The Country Life (part 4 of 5)

Chapter Four

Ryan had never considered himself to be much of an automotive expert. Not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, his mechanical proficiency was primarily limited to adding gasoline when required and using the filling station squeegee on the window. However, despite his extremely limited knowledge of the mysteries of the internal combustion engine, he felt very confident in his opinion that cars do not normally wind up with four flat tires simultaneously.

After exiting the vehicle, he had confirmed that all four tires were indeed completely flat by use of the emergency flashlight he kept in the glove box. He was now standing beside the car and staring at it, a perplexed expression on his face, when he heard a noise he would never forget.

The dog had continued its steady stream of barking the entire time Ryan examined each of his tires. Suddenly, just after he finished his circuit of the vehicle, the barking rose in pitch and ferocity to a heretofore unheard level. The noise sounded increasingly frantic when, all of a sudden, it cut off completely with a high pitched yelp.

Then silence.

Ryan didn't even realize he was running until he was already on the front porch. He rushed inside, slammed the door behind him and stood leaning against it, his breath coming in shrill, ragged gasps and his heart beating frantically in his chest.

"Everything...is just...fine. Quit...being...stupid!" he berated himself as he tried to get his breathing under control. He closed his eyes and began counting silently to himself. By the time he reached 85, his breathing had more or less returned to normal and his heart had begun to slow down again. He felt a little bit more like himself again, and he thus began the same process most adults go through following a fright. Denial. His job now was to convince himself that his fear was entirely irrational. He locked the front door behind him, muttering "Just to be on the safe side," and took two steps forward through his entrance hall before every light in his house suddenly went black at the same time.

This time Ryan had to count all the way to 337 before he could begin to think clearly again. Once he was calm enough for a semblance of rational thought, he started slowly making his way forward.

"Just a blown fuse. Nothing out of the ordinary." His voice sounded strange and hollow and far too loud in the darkness around him, and he quickly decided to stop talking as he continued on his path through the living room, towards the back bedroom where the fuse box was located.

The pain in his shin was truly remarkable, as was the octave his voice reached as he crashed suddenly and violently to the floor. With the hand not holding his throbbing shin, he felt blindly for the object that had caused him so much pain. It was his coffee table! The very same table he had so skillfully maneuvered around just a few short hours ago when the dog had first awakened him. He wondered how he could have possibly drifted so far off course and felt to his left to use the couch to pull himself to his feet, but instead his hand found the piano in the darkness. Completely disoriented, he reached to his right and found the couch where it never should have been.

His brain was struggling to process the information it was receiving and Ryan was trying desperately to come up with some way for the layout of the furniture to make sense, when suddenly the truth hit him hard, sending a feeling of icy dread through his stomach.

The coffee table had been moved.

It should have been on the other side of the couch and instead it was between the couch and the piano. This realization led him directly to the next conclusion, which would have knocked him to the floor if he had not already been there.

Someone must have moved the coffee table since coffee tables were not known for moving themselves.

Ryan found that all of his prior impressions of terror were purely intellectual in nature.

The Country Life (part 3 of 5)

Chapter Three

Ryan just couldn't take it any more. Living in a remote area was one thing, but letting your dog flip out non stop for two straight hours was just going too far. He generally tried to take a 'live and let live' attitude about how other people choose to go about their business, but this kind of tomfoolery was just not acceptable.

"How the heck is that man sleeping through all of this?" he asked himself. He didn't know his neighbor, Mr. Jansen, very well, but decided that the two of them were about to get to know each other a whole heck of a lot better.

Ryan crossed the Study and picked up the handset of the antique desk phone, which he had purchased from a thrift store after cancelling his cell phone plan, and brought the receiver up to his ear.

Nothing.

No dial tone, static, or anything else. Ryan jiggled the cradle several times and made sure the phone cords were all fully connected, but still nothing came from the earpiece. "Great. This is just great. First time I need to make a phone call in a month and the stupid thing is dead. I guess I'll have to call the phone company first thing in the morning to straighten this out!"

Ryan laughed at his little joke and hung up the phone. He decided to give Mr. Jansen another half hour to do something about the racket his dog was making before taking any further action. If the dog didn't zip it by that time, he would just have to drive up the road and call on the good neighbor in person. He really didn't want to, but "Enough is enough!" he added vehemently.

"Can a dog lose his voice?" he asked the empty room. "I'm thinking the evidence on hand is pointing towards a 'No' verdict, but perhaps this specimen is an anomaly, or some kind of mutant dog. I've certainly never heard one go on and on like this before."

Ryan only lasted another twenty minutes before the barking finally drove him out the front door and down the sidewalk. The barking was even louder outside, and Ryan wondered again how anyone could possibly sleep through this much noise. "It's enough to wake the dead," he told the night sky. It was still so dark he couldn't see more than the vague outline of his vehicle and he had to feel his way down the car's side to find the door handle.

Ryan knew that something was wrong the second he slid into the driver's seat of the car. He could not immediately identify what it was, but he definitely felt that something was not normal. He tried adjusting his seat and checking the mirrors, but neither of those things did anything to diminish his feelings of uneasiness. He went ahead and turned the key and the engine roared to life, sounding healthy enough. Deciding that it must have been in his head, he shifted into reverse and pressed the accelerator pedal.

This was the very first moment that night when Ryan felt afraid.

It wasn't the last.

The Country Life (part 2 of 5)

Chapter Two

Ryan put his red pen down on the stack of papers on his desk and looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. "Half past three and you're all ready to quit aren't you?" he asked himself with an air of mockery. "These books aren't going to edit themselves you know."

He did, in fact, know this to be a true statement. For three endless years, he himself had attempted to write a novel which he, at that time, believed would change the scope of American literature forever. In those three years of attempting to etch his name alongside Steinbeck and Hemingway, he nearly lost his grip on reality entirely. The stress and pressure associated with trying to pull together all the loose ends of his story nearly left him completely unhinged. When he finally gave up on attempting any further polishing of his prose and sent the completed manuscript to an editor, he found out just how terribly far from the great American novel he had landed. Instead of great, he was merely unpublishable.

This began the long and arduous process of attempting to resuscitate what would have been better left for dead. This attempt to breathe life into his manuscript lasted three and a half months, during which time he became more and more fascinated with the little red marks all over the pages of his would be masterpiece. Had there been fewer of them, he might have simply taken their direction and moved on with the rewriting. However, the exorbitant proliferation, the veritable sea of red swimming on every page, became more and more captivating as he made his way through the novel. Ryan began to see his writing in a whole new light. He began to clearly see the problems inherent in his writing, and even began to discern the solutions to those problems. Had his material been remotely worth saving, this newfound knowledge might have indeed been the beginning of his ascendency to literary greatness. As it was, he instead found his new calling.

Ryan had spent the last six years of his life becoming one of the most sought after editors in the business. He had edited fourteen New York Times best sellers and a great many more books that had turned a tidy profit for several major publishing houses. He had reached that wonderful point in his professional career where he could afford to be selective about what work he chose to edit. He had reached the pinnacle, and it was everything he could have hoped for it to be.

Then the headaches had begun.

They were small at first, just a nagging pain behind his eyes, and he initially thought that he might just need a new pair of glasses. He then proceeded to place the blame on the glare on his computer screen. Eventually, he came to a point where he would start feeling his head throb the second he flipped on his computer monitor in the morning and he started to wonder if he had a brain tumor or something along those lines. His doctor couldn't find anything wrong with him, and neither could any one else in the long string of specialists he went to see. His head was scanned and scrutinized from every possible angle, always with the same results. No one could find anything physically wrong with him.

The headaches continued to worsen over the subsequent months, and when they finally reached the point that he could no longer work at all, he concluded that it was time to take drastic action. He decided he had no other recourse remaining but to follow up on the one and only recommendation made by one of the specialists which he had not yet pursued.

Ryan went to see a psychiatrist.

He visited the psychiatrist once a week for three months, during which time he continued to be unable to work on his computer. In fact, he had stopped even going into his study at all, as the very sight of the monitor on the desk caused him to begin feeling the prickling sensation behind his eyes that always foreshadowed the coming of a monstrous headache.

Dr. Copeland, the aforementioned psychiatrist, eventually made a recommendation that would change Ryan's life forever. He recommended that Ryan try an experiment to see if it would help alleviate his symptoms. He suggested that Ryan leave the city for an afternoon and take a printed copy of a manuscript with him. He was to leave his cell phone and laptop at home, drive well outside the city limits to a park the doctor told him about, and take the manuscript and a red pen with him.

Ryan followed the directions exactly, and the results were truly extraordinary. It was only when it began to grow so dark he could not make out the words on the page that he looked up and realized how much time had passed while he had been sitting at a picnic table, happily editing away without the faintest trace of a headache.

The decision was one of the easiest Ryan had ever made. He took his entire savings and bought a house in the country. He allowed a realtor to do most of the work, with the explicit instructions that he was looking for a house the furthest from any city as could be found, but it had to be one that still had electricity and plumbing. He cancelled his cell phone plan, threw out his computer and television, packed his remaining possessions, and left the city with no plan to ever return.

That was all now six months in the past and, other than the occasional dog interrupted sleepless night, Ryan had found the country life immensely to his liking. He had worked steadily the entire time and seldom missed any of the conveniences he had left behind. He had not felt even the faintest symptoms of a headache since he began his new life, and he was excited to see what the world outside his windows would look like when winter came. He imagined it would be much more picturesque than the dirty slush he was used to seeing outside his apartment in winter time.

Ryan was perhaps a bit lonely, but he had made his peace with that a long time ago. At least in the country he could pretend that the reason he was lonely was because no one else was around. He found this to be far preferable to the loneliness a person could feel in a crowded city.

The Country Life (part 1 of 5)

The Country Life

a short story by Andrew Shane Autry.

Chapter One

The dog next door was barking again.

Ryan sat up, seeking to free himself from a tangle of bedclothes, and stared blearily at the clock on the dresser opposite his bed. He fell back with a groan, while outside the sounds of barking ceased. It was five past two in the morning and he was now wide awake. With no real hope, he flipped his pillow to the cool side and burrowed deeper into the blankets, shutting his eyes tightly. He began counting softly to himself.

The silence lasted approximately twelve seconds before a sudden, fresh eruption of barking drove all thoughts of going back to sleep from his mind. The deep baritone bellowing cut through the silence like gunfire, rendering any chance for further slumber highly improbable.

Ryan sighed deeply, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then rolled out of bed and slipped his feet into his house shoes. He stumbled through the bedroom and took his robe from the hook on his closet door, slipping it over his pajamas as he stepped into the hallway. He didn't turn on any lights as he made his way through the living room and weaved around the piano and between the sofa and the coffee table. "Radar," he said softly to himself as he slid through the blackness, amazed at how familiar this place already was to him. It was as if he had been living here all his life.

He continued through the kitchen and into the laundry room, reaching blindly for the doorknob he knew would be there. He found it on his first try, and smiled to himself as he turned the handle. He shivered as he opened the back door and felt the crisp, cold night air blow his hair from his forehead and the last remnants of sleep from his brain.

He couldn't see a blessed thing out there. It was one of those chilly autumn nights with absolutely no moon to speak of. The sky was entirely overcast, cutting off any starlight that might have otherwise provided at least a hint of visibility. Ryan thought about his apartment back in the city and wondered again if he had made the right decision. There were no streetlights out here anywhere.

"And that's one of the reasons you moved here," he reminded himself, with a condescending tone. "You always complained about the streetlights and how you couldn't see the stars. And besides, you really need to quit talking to yourself out loud."

Talking to himself out loud was one of the many eccentricities that were gradually becoming standard operating procedure for Ryan since he had left the aforementioned city and moved to the middle of nowhere. "Cause if nowhere has a definable middle, this is at least somewhere in its neighborhood," he added wryly to the darkness, pulling his robe more tightly around him.

Ryan stared into the emptiness in the direction of his neighbor's house. Neighbor was a word that meant something very different out here in the country, especially when compared to its former association to people with whom he had shared a wall back in his city apartment. The neighbor currently in question lived about two hundred yards away, and the next closest house beyond that was over three miles further down the road. "At least I know for sure they can't hear my toilet flush anymore."

The dog was still barking, but Ryan quickly gave up any hope of being able to see what it was that had drawn its noisome ire. The beast was likely barking at a raccoon or a skunk or some other nocturnal intruder. Quite possibly it was barking its fool head off for no good reason at all whatsoever. "Dogs are like that sometimes," he added for the benefit of no one in particular.

It was amazing though, how the sound carried, considering it was coming from about two football field lengths away. The funny thing was that Ryan knew that life in the city had been exponentially louder than the sound of a single dog barking, but back then he had never been bothered by the noise. He knew that he had previously slept right through the night to a symphony of car horns, noisy neighbors, and televisions blaring at all hours. Nonetheless, the solitary dog next door had cost him many a night's sleep during the half a year since he decided to try his luck at the country life.

Ryan's eyes had now adjusted to the darkness somewhat, and he could vaguely make out a slightly different shade of charcoal which was caused by the line of trees standing about fifty feet from his back door. "Good evening woods," he said cordially, then turned around and stepped back inside.

"Stupid mutt," he grumbled as he closed the door and re-entered his kitchen. He flipped on the light and turned on his coffee maker. "Might as well get some work done since I'm up anyway."

So I'm pretty much famous now.

Here's how it happened.

I was looking on Craig's List a few weeks ago, when I stumbled across an opportunity to expand my horizons a bit.

Side note #1 - The "Talent" section under "Gigs" in Craig's List is a sordid and creepy place, and should generally be avoided.

But back to the main point...

I have long held the lofty ambition to someday be used as an extra in a movie.  I understand that I have clearly set the hopes and dreams bar pretty high on that one, but we can't all wish as hard as Rudy.  I have always been amused by the thought of watching a movie and seeing myself walk by in the background.  I was particularly interested in trying to shemp my way into being an extra in some sort of zombie or indie horror movie, preferably one which will eventually become a cult classic. 

With this dream in mind and hope in my heart, I was perusing ads which were looking for extras, then there it was.  The ad was casting for a Zombie 48 Hour Film Project.  I wasn't sure what that was, but they were looking for people interested in being involved, and it had Zombie in the title, so I knew I wanted to find out more.

I sent an email with my credentials and photos and I shortly received a positive response.  They wanted me to come in for an audition of sorts.  The aforementioned credentials included my having acted in two silent indie films.  This is in point of fact, true.  I did do this.  I even have a VHS Copy of one of the films.  The other project I have never actually seen a completed version of.  I was on screen for about 12 or 13 seconds in the one I have.  The films were made by a man named Todd Morten and were shot with a Super 8 camera.  The time frame of this acting experience was around 1996 or thereabouts.  I might not have mentioned these particular details in the email.  It's entirely possible I just mentioned that I had acted in two Indie Films.  Regardless, I was on my way to fame and fortune.

Side Note #2 - I was also in a promotional video for a rock and roll band called Spin 490.  I played a character loosely based on myself, but did not include this in my credentials.  Perhaps I might have been able to skip even having to audition if they knew I had been in three film projects.  I also own a VHS copy of this rockumentary.  If anyone knows how to convert VHS to something I can put on youtube, great adventure might be ahead for all of us.

So I went in for the audition.  I was a little nervous because I wondered if perhaps the people involved might actually be cannibals who lure the careless in with fake ads and then eat them.  Perhaps even while filming the whole thing, thus creating something of a reality zombie type film, just without the whole undead thing.  It turned out they did not plan to kill me.  So that was good.  I answered some questions about what I loved about Zombie movies and what a Zombie Purist is, and then I had to read a part.  This was difficult for me, mainly because in my head I was hearing the part read in 1920's reporter guy voice.  I knew using this voice would be the most sure fire way imaginable to not get the green light, so I suppressed the scat man in my soul and read the part in my normal voice.  I guess it was good enough.

I was offered some role in the film, though I do not as yet know what that role will be.  It turns out that a 48 hour film project is a rather interesting and marvelous thing.  This particular one can be examined in greater detail here, but the basic gist is that the filmmaker will get their topic on Friday and have that evening to write the script.  They then have all day Saturday to shoot the movie and have to do all the editing, etc on Sunday.  So it's film making at warp speed.

I don't know if I'll be talking in the film or if I'll just be eating people.  Or perhaps being eaten by other people.  Or standing in the background watching other people be eaten.  I won't know until late Friday night sometime before showing up Saturday morning.  As I said, interesting and marvelous.

All of this will take place at the beginning of September.  So I'd recommend getting in good with me now, because in about a month I'll be far too big time for all you little people.

Blessings.

A Sunday Drive

A Sunday Drive
    a short story by andrew shane autry

There's nothing quite like feeling the wind blowing through your hair and the sun shining brightly on your face as you drive down the highway on a Sunday afternoon in early Spring. I can't remember ever feeling this alive in my entire life before today. The very atmosphere itself feels absolutely charged with some special electricity, never there before today. Even the air feels different in my lungs. It tastes sweeter too, like I've never really breathed before. Who knows? Maybe I haven't.


I can tell that Cole feels the same way. He's usually so grim and stoic, but not today. Not now, with the sun in the sky and scenery blurring past on either side. I look at him behind the wheel and he's even smiling! He's so handsome when he smiles and his eyes catch the light in that way that is so uniquely him. And that dimple! I don't know why it's so hard for him to smile most of the time. I guess he is who he is and I should just be glad for this moment in time. I guess one moment is all we can ever feel at any particular point in time anyway, so I should just plan to enjoy the now that we're driving through and not worry about any yesterdays. I certainly don't plan to worry about any more tomorrows either. I don't plan to ever worry about any more tomorrows ever again.

Cole's hair is too short for him to really enjoy the whole "blowing in the wind" effect of riding in a convertible, but that might be for the best. With how fast we're driving, it certainly wouldn't be advisable for him to have his vision obstructed by flying hair. I wonder if it detracts from the whole convertible experience when you have short hair. I've never had short hair. My mom always said boys prefer girls with long hair, but then she said a lot of things. I stopped really listening a long time ago. I wonder if Cole would like me with short hair.

I've never driven this fast before. I'm sure I'd be entirely terrified if every nerve in my body wasn't absolutely screaming with delight as we fly past car after car. It's like what that song says about passing cars like they're standing still. Now I get it.

I never really noticed before, but there seem to be more white cars on the road than any other color. I wonder why that is? It's strange what your mind will fix on sometimes. You're just drifting along and all of a sudden you notice something you weren't even paying attention to. White! What a boring color for a car. What's fun about white? I like yellow cars, like the one we're in now. Red is fun too.

This is actually my first time riding in a convertible. Cole usually drives his mom's minivan, but it broke down and here we are. This is such a rush! I wonder what he's thinking about right now, this very second. I guess you never really can know that sort of thing about another person. Every time you ask someone what they're thinking about it changes what they're thinking so you get, at best, some sort of filtered, watered down version of their thoughts. And most people aren't even that honest with what they say back to you anyway when you ask them that question. I think Cole is honest. At least I think he's honest with me, and that's all that really matters.

I really love him, you know? He's not like other guys. I know a lot of girls say that. In fact, I think every girl who ever had a boyfriend or even just wanted to have one said that very thing about the guy she liked, but Cole really is truly different. He does things for me that no other guys would ever even think about doing. He is so considerate. Take my parents for example. Cole handled them so differently than any other guy I ever went out with. Completely different. No one could say otherwise.

I think he really loves me too. I mean, he's never just come right out and said, "Steph, I love you," or anything like that. That's not his way, but I believe he says it with his actions much louder than he could ever say it with only his words. Some people say that actions speak louder than words and I believe that those people are right to say so. Cole isn't much of a talker, but I feel like he's making himself clear to me all the time regardless. Of course, it would be really nice to hear it. Maybe just once. Right now would be the perfect time. Maybe that's what he's thinking about, but I won't ask.

Cole is such a good driver. I can't believe he can so calmly maneuver through traffic at this speed with just his left hand on the wheel. He always drives with just his left hand on the wheel, at the very top, in the center. "High Noon," he calls it. I like it that way cause then his right hand is free to hold my hand or sneak its way around my shoulders. Sometimes he even strokes my hair while he's driving. I love it when he strokes my hair. I've always liked movies where the guy reaches over and strokes a girl's hair. There's something so intimate about it. Something so calm. So right.

Looking at the dashboard, we still have about half a tank of gas left. I wonder just how far that will get us. I never paid much attention to gas mileage or things like that, so I don't have a clue what kind this car might get. I'd ask Cole but I don't want to trouble him. He looks so happy right now and I want him to stay that way for as long as possible. We both know we'll have to stop eventually when the gas is all gone. I wonder where we'll be when we finally have to stop. What state we'll be in. In fact, I wonder what state we're in now?

"Louisiana," Cole answers when I ask him. He actually had to shout it twice before I could hear him over all the racket. Everything is so loud with the top down at this speed.

Louisiana sure seems far from home to me. Before today I'd never even been out of Virginia. Of course today was a day for a lot of things I've never done before. I wish we had time to stop for some dinner. I haven't eaten anything since dinner last night and I've always heard that the food in Louisiana is spectacular.

On a personal note, I've always been an adventurous eater. I despise those girls who only eat salads on a date and turn down dessert. Cole found out very quickly what to expect when he took me to dinner for the first time. I always find something on the menu I've never eaten before, and that's just what I order. I've heard all about interesting Louisiana food like Cajun fried alligator tail, gumbo, fried crawfish, and all sorts of other things I'd like to try now, but there's no time.

We just passed a sign welcoming us to Texas. Cole smiled at me as we passed the sign. We've talked about Texas before since Cole used to live here. I met him right after he moved from his old home in San Antonio. He says Texas is nothing like what you see in the movies. He says it's just like anywhere else except it gets really hot in the summer and not too cold in the winter. I couldn't really say since I've never really been anywhere, but I wonder if maybe every place is pretty much the same as every other place, except for the weather. Maybe that's stupid.

"We might just make it," he calls out, still with that same dimpled smile on his face. I wonder if he really believes it. I smile back for him, big and bright and I know my eyes are dancing, but I'm starting to fade a little. It's been a very long day and some of the exhilaration is finally starting to wear off. Maybe it's the hunger. I never should have thought about food. Thinking about it only makes it so much worse.

We had a near miss about ten minutes after we crossed the border to Texas. We saw the sea of brake lights and flashing red and blue ahead just in time to whip the car off the road, drive across a field, and merge back onto a smaller blacktop road heading south. It happened so fast it took my breath away!

"It's a good thing everything is so flat in Texas!" Cole shouted gleefully across the car when he finally stopped laughing. I smiled back, trying to hide the fact that my blood was pounding so hard in my head I could barely see. Cole was amazing! He never even hesitated or took his foot off the gas! Looking behind us, I saw that a few of the cars had followed his lead, albeit much more slowly, and were on the same alternate route we were now on. "Monkey see, monkey do," I thought, and that's when the laughing started for me.

Cole was no longer smiling as he watched me out of the corner of his eye. "You okay kid?" he warily inquired. I waved him off, gulping in air and trying to stifle the waves of laughter threatening to choke off my air supply. I'm not even sure why I'm laughing. I just can't seem to stop. I finally get everything back under control, and glance over at the gas gauge again. I think that maybe its time to say something, but looking at the now stern face beside me, I think better of it. It's not like he doesn't already know anyway. He's probably known all along.

The funny thing is that we were almost out of gas anyway when it happened. If it had lasted even five minutes longer, it probably would have ended so differently. But it didn't last five minutes longer.

We hit the road spikes going well over 100 miles per hour and were airborne almost immediately. I'd like to believe that they didn't know that might happen, but I don't know. I think they were pretty mad about the near escape at the Texas border and were pulling out all the stops before we could make it to Mexico. I guess they thought all of this had gone on more than long enough and it was time for extreme measures.

We rolled over in the air so that we were flying upside down through open space. It was so surreal and so like a scene in a movie. Everything slowed down just like it would on screen and every detail became crystal clear. Cole turning to look at me, smiling a strange half smile, shrugging his shoulders and taking his one hand off the steering wheel. I see my own hand reaching towards his face all by itself, moving slowly through the small space between us, almost getting there.

Then we hit the ground and the flashing lights close in all around us. Cole was killed instantly. I knew he must have been or he would have said something to reassure me as we lay there surrounded by darkness inside the crushed cockpit of the upside down convertible, pulsing red and blue lights creeping in under the edges.

I'm not sure how I managed to survive, even for just a little while, but I did. I lay broken, with glass, metal, and upholstery pressing close on every side, watching my own blood begin to pool around me. I can hear them shouting, but their words mean nothing to me. I grope around in the dark for Cole, but find nothing. Maybe he isn't even in here with me. Maybe he landed somewhere else. Suddenly I find that I don't really care so much anymore. I feel too tired and know that, where ever he is, I'll probably be joining him soon enough.

It had been such a long day.

My parents telling us no.

The fight.

The yelling.

The push.

The knife.

The blood.

The blood.

The running.

The mini van.

The smoke.

The break down.

The gas station.

The yellow car.

The man.

The knife again.

More blood.

The driving, driving, driving, driving, driving, driving. The sirens.

The chase.

And finally, the crash.

So tired now.

I guess I never really believed we could escape after what we did, but it would have been nice to have had more time. I always thought there would be more time. Seventeen is just too soon. Too fast.

So tired.

Is this really all my blood? How much blood does one person have in them anyway? Not this much. There can't be.

So tired.

Cole? How...

So tired.

I always meant to visit Texas sometime. There's that at least. At least that happened for me, when so many other things didn't and never will.

So tired.

Mom? Dad? I guess maybe you were right after all. It kills me to admit it. Get it?

So tired.

What is wrong with you, Stephanie? You really should be praying right about now, not joking. I don't think you're gonna make it kid. I love it when you call me kid, Cole.

So tired.

I'll never get to try that gumbo now. Do they really eat alligator tail?

So tired.

Focus Steph! Running out of time. Running out of blood. Must be. So much blood.

So tired.

God?

What I've been reading lately

Greetings.

I do not anticipate that this will be one of my more popular blog postings.  In it, I will not be arrogantly declaring the top five somethings of all time or taking a cynical/humorous view of the dangers of the modern world.  Instead, I thought I would take a moment to share what I've been reading lately.

Why should you care?

That is an excellent question.  You shouldn't.

And yet, here are some of the most recent books I have read over the last couple of months.  I believe that reading is important and that it fundamentally shapes how we think and view the world.  Turn off your computer and go to the library!

"Night of the Living Trekkies" by Kevin David Anderson and Sam Stall.  I think the name pretty much speaks for itself.  I couldn't put it down.

"The Torrents of Spring" by Ernest Hemingway.  Reading this book was a very strange experience.  I've read most of Hemingway's work and there is a pretty definitive style and pattern to his writing which this work deviates from drastically.  As I understand it, the book was his way of mocking another writer. 

The Traci Ganner trilogy of Science Fiction books by Brian Jeffreys.  I have completed "The Fall of the Terran Empire" and "The Orion Gambit" and am now starting the final book, "Glory and Empire."  I don't regularly dive into the Science Fiction end of the pool, but this has been a pretty enjoyable swim so far.  I'm also going to name drop and let you know that I know Mr. Jeffreys in person.  Indeed.  I might even be able to introduce you to him.  Come to my church with me sometime.  Anything is possible.

"God Bless you, Dr. Kevorkian" by Kurt Vonnegut.  Mr. Vonnegut can really do no wrong when he puts words on paper.  Or could do no wrong that is.  Since he's in heaven now and all.  This last statement is a joke for the Vonnegut fans.  Though with my personal views on the Spiritual world, it is decidedly less humorous and makes me rather sad.  Be that as it may, another delightful read from one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century.

"Fight Club" by Chuck Palahntuk.  I really don't know what to think about this one.  I wanted to like it so bad because it had so many moments of extraordinarily great writing in it.  I just couldn't bring myself to love it though.  Almost.  It was so close.  I will purchase another Palahntuk sometime soon to see if those glimpses of genius can come together for a full picture.

So there you go.  I have quite a few books on my radar for the remainder of the year, and I hope you do to.  Maybe something on here will give you a starting point.

Blessings.