Sick Day

It’s taken almost all of February for this bronchitis to pass. It’s now four years in a row now that I get to spend the later half of winter wheezing.

A tiny gecko has taken up residence on my kitchen floor. He lives next to my wifi router. I don’t know his name yet— but I’ll find out once I’m over this illness.

Today was the first sick day I’ve taken in years. My 4th vaccine put me down like a dog. No grace or mercy in it. I managed to make it into work on Monday— but ice filled my legs and I barely managed to keep my concentration as the world slid past in a haze.

I made it home yesterday after sleeping the entire ride in the taxi. I climbed my stairs like a distracted marionette— got to my apartment and promptly fell into bed for the next three hours— work clothes and all.

I sat on my couch during my sick day— editing a friend’s story about living on the island and listened to Dan Carlin & Rick Rubin discuss the creative muse.

All the while I tried to balance rest with the restless impulse to be working on something worthy of artistic endeavor. That’s when I stumbled back to the to tugging at the threads around my own tapestry of creative belief.

So, I sat on my floor couch and pulled it apart strand by strand.

Who I Was When I Didn't Think About Who I Should Be

Coppery tang of the hose water. The sweet, powdered lemon lime Gatorade mix.

The soccer mad kid who wore soccer socks with shorts and silver indoor shoes.

The colored bandanas and infamous 2002 World Cup Ronaldo haircut. The boldness of a child who would walk up to newly moved in neighbors and prompt their hellos with “Got any food?”

The same kid that tied a red Radio Flyer wagon with the wood slats to his bike and imagine he and a friend were adventurers in a grand caravan. The inside of the wagon would be laid with soft blankets and the essential box of Cap’n Crunch. Long journeys require ample rations.

The kid that spent sun soaked afternoons tromping around a garden to create Indiana Jone’s-esque booby-traps. The leather jacket and satchel were essential components of the donned costume. Alas, no whip was supplied.

The mastery of talents away from prying eyes. The eventual conquering of the fabled “No-hands” bike riding technique. The first and youngest kid on the block to start riding— and quickly ratcheted it up with corner drifts and mini-jumps. All to the low thrum of pseudo motorcycle sounds as clothing pin clamped playing cards stuck in the spokes.

I’d clamor through backyards and side streets without controversy. It was the end of vacant lots and idle hours— I’d wander through my childhood no matter where I was.

My time in the woods on Mt. Hood saw many an afternoon spent on the small shamrock covered island in the creek below my family’s cabin. Giant logs crossed above the island to provide passage to the far shore. The water had its own taste that would find its way to your mouth even if you didn’t stoop to drink from the ambling current.

I’d don a Sherlock Holmes hat of indistinct red, brown, orange-ish color and tromp through the foliage off to the side of the trails. I’d find moss beds and stand in clearings— waiting for who knows what.

The one too many broken garage door windows from shooting practice— the scuffed soccer balls and climbing onto the school roof to reclaim wayward shots when the garage stopped being an option.

Warm, fuzzy raspberries in the early summer mornings as a herculean black lab routed through the brambles in search of pluckable berries.

I’d walk to the library with my mom and middle siblings with our book bags. I’d fill mine with old comics and chapter books with dragons or monsters that wouldn’t stop me from falling asleep at night.

I’d peer out of my open door during sleepless nights at the yellow hallway light that cast shadows over the doorway— splitting my worries between my closet, underneath my metal bunk bed, and the hallway itself.

Stories flowed through that child— stories of his own creation and the creations of others as he wondered of far lands, the fae, marauders, pirates, and the dark side of the moon.

Mins

Hawks hang overhead like smudges in landscape paintings— time is suspended as their bodies until I blink.

Oceanside croquet amongst the octogenarians. A white line looms on the horizon. I wonder if the sun shines over there.

Clicking heels that belong along Parisian cobblestones— not the bayside veranda. It smells of drying squid and questions you can’t ask in polite society.

Peppers & Hellos

A Christmas colored blend of peppers sizzled in the pan as I waited for my neighbor to come pick up their laundry. Their pipes had burst during the winter storm the previous week and I had escaped with intact lines.

Nina Simone trailed off in the background as I felt the world tumble out from under me.

An outstretched hand from the past waved hello and I waved back.

There are people in our lives that straddle the line between this reality and others. People who are “thin places.” If you’ve ever met one— or are one— you know.

So, when I called out a name I hadn’t used in years— and felt anguish turn to joy— I thanked whenever impulse propelled them briefly back into my life.

I didn’t sleep that night until the moon started to creep out of the sky— the questions in my mind rattled louder than my windows during a typhoon.

But the winds calmed— as they do. And away they went— like trailing lyrics to an old song you’d forgotten you loved. A melody that plays between the fluttering of sleepy eyes and waiting dreams.

Campfire Scruff

Fireflies and dust filled the night. Little motes of light sparking into life over the Northern plains. Wyatt cleaned the chambers of his revolver as coyotes crept in the distance. The rabbits smelled of spilled blood as they hung off the side of his saddle like punctured balloons.

He scratched together a letter on a stolen napkin. His letters curled like gun smoke as the light of the fire threw shadows across the message. The little nub of graphite he’d carried since El Paso struggled through the task, but held strong until the postscript.

The company had spoke of the manners of a big heart. Wyatt didn’t have those. That’s why he was out in the brush and the rest of the gang was in town.

Creative Questions

When I started 365 stories last year it was with a bang. There was a question I was trying to answer for myself as I wrote a story every single day. That question was whether or not I was capable of doing it. If I had the discipline (or could build it) to become a consistent writer.

For the most part I’d say I succeeded. A large part of that success resides within my definition of success. I considered myself successful if I created one complete sentence that either encapsulated an idea, dialogue, or some meaningful description. I sure as hell didn’t bat a thousand, but more often than not I found myself grow into the ideas I worked on.

This year? 730 stories is a continuation of 365 stories, but admittedly I don’t know if it’s the project that I need to focus on this year. One of my big takeaways from looking through all y stories from last year was the evident quality in the projects I spent the most concentrated time on. It’s one thing to drop a line here or there— but to commit to an idea and see it through to a satisfying conclusion seems to be a worthier pursuit than ample production of questionable quality.

I’m not sure if I’m going to shelve 730 stories— But I do think I’ll have a clear idea before long about what I want 2023 to hold creatively for me.

Hounds

In the name of this flame ignited within the Delphi cave. Beacons were lit from the Mediterranean to north of Hadrian’s Wall.

A Harvest moon slumped over the sky as four black dogs sang songs of war.

On the horizon— a pitch of crows blotted the sky. Underneath them rode a horde— at the front rode a legend masquerading as a man. They called him “Khan.”