearing my soul. After she left, I paced the room talking to myself, reciting the ugly rosary of my accusations against her.

When I talked myself out, I looked into the emptiness inside me and found nothing left. That night, I slept alone in an anonymous motel on the side of the road to a future I no longer knew if I wanted to own.

The day after I woke from my stroke, Carrie stopped by. “I brought someone to see you,” she said. “I told mom you woke up and she wanted to come by to be sure you were okay.” I heard Marlene enter. I hadn't seen her since I'd rented the apartment.

I tried to mumble a greeting, but the words wouldn't come out right.

“Can he speak?” I heard Marlene ask Carrie.

“Not yet,” Carrie said, brightly, “but the doctor says he should get most of his speech back in a few weeks." She paused. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit.” I heard her leave the room.

The room was silent, then I heard Marlene pull up a chair. Across the hall, I could hear the television playing. We sat in silence, neither one certain how to cross the void.

After a while, I heard Marlene shift in her chair and felt her hand touch mine. It was then I realized she was crying quietly.

“Why didn't you ever talk to me? I was so alone and you never talked to me.” She whispered between quiets sobs. “And now you can't talk at all.” Her fingers beat against my hand like tiny fists, then grasped as if reaching for something to steady her.

“I only ever wanted you to love me. But after Carrie was born ...” Her voice trailed off. “I was never enough for you then.” It broke my heart to listen to her. The image I'd seen just before my stroke, of Carrie, looking like her mother, dressed as a showgirl, flashed before my eyes. I tried to tell her I was sorry, but my tongue was awkward and I could only mumble sounds that wanted to be words, but weren't.

In the weeks and months that followed, all through my recovery, I don't know why she chose to do it, but Marlene was there. Once, after I'd regained most of my speech, I tried to thank her and then apologize, but she only patted my hand and said, quietly, “don't.”

When I was released, she came for me. I didn't ask about the apartment. Carrie moved in with us, “just for a little while” she said, “to make sure you and mom are okay.”

That was more than a year ago, and, as I listen from my room, I can hear them both working happily together down the hallway. As I listen to them, to me, it is appropriate, and painful, and beautiful that the last memory I have of seeing is of a blurry Vegas showgirl – and more so that it is a memory of my daughter Carrie, looking all the world like her mother reincarnated.


Story Number 2: Leaving the Big Country

“In a big country dreams stay with you
Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside”
In a Big Country, by Big Country

The image that woke him at night and haunted his thoughts was the the image of her just before the bomb went off.

"Why don't you tell me about that?" The doctor asked.

"Tell you about what?" Cole asked.

"Tell me about the dreams."

"Doc, I've already told you about the dreams. Talking doesn't make them go away." In his mind the reel starts again: he's in the bradley, thinking of her.

"What the fo-monkey is that?!" G-Max is saying, using one of his homemade replacement curse words. Then the bomb goes off. For a millisecond he can still see her in his mind, then her image is enveloped in a halo of shimmering blue and black, and he blacks out.

"Why do you think that image is so important to you?" In a previous session, Cole had told the psychologist about the dreams that started while he was recovering in the ICU at Landstuhl. He'd got it into his head there that he needed to read the Bible from beginning to end. Maybe he'd thought that it would shield him from the guilt, maybe he'd hoped it would make him worthy of her again - whatever he'd hoped, he hadn't counted on it affecting him the way it had.

'Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks: walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow.' Those words in Isaiah, the dream always started with those words: sometimes Cole was saying them, sometimes G-Max said them, sometimes she hung over him like an avenging angel, saying them. In the worst moments, the child was saying them.

"You know, after you shared your dream with me, it got me thinking about the Bible myself." The doctor was still talking. "I found this verse in Job: 'Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.' When I say that, what does it mean to you?"

"Doc, this is stupid." Cole sighed. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it doesn't mean anything special to me. I got blown up, my buddy died in an RPG attack - all those things involve sparks. That's all it is." He'd been coming to these sessions since he'd arrived at Walter Reed for rehab. They didn't really make any difference, but the military felt better. Talking couldn't replace the foot he'd lost or G-Max or ...

"Corporal," the sergeant was barking through the static in his ear, "clear that house!" Somewhere in the other alley, just over the roof, the sergeant and the rest of the squad were pinned down by machine gun fire. Cole signaled to his team. G-Max shattered the back door with the butt of his rifle, then threw a grenade into the opening. As the concussion rocked the house, the team rushed through the broken door. It opened into a kitchen. Cole barely had time to register that a boy and a woman were down on the way into the next room. Nothing moved in there. Cole signaled to G-Max, who tossed a grenade up the stairs. Following the blast, they rushed to the next floor. A child was screaming up there, a horrible, keening sound. The sergeant was cursing in his ear. "Wrong house, you got the wrong house, corporal! Get out of there!"

After that, he still thought about her, but he didn't call or text. How do you tell someone like her you killed a mother and her two children? How do you tell her you still don't know if you feel bad about it, that you'd do it again if you thought the raghead killing your crew was in the house?

You don't.

As time went on, he tried to stop thinking about her, but his dying heart was infected with her. If he didn't resist thinking about her, she drifted into his thoughts; if he tried to resist, his thoughts fought him, fixating on her. He was going through the drill in the bradley – first fighting her memory, then pretending to ignore it – when the bomb went off.

The dream, he hadn't been conscious for any of the things that happened in the the dream. He was unconscious when G-Max pulled him from the burning bradley. He was unconscious when G-Max lay on top of him, covering him with his body while bullets and rocket fire sliced through the air. He was unconscious when the concussion of the RPG blew G-Max off of him and tore away his foot. He didn't see or feel any of that until he started living it in his dreams in the ICU at Landstuhl.

"You're quiet. Do you want to share what you're thinking about?"

"No, Doc, I don't. I've had enough talking for today." Recently Cole had begun hording pain medicine; he was done talking, it was time to do something.

"Okay, Cole. Well, I certainly hope you'll think about what we talked about last week."

"Sure, Doc, I'll think about it."

Out on the street it was getting dark. As he walked, Cole could feel his prosthetic, alien and hard.

"What's your hurry, gimpy?" The man's voice was mocking as he stepped from the shadows. "Slow down there - I think you got something of mine." The man stepped in front of Cole and stiff-armed him to a stop. He raised a gun, gangster-style, with the grip turned sideways and pointed it at Cole's chest. "Gimme your wallet."

It was clear from the way he held the weapon, thumb-down, within striking range, that he didn't know what he was doing. Reflexively, Cole's body moved to fight back, but he bridled himself. He could do it himself or let this man do it - maybe it was better if it was someone else. "Go ahead and shoot." He responded without emotion, looking the man in the eye.

The man struck him a downward blow across the face. As the blow caught him in the side of the head, the searing pain lit a fire in his body like the charge in a gun. Sparks kindled before his eyes, reminding him again of Isaiah 50:11. Through the sparks, he could see the man's hand coming up again, the pistol pointed slightly outward, away from his body. He slammed his left hand hard into the man's right hand, jerking the man's arm back down briefly, then yanking it up and straight out from the man's side. As he did, he twisted the barrel of the gun so that the grip rotated toward the thumb-side, pulling it out of the man's grasp. As he pulled the gun free, he swept his right leg past the man's right leg - the prosthetic held - then mule-kicked backwards, punching his right hand into the man's chest with all his force. The man crashed into the ground, head bouncing off the pavement. For a second his face went slack, then he looked up at Cole in confusion.

Cole had the pistol pointing down at the man's face. He could feel the surge of energy like an electric current coursing through his arm and into his trigger finger. He flexed it slightly. It would be so easy. Her face flashed into his mind, the image from his dreams. "This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow." He could hear the whisper of her voice.

The child had died. In spite of everything he'd done, the child had died.

"Get up, man - get outta here." He gestured with the gun. The man was still in shock. "Get up!" Cole shouted, "I said, get OUT OF HERE!" That jolted the man into action. He scrambled to his feet and ran down the street, one less death in a broken world.

Cole threw the gun into a nearby dumpster, then stood on the street for a long time, trembling. When he started to walk again, he realized he was crying. It was time to go home.