10/1/10 - When Sorry Works (part 1)

Beverly didn't notice that she had stopped breathing. She didn't feel her legs going weak and slowly folding beneath her. She didn't realize that she was sitting on the floor where a moment earlier she had been standing.

"Mom!"

She heard a voice, small and far away. Someone. It didn't matter. What did matter was the glass fragments spread like stars on the black marble tiles.

Her own voice, a single note resounding through the empty space between the stars in front of her, "Oooooooooooo..."

"Mom!"

The voice does not belong to the empty.

"Mom!"

It belongs to Doug... Doug... "Doug!"

"Mom, Mom are you OK?"

She looks at her son then back at the shattered crystal on the floor. No bluebird and now no nest. She should sweep up the pieces before someone cuts them self but she only has enough energy to sit and look.

Moments ago, her father's bird's nest glass sculpture was sitting on a high shelf. The nest was half of a piece that he called The Bluebird of Happiness. She had his sketches and, if he had lived long enough to finish, it would have been exquisite.

He died after completing the nest but before starting on the bluebird.

The sculpture was to be a gift for her, a single mother who worked hard to provide for her son. Whenever she complained about things in her life her father would remind her of the story of the happy bluebird. The sculpture was to be his constant reminder.

No day passed when she did not look at that empty nest. The love it held lightened even her worst days. Seeing it shattered took everything out of her.

"Doug, what happened?"

The boy tries to speak through his tears. "I-I-I was trying to h-help."

She looks around the room and notices the paper towels, the Windex and the ladder leaning at an odd angle against the shelves.

"I was going to w-w-wash the w-w-windows. The l-ladder s-s-slipped ..."

"Did you fall, Doug? Are you alright?"

"I'm f-fine, Mom... I-I-I'm s-s-sorry."

As Doug speaks the air in the room begins to vibrate silently. An electricity, like an impending lightning strike, causes the hair on their arms and on the backs of their necks to rise up. Light and sound begin to slow as if time itself was taking a deep breath and holding it.

Glass fragments begin to tremble and glow from within. A soft wind moves through the room carrying the scent of springtime rain and the sound of distant wind chimes.

Their skin tingles as the sounds swirl around them.

In a single motion, pieces of glass rise up, swirling and shimmering like a school of needle fish. Round and round, faster and faster, sending out rainbow colors of reflected light.

Chimes come together in a single chord and as time exhales the glass sculpture reassembles itself inside a spray of pure white laser lights as it moves back up onto the shelf.

To Be Continued...

Thursday, 9/30/10 - Notes From Nostradamus

"Hey, Buddy, can you help me out?"

Detective Jessop doesn't have time or the desire to help. If he stopped to help every panhandler he would be poor and late. As it is, he is only going to be late.

---

The Captain's rubber gloved hand turns the page."Looks like you found 'im, Jessop."

At first the murders seemed random, disconnected, but as the number and frequency increased, patterns, as unique as fingerprints, began to stand out beside the bloodstains and the gore.

Some of these details were presented in press releases, others were intentionally obfuscated or manufactured. Other than the killer, only three of his staff members knew which were which.

The handwritten notebook he is reading is genuine. It contains all of the correct details and even talks about the dice found with each corpse.

He closes the book and places it back inside the evidence bag. "So, where do we find our killer?"

"Crestmont Cemetery. Los Angeles, California."

"Our killer is dead?"

"And has been for twenty eight years."

The Captain would like to start rapid-firing questions at the deputy but he knows the best way to get the information is to let it come to him. "Explain."

"The guy who wrote the notes was Nathan Bresson. His grandson found the notebook several months ago when cleaning out the attic. He started reading it and was amazed that his grandfather could write horror so well. We found them when the grandson started publishing them online."

"You think the kid used the grandfather's stories as inspiration?"

"Not possible. The kid is seventy two years old, not in the best o' health and he lives in Anaheim."

"So, you think someone is reading the stories online and acting them out?"

"You would think that but the murders all occurred before the stories were published."

"Lay it out for me."

"Every murder was vicious. Victims were tortured, killed then mutilated. The methods were all different: cutting, burning, beating. What was the same was that each corpse was placed in an active pose. You've seen the pictures."

The Captain remembers pictures of "The Walker". The team had started naming the victims by the poses they were placed in. The Walker was found in his apartment, held upright by a series of thin steel cables anchored in a web-like pattern to the walls and ceiling. Skin was flayed open and left hanging in long strips where the cables screwed directly into the exposed bone.

"And each had two dice placed in front of them. We never told the media about the dice and we never knew what they meant."

No one outside of the department knew about the dice. There were six murders and eight confessions. None of the confessors mentioned the dice.

"Then the stories started showing up on the web. They were short and gruesome but each one gave a detailed account of the murder scene. One was so vivid that we went back to the pictures and realized that there were subtleties that we hadn't noticed in our investigations. We thought that we had our killer but all we have are more questions."

"Is it possible the notebook was put in this guy's attic?"

"You mean that someone in New Jersey is murdering people, writing detailed accounts and hiding the notes in an attic in California? That's almost as crazy as what the grandson thinks."

"What's that?"

"He thinks that the stories were prophetic, that his grandfather saw future events and wrote them down."

"What do you think?"

"I think that the stories were published somewhere else, our killer read them and is now acting them out."

"How many stories are there?"

"Seven. The first six murders occurred in the same order as the first six stories."

"Only one left? Any chance we can figure out who the next victim might be?"

"We are working on that. The problem is that the killer doesn't choose his victim, in the stories they are chosen at random by a toss of the dice."

"Explain it to me."

"In the stories, the killer keeps track of everyone that does him wrong. If someone bumps him on the street and doesn't say excuse me he puts them on his list. When he has six names on the list he rolls a die to determine who is going to be killed. He has another list that has six different methods: cutting, burning, beating... He rolls a second die to determine the method. A third is cast to determine what day of the week. In the stories he takes Sundays off."

"And we find two of those at each of the scenes?"

"According to the stories, he gives the first one to the victim before the murder, the other two we find at the scene. He uses the way the bodies are displayed as an indication of what the victim did to deserve this fate."

"Does the seventh story give us anything to go on?"

"Just that the victim ends up with his eyes and mouth sewn shut."

As they discuss the details and provide theories, an hour passes, then another. The two are no closer to finding the killer when they close up the office and head for the two lone cars in the dark parking lot.

As he takes a left out of the lot something rolls across the dashboard and wedges up against the windshield. Detective Jessop reaches up and retrieves the single white die.

The number on top is six.

Wednesday, 9/29/10 - The Sky Is Falling

Again, I have a story for tonight but I am going to save it and present only an explanation and some pictures.

I am on the road for work, had just finished dinner at a restaurant and noticed that the sunset was looking promising. I decided to head to a nearby lake to photograph the sunset and its reflections.

I started driving out of the parking lot and saw one of the most vivid rainbows I have ever seen. I scrambled for the camera but the light changed and I had no choice but to head out with the line of traffic that I was in.

The skyline was cut by power lines so I searched for the nearest open parking lot in the hopes of snapping a few shots before the rainbow faded.

The whole process took under three minutes but in that time the rainbow had lost most of its punch but the sunset was really beginning to kick in.

Because these things change so quickly, I couldn't chance the ten minute drive to the lake so I stayed in the parking lot and shot the sunset from there.

Here's what I got...

Oh, by the way, not one pixel in any of these images was altered. Everything you see is exactly how the camera captured it.

Tuesday, 9/28/10 - Maiden

The room contains none of the scattered haphazardry of women. There is nothing hanging over the curtain rod in the bathroom and what few toiletries are out on the counter are all neatly arranged. There is no suitcase, half zipped, oozing clothes onto the floor and no shoes poking out from under the bed or the desk.

There are no wrappers or crumpled tissues littering the counters or the spaces around the trash cans.

She wants to open the closet but she knows she will not. A maid attends only to open spaces and should never open closets or drawers.

But she wants to. She wants to open the closet to see clothes hanging evenly spaced on the bar and shoes arranged in pairs on the floor, heels together, left beside right, laces tucked. She wants to open the top drawer and see undershorts folded and stacked beside undershirts, socks paired and folded, not balled, and in the next drawer the crisp, creased t-shirts and shorts.

She will go through the motions of cleaning this room but there is little reason.

She takes the bedspread from the chair where he had placed it, fold upon fold, as if it were his own and he didn't want it soiled or wrinkled, and spreads it on top the fresh sheets.

Who is this man? she wonders briefly before answering herself. He is a prince.

She smiles at her silliness while laying out the spread.

Then it occurs to her that he could very well be a prince. The Waverly West is the best hotel in the city and the cost for one night in this room is more than she makes in a week.

She pulls a clean case onto a soft down pillow light as a cloud and lets her imagination float.

An almond eyed man with cinnamon skin enters the room. Excuse me, she says to him, shall I come back at a later time? No, he replies, please continue, I just need to grab a few things and I will be leaving. She continues straightening the room feeling his eyes upon her. Did you happen to see a book lying around here? he asks her. She does remember a book. There is one over here on the night stand, she replies. She holds it up for him to see. Yes, that is it, thank you.

He takes the book. Have you ever read Bradbury? he asks. No? Perhaps I could read it to you. Would you like that?

Yes, yes, I would like that.

And dinner? Tonight?

Yes, yes, dinner tonight.

Wine, miss? Do you prefer red or white?

I prefer something golden and summery like Dandelion Wine...

She smiles to herself again, dusts the top of the nightstand then positions the book in the same exacting way that she found it.

Monday, 9/7/10 - Face Value

"Ashe? Talk to me, please." Ryan hears her crying on the other side of the door. "Just tell me you're alright. OK?" She doesn't answer. "Ashe, I'm scared. I don't know what to do."

He's been outside this door listening to her crying for over an hour. He tried calmly asking her what was wrong. He tried joking with her. He tried yelling at her. He threatened to break the door down and to call the cops. Nothing worked.

It would be easier if he knew what was wrong. If she would just tell him something, anything, then at least he would have the chance.

He takes out his phone and texts her: I LV U.

The crying on the other side of the door becomes a broken sobbing punctuated with hiccupy breaths and moans.

His phone vibrates her response: U CANT.

His fingers take no time on the keys: I DO LV U.

There is motion now just inside the door. "Ry, I'm a freak."

"Then you are my freak. Please open the door."

He hears the lock turning and waits while she slowly pulls the door open. Even with her eyes red and puffy from crying, he still thinks she's beautiful.

He is relieved that she has opened the door but he is still not sure what is going on. He wants to take her in his arms and tell her not to worry. He wants to tell her not to be afraid. He wants to tell her that he will take care of her and protect her from whatever is bothering her.

He wants to do these things but he is afraid so he says the only safe thing he can think of, "Thank you."

Ashley moves into his arms and melts there. "You can't love me, Ry. I am a freak." Her breath catches and the tears start again.

"Shhhhh, shhhhh, shhhh, it's OK." He rocks her gently. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. You're not a freak. You're the most beautiful person I know."

"No, that's just it, I'm not beautiful."

"Yes, yes you are."

She pulls away from him. "Look!" She makes a fist and holds it up to her forehead. "From hairline to eyebrow, one fist." She moves her the fist down. "From eyebrow to the bottom of the nose, one fist." She moves it a third time. "From the bottom of the nose to the chin, one fist."

He is watching but not understanding.

"That is what Mrs. Woods said in art class. She said that faces are divided into thirds. Each one the size of your fist." She takes her fist and runs through the motions again. "See? My face doesn't look anything like that. My forehead is much larger and my chin much smaller."

"That can't be right, it can't apply to everyone or everyone would look the same. And besides, fists are different sizes. According to that theory people with big hands would all have long faces."

"But we all did it and everyone else's face had those proportions. I was the only one whose face was different."

"Maybe that's why I think you are more beautiful than everyone else, because you are different."

While she dabs at her eyes and blows her nose, Ryan relaxes on the couch. She lies down beside him and places her head on his lap.

Ryan rubs her gently and listens as her breathing evens out then slows.

While she sleeps he makes a fist and measures from his hairline...

Sunday, 9/26/10 - Ya Gotta Wonder...

Ya gotta wonder bout men
who go scouting for boys
and spend their weekends
just playing with toys.

Leaving their wives at home
when they're alone
with boys...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.


Ya gotta wonder bout men
who think that it's good
to spend time in pup-tents
with young boys in the woods.

I don't think I understand
how this appeals to full grown men
not boys...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.

Ya gotta wonder bout men
who tell you about
all of their friends
who are only cub scouts.

Dressing up to go to camp
in neckerchief and those short pants...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.

Ya gotta wonder bout men
Who think that it's fun
to spend all their time
with someone else's son.

They try so hard to be a dad
to the boy they never had...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.


Now, I'm not suggesting anything
I'm just saying I'm wondering...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.




Note: I just write what the voices in my head tell me to write. I found the humor only after loosening my neckerchief a little.

Saturday, 9/25/10 - Unfurled

My friend, I came
with nothing to wave

With no rampart
clutched close to my heart

No pennant point to cleave
us from them or you from me



Stuck with neither decal nor pin
nothing to lose and less to win

There is no flag
when unfurled
that is large enough
to cover the world

So let me raise a colorless sheet
high up over you and me
to where it's blown by the breeze




Together we'll stand and hopefully
this lineless cloth will set us free.

Friday, 9/24/10 - A Table For None

What would you like for dinner?

I don't care. Anything.

Why don't you choose?

I always choose.

No you don't.

Yes, I do. You always ask what I want for dinner, then you say that I never choose, then you say that I am the picky one.

You are.

No, I am not.

Yes, you are a lot pickier than me.

I.

What?

I am.

That's what I said.

No, you said "pickier than me" and it should be "pickier than I am".

Look, it's seven thirty. I don't want to eat too late. What would you like?

Anything is fine.



How about Chinese?

No, I don't feel like Chinese tonight.

See what I mean? OK, you choose.

No, no, if you want Chinese then let's do Chinese.

But you don't want Chinese.

Chinese is fine. Do you want to eat out or bring it home?

I don't care.

If we eat in then I don't have to get dressed.

You have to get dressed to go pick it up.

Well, if I have to get dressed then we might as well eat it there.

But then I'll have to get dressed, too.

OK, why don't I go and eat there and I'll bring yours back when I am done.

Very funny. No, I don't think I want to go out.

Do they deliver?

No.

I guess I can get dressed and go get it.

No, that's alright. Let's just make something here.

OK, what do we have?

Hmmm. Nothing really. How about some cereal?

OK, cereal is fine. I'll get the bowls.

Uh-oh.

Don't tell me, there's no milk, right?

Thursday, 9/23/10 - Words?

NOTE: I did write stories for yesterday and today but felt that the images from both days deserved a space of their own.

Wednesday, 9/22/10 - Eleven Thousand Words

Tuesday, 9/21/10 - Willn'ts And Won'tings

all of the tale-ings
of the tryings and the failings

the passionate ranting
centered on can't-ing

endless almost-was-ing
followed by b-cuz-ings

reasonable don't-ings
justify the won't-ings

it's willn'ts that are given
instead of really living

Monday, 9/20/10 - No Complaints

Do you enjoy what you do?

If you had to work all weekend, would you complain?

I worked all weekend and got to this evening and realized that I had no story and no pictures from today to share.

Most of the weekend was spent in the office converting millions of records from one format to another. Technical but at the same time creative. I considered putting a piece of code on the blog as something creative but decided against it. Most people wouldn't see the artful aspects of a bunch of code.

So rather than show you that side of what I do, I decided to show you one of the other things I worked on this weekend.



Madison and Kristen Brock (I think I have the names in the right order...). If you were lucky enough to work with these young ladies, you wouldn't complain either.