A New Concept

Mom bought me a subscription to Writer's Digest as well as a book about writing and getting published. I flipped through a few of the chapters of the book, looking for help on disciplining myself to write. The advice, in a nutshell, was that writing was much like any sort of exercise: You just have to do it. A half hour, an hour, a page, five pages...it doesn't matter, as long as you sit down with a goal and meet it. It's not so much important WHAT you write, as long as you're writing. I realized part of my problem was that I would try to dedicate all time to a single concept of writing. As such, if I felt writer's block I would simply not write. This of course leads to a decline in writing ability because your writing muscle isn't being used at all!

So I've got another short that I'm working on. Truth be told, I haven't finished the previous piece. I'm still trying to figure out a way to close it. So until then, you guys can be entertained with the new project. Sci-Fi/Horror, kids.

New Untitled

The ship sat lifeless in it's orbit around the equally lifeless planet, a pair of corpses drifting in space. The ship was the Helle Licht, a preliminary research vessel sent to determine if the otherwise barren world could offer any form of salvage; resources that mining teams should be dispatched to recover. Four hundred and eighty-five meters in length, the Helle Licht looked like a massive beetle in suspended animation. The bulbous body had a forward pod that resembled a head, a pin cushion of antennae and sensors. No lights could be seen and were it not for the backdrop of the pale gray planet, the ship would have been difficult to see, for it would have blended in with the inky darkness that surrounded it.

Primo Serjiak looked out the forward view of the Reanimator, his eyes criss-crossing the hull of the Helle Licht in search of some indication of internal activity. There was none to be found. Nothing so much as a desk lamp seemed to show up.

" What've you got, Serjiak?" came a voice from behind him.
Primo shook his head slightly, then glanced down to the four monitors laid out before him. His fingers traced the screens as he poured over the data, readouts from the half dozen sensors pointed at the derelict vessel. He sighed and shook his head again, looking back out through the forward viewport at the silent giant they were approaching.

" She is dead in the water, Captain," he replied in an accent that could have been found in Old Eastern Europe, " I do not need the readouts to tell me that. The way it has drifted in it's orbit, the lack of light...but, from a technical standpoint, it seems the life support systems are functioning, though running at minimum. The engines are completely inactive, which accounts for the drifting; not even the stabilizers are firing."

He turned to face the bridge of the Reanimator, his eyes settling upon an older man sitting atop the command dais, his own gray eyes peering out at the ship that drew ever closer. Serjiak shrugged a bit, " there is little more I can tell from here, Captain Holland."

Captain Ambrose Holland stroked his gray beard thoughtfully, then spoke, his eyes not leaving the view ahead, " contact?"

The man who responded was barely that, a recruit fresh from the academy, " no response to our hail, sir."

Holland's eyes lowered to Primo who shrugged and glanced down at his monitors once more,
" there is no evidence of damage to their communication arrays, subspace or local, sir. However, without a direct connection to their network, I cannot be sure. "

" Alright, then let's get a hardlink established. Vodden, take us in to a docking module, nice and easy. Serjiak, prep the hardlink lines for attachment. We're not stepping foot in that ship until I get some readings on it," Holland said, sitting back in his chair.

The Reanimator slowly approached the Helle Licht and in space, there was no sound as the maneuvering jets ignited in small bursts of pale light. The Reanimator, at only seventy meters long, was dwarfed by the far larger research vessel. The smaller craft maneuvered about to the underbelly of the derelict vessel. Several spurts from the maneuvering jets slowed it's approach to a crawl as the smaller of the two lined up the docking tube.

Primo made his way to the upper level of the ship, passing through a set of bulk heads and coming into a large circular room, some fifty feet in diameter and a ten foot ceiling. In the center was a clear, plexi-glass cylinder with a pair of sliding doors on one side. An array of consoles, monitors and large bed scanners lined the walls. As Primo walked to one of the consoles, he could hear a knocking sound coming from above.

" Serjiak?" came the Captain's voice over the intercom.

Primo hit the switch on right side of the console and said, " I'm here, Captain."

" Vodden has docked us with the Helle Licht. Commence sensor hardlinking when ready."

" Yes, sir."

On the monitor above the console came a blueprint showing the docking tube that extended from the Reanimator to the Helle Licht. Between the outer shell of the tube and it's interior there was a space. His hands went to the controls on the console and the translucent images of two rod-like appendages began climbing up space towards the research vessel.

" We'll have sensor hardlink in ten seconds, Captain," Primo said into the intercom.

The arms reached two small circles on the blueprint-

-and stopped.

Primo frowned a bit, easing them back, then turning a dial to magnify the area near the ends of the arms. He guided them forward once again, only to have them stop and a small error flash in the bottom left corner of the screen.

Error. Unable to secure. Hardlink not established.

" Do we have a connection, Serjiak?" came the Captain's voice.

" Not yet, sir," Primo said, the confusion of the scenario in his voice, " there seems to be an issue with the terminals on the Helle Licht. The hardlink cables aren't interfacing with them."

On the bridge, Ambrose sighed and leaned to his left, resting his chin on his fist. The half dozen crew members on the bridge waited a moment, then began glancing about, waiting for their captain's response to the situation.

I'm Looking for a Way to Leave the World Today

Sooo, it's been a while. I'm just writing this to make sure I don't fall too far out of the habit. There won't be anymore installments of my untitled piece, as I will be finishing it up over the next week then preparing it for editing. Once the whole kitten kabootal is completed, I'll send out a copy to whomever wishes to partake. I'm feeling pretty excited to finish it, as I have a solid concept for where the story is going and this will be my first real project that I've finished with writing, other than works for school. This will also be the first one that, once completed, I'll be submitting to publishers. Go me.

Things are slowly moving in a positive direction for me. Though I'm frustrated about the lack of finding another job, I'm becoming much better with my finances and restraining myself from spending my money on things I don't need. It's amazing how far you can stretch a dollar.

This is all the more exciting as winter time is generally a difficult time for me. The short days play murder on my psychological stability, and I usually find myself frustrated, uninspired and angry a lot. Today marked a great day for me though. This stemmed from a dream I had last night in which I was dating Shakira. (For those of you not familiar with her, shame on you. For those of you who are unfamiliar with my desire to put a ring on her finger and call her wife...well, now you know.) It wasn't a dirty dream. We were just dating. I actually don't recall much of the dream except for saying to her , 'You know, if someone had told me a month ago that I would be dating you...I would have called them mad.' She then coyly smiled and giggled at me.

So I woke up feeling pretty good, despite the realization that I was not, in fact, dating Shakira. Work wen't well, profit was made. I also have been able to see my family a bit more than in the past which has been very theraputic. I'm working with Da' on a surveying project and I always enjoy when he asks my thoughts on the value of upcoming land projects he is formulating.

SO! All in all, things are going well. I'll leave you all with a little snip from a transaction between my nephew, LMX, and I.

(We had just run out into one of the back fields, run through the woods, rolled down a hill and were now en route back to the house.)

LMX: (breathing a bit heavy and sounding tired) Why's my voice getting deepuh?
Me: Well, you're tired from all the exercise. Your body is worn out, using more oxygen and this makes your voice more unstable.
LMX: It's tired?
Me: Yep. Your voice is tired.
LMX: Well then I'm not gonna tawk anymowah.
Me: You're not gonna talk anymore?
LMX: *humming*

An Untold Text (cont.)

Otherworldly creatures born of unholy practices. Slumbering children snatched away from unsuspecting parents, only to be murdered in a most vicious manner bordering cannibalism. My stomach turned at the very thought and I dashed to the window, flinging it open before retching down to the street below. How fortunate I was that no one had been walking beneath, and even more fortunate that none saw my vulgar display.

Behind me, Madeline stirred in my bed, a sleepy voice drifting to me, " Are you alright?"

" Yes," I said, crossing the room to grab a handkerchief from my desk. I dabbed my lips and poured myself some tepid water from a pitcher I kept next to my desk, " I'm fine, my dear. A bit of an upset stomach, that is all."

" You're working yourself ill, darling. Come to bed," she said, her eyes still closed and her voice rapidly losing the battle with sleep.

" Momentarily, my dear," I said. I waited until her breathing became deep once more, then sat to continue my work. I took deep breath to steel my nerves and looked at the next line.

I had made it nearly halfway through the book by the time I looked up and saw the silver lining of dawn beginning to creep across the eastern sky and sillouette the rooftops of the city. My eyes were dry and my vision had begun to blur. I sat back, groaning softly as I tried to stretch the muscles of my neck and back which had been held in a hunched poise for so long. I felt terrible, my mind full of the horrid descriptions the author had delved in to. I was still at a loss as to the nature of this text. Surely it could not be truth, but the facts I had drawn from it pointed to little else. The thought send a shiver through me and I felt my stomach turn once more, though I managed to pacify the nauseating feeling.

As I undressed and climbed into bed with Madeline, I realized I would need to speak with Mister Irewood directly and discover how it was he had come into possession of the book.

* * * *

Lennox Central Station was a bustling hub at six o' clock in the evening as my train came to a halt and I descended onto the platform. Wives welcomed home husbands; parents greeted their children who were returning from holiday at the homes of their countryside relatives; businessmen were coming and going, some returning from their jobs in other cities, some leaving for important business trips; a cluster of soldiers even stood together, transferring to whatever post their orders dictated.

I had done my best to clean up and look suitable to meet Mister Irewood, having shaven that morning and donned a clean pair of dark gray trousers, a white, collarless shirt and had Madeline brush up my bowler. My coat was draped over one arm, the other hanging by my side and holding my attache case in which the book sat safely. I also had packed the manuscripts I had used for translating the text. I had completed it on my train ride and felt a shudder run up my spine as I stood on the platform, remembering the final half of the book.

I drew from my pocket a small scrap of paper which I had torn from the wrapping the book had come to me in. On it was the return address. I had not sent a telegram to Mister Irewood, as the urgency to speak with him seemed to drive at me more and more the longer I remained in possession of his book. Such a fantastic story, true or not, was hard to push from your mind when you had been exposed to so few examples. Certainly, I had never read one of such macabre nature and dark detail. Any civilized folk would have turned away from it as soon as they had come upon the first example of a child being murdered, especially in such brutal and evil ways. The hundred notes that had been sent to me did not give me that option, however. I was paid to translate a text and translate it I did.

Or was there another reason? As I crossed the platform towards the stairs to take me down to the street, I suddenly was hit with a thought that nearly took the air from my lungs. I must have had a queer expression painted on my face, for I noticed several people turn to stare at me. I forced myself to keep walking, despite the dark cloud I felt looming over me. I could have simply returned the book and the money, apologizing for my inability to stomach the context, but the thought of such had not even crossed my mind. A morbid fascination had driven me to continue, to learn the fate of the author and this Lamia he wrote of. I had read over the scenes of gore with a growing ease, my sensibilities becoming desensitized to their horrific nature.

A carriage outside of the station took me along Bellingham Avenue until turning right onto Collings Lane. Ten minutes later we turned onto Carde Lane and from there it was a five minute ride until we came to a halt outside of a rather luxurious building. I climbed out of the carriage, paid the driver, then found myself standing at a waist-high iron gate. It was opened, revealing a stone walkway with rose bushes running along either side. Brick steps climbed up to a large pair of dark red doors with stained glass windows. Such estates were not found around Bentley Square, which in contrast was a hodgepodge of lower and lower-middle class apartments. These were more like the cushioned suites and homes of Galleyville and Vendenshire. I momentarily thought how sorely out of place one dressed such as I must have looked, but the thought was fleeting as I remembered why I had come here. I walked between the roses and climbed the steps. I grasped the large brass knocker and struck it several times on the plate it rested against. Several moments passed before I saw the distorted shape of a maid through the stained glass window. As the door creaked open, I was greeted by a slender woman, with strands of dirty blonde hair hanging down from her maids cap. She only opened the door enough to allow her head to poke out and addressed me in an almost snappish fashion, no doubt due to my appearance.

" May I help you?"

I touched the brim of my hat in a slight display of courtesy and replied, " yes, ma'am, I was hoping Mister Jonathan Irewood would be available."

Her face hardened ever so slightly as she looked me over, " and who are you?"

" Pardon my poor manners, miss, my name is -"

" It's alright, Miss Pinkerton," came a man's voice from somewhere beyond her, " let him in. He's an associate of mine."

She glanced back then stepped back, swinging the door inward and politely bowing her head. I touched my brim again before taking my hat off and stepping inside. The foyer had hardwood floors with a beautiful dark blue carpet running the length and ending at the doorway to the next room. The walls were white and free of any soil, homage to the strict attention of the staff charged with the estates cleanliness. Paintings and portraits adorned the walls, no doubt the latter being members of Mr. Irewood's ancestry. I realized, as I looked about, that there was not a hint of dust or dirt to be seen, a striking difference to the shanty-like building I lived in.
To my left a set of stairs ascended to the next floor with cut outs in the wall displaying a rich collection of vases and as I moved closer to inspect them, I saw the owner of the voice descending the steps.

A New England Haunting

I can not more fully appreciate why Stephen King uses rural Maine as the basis for so much of his horror. New England is, potentially, the most terrifying place ever. The imagery of darkness slowly climbing up from the east as the sun disappears into the west, with the steeple of a church silhouetted against the fading light, surrounded by pines that stand in grim silence, untouched by the rapid approach of fall and winter...

I just woke up from a nap where this very scenario was playing out. I had traveled to a small town to get something, I cannot remember what. What I do remember is meeting terrifying people and nearly being driven off the road by some demented individual and being hounded down the streets by cult-like psychopaths.

All in all it was the sort of nightmare that leaves you feeling pretty horrible upon waking up. I looked out my window with sleep still fresh in my eyes and saw the fading light, a scene very close to the one I had just left.

I still feel uncomfortable. I need a hot cinnamon bun, a blanket, and a good movie to wipe this feeling away.

Of Doctor Wats

Another quick hat tip to one of the greatest men in history, Dr. Richard Hill Varnum Wats.

I used to think my dad had little patience for people and I suppose, like anyone, he DOES have little patience for people who fritter away his time or their own. Nevertheless, it seems every time I see dad, he's eager to help someone out. The list for the favors he's done me alone is practically endless and no doubt he could have taken a cruise or two with the time and money (For time = money) he's spent trying to help me find my way in life. Through every blunder and failed attempt, dad has been there to help me climb back onto my horse and look for a new endeavor. Without spoiling me - at least, not TOO much - he's managed to make sure that I never go without the necessities of life while making sure that I understand that anything else must be worked for.

Side note: Mom has been by his side through these sorts of lessons. They both have always offered a means by which to get the things I want. I've come to truly respect this method. I had friends who were paid to do simple house chores and while it frustrated me initially that my parents wouldn't offer me the same treatment, I'm now glad that they didn't. Paying your child to clean his room seems a bit odd to me, now.

As I've grown older, I find it more and more fun to sit and talk to dad about things. We share many of the same interests, from music to boxing to business. One of my favorite past times has become sitting with dad late at night, watching CSPAN or CNN and discussing whatever topics they happen to throw at us.

I think Anderson Cooper has actually brought my father and I closer together.

What it Means to be Manly.

Sunny day spent in the shop
Remapping DNA of a car's chassis
Tiger Hair applied, " it's time to stop"

Declare war on a hornet's nest
Clad in anti-sting gear and armed
Soon hoist high, the Varnum Crest

Linger in abode of my rearing
Read the Wall Street Journal and watch TV
A trip to chop wood rapidly nearing



Working with Pops is always a good time. Sometimes I'm lazy getting around to it, but I really enjoy everything I learn from working with him. It's a lot easier to do now, too, since we can sorta mosey at our own pace and don't have to set too many time tables. I remember being frustrated as a child when I worked with him, because he was always trying to get a lot of work done and I was usually inexperienced in the tasks he had me set up for. This resulted in him having a shortened temper. I don't fault him for it, though. Managing a large dairy operation with some less than competent help is enough to put anyone on edge.

We have great times, now, and he's always happy to have the help. I'm hoping to make my way out to New Mexico again this winter. Though generally I prefer to laze about and just enjoy being away from Maine for a bit, I do enjoy putting in a day here or there of fixing up around the apartment or working in the wood shop with him.

Here's to Paps being cool.

" Ah, Venice."

I feel like saying that as I see the fading light of the sun coming through the leaves of the trees, gold through a colander. I'm home alone right now, which is nice to have once in a while. I very much enjoy the company of my roomate and friends, but I definitely need 'my time' which I really feel I can only get when I'm in a house alone.

It's chilly tonight, a bit more so than last night. Nonetheless, I am enjoying it and though I left work feeling like a three course meal of haggard, plentifully garnished with grumpy, that has all melted away. I am becoming pleased with the progression of 'Untold Text', to the point that I even feel giddy while writing it, despite it's dark contents.

I've been pouring over the works of Edward Gorey for the past few days, using his dark imagery as inspiration and mood-maker while i write. I remember watching Mystery with mom and I always LOVED the opening. It was practically the best part, (unless of course Jeremy Brett was playing Sherlock Holmes. I'm convinced there is no a single soul on this planet who could ever portray dear Sherlock in such brilliance.) Coupling Gorey's work with some classical pieces I downloaded, I have little lack of inspiration while I write. Hopefully, my discipline will share this degree of presence.

Again, no story clips tonight. I'm too busy walking on beautiful to mar it. It's a beautiful mix, beyond my windows, of a Mediterranean sunset and dusk falling over farmland.

Well played, God.