Work Out

I joined a gym recently. So far I have been a total of three times in two weeks. I do not know how long it's been since I've really physically exercised, I guess since I moved to Boston so over a year ago? That's a long time to be a bum, especially for me considering I once worked out the mornings before high school in the fall to get ready for winter wrestling season.

I put an enormous amount of energy into wrestling. 3 hour practices after school daily will take alot out of you, not to mention going to wrestling meets and tournaments every single weekend in the winter. That's alot of time spent wrestling, working out and being physical. I was in the best shape of my life, but then, in high school, you have so much free time. You don't have to worry about anything except dumb kid stuff. You can spend 25 hours a week into training. I don't regret it, not at all. In fact, I miss it, I miss having that intensity, having something that brutally rigorous in my life. A workout I was devoted to every single day of the season. Wrestling made me work harder than I thought possible, give more than I thought I had to give and for that, I will always be thankful. That's a lesson few people learn, I think. That you always have more to give, you can always do at least one more push up, or sit up, or lap, or sprint, or suicide run. You really can give 110% but only because we limit ourselves before our bodies do. In wrestling, we were forced to give all of what we had, 100%, and then give more. That's when you realize how you fool yourself all the time, you tell yourself you've gone as hard as you can, you've done as much as you can do, when, in reality, you really could do more. It helped on the mat, when you were down 5 points and only had 30 seconds left of the match. You don't get down on yourself and think you can't win, you realize what you need to do. Escape, take down, let up, take down, put him to his back, to win.

Regardless, after putting so much time and effort into a sport for so long, I think I was kind of burnt out when I went to college. I used weak excuses not to try out for lacrosse and even talked myself out of joining the wrestling club which is something I do regret, now. It was too easy not to do it, to be lazy. I wanted that free time that I hadn't had in high school. I finally got around to playing rugby and am glad I did. Talk about an intense sport, it is one of the most brutal. I would go to practice once or twice a week and give it my all and more, like I used to do. But not like in high school. I don't know. I just couldn't muster up the same devotion, the same intensity, but it was close. Running an 80 minute game exhausted me like wrestling used to, and was a hell of a lot of fun.

But anyways, I came to Boston and haven't even gone for a run in over a year. That's why I finally decided to join a gym with my girlfriend. It's been fun each time, picking up weights like the good old days back in high school. Working on my chest, my biceps, triceps, etc. Waking up the next two days with my body sore as hell and loving every second of it even as it hurts. Reminds me of a day after a wrestling or a rugby tournament. Can barely move from the ache and pains but laughing at myself because of it.

It hurts. In fact I'm still in pain from a workout I did three days ago. I feel exhausted, like I was beaten with a stick. Its as if somebody stabbed my biceps with tiny little daggers and left them in there.

Why do this? Why do we put ourselves through torment and pain? Why do we go for the Tough Mudder or the Warrior Dash, or anything else? Why do we make the choice to feel pain. When you have the option to feel pain or not, you would think you would choose not, wouldn't you? Yet human beings time and time again do things that are dangerous and agonizing. We rip our muscles over and over to make them stronger. We run ourselves ragged to get healthy.

I think it's the challenge. We love to struggle and to overcome difficulty, regardless of the situation or context. It gives us that feeling of winning, of beating something or someone, even if that someone is ourselves.

I remember that feeling from wrestling. It was the most pure form of that feeling, there was no team that helped you on the mat, you did everything yourself. If you lost, it was your fault, nobody elses. You didn't work hard enough, you didn't lift enough weights to get strong enough, you didn't spend enough time in practice...but when you won, it was fantastic. You alone overcame another human being whose sole purpose was to stop you, yet you won.

We love the challenge and the risk, whether it's physical or mental. It reminds us we're alive, that we have a strength within us and when you realize 'I can do this', and it becomes 'I did do this.' It's a great feeling and the aches and soreness, the pain merely reminds us of what we did.

So if you're feeling bored or like there's too many hours in the day (you're crazy if you think that), then join a gym. Workout for an hour, go for a run. Workout your body until you're gasping for breath and it hurts. It will feel good after, trust me. Eventually.

Man, my arms are still killing me.

A New Year, A New Post

I can't figure out how to start this post so I'm not going to.

2013 is going to be a good year. I feel like I've found a place. No longer am I a different person every day, substituting for real teachers, being a temporary 'robot' simply going through the motions and following a set of simple instructions. That's simplifying what a substitute does immensely and I'm not saying it's not difficult, it can be, but you are simply following another teacher's directions, doing what they would be doing, a temporary replacement that ultimately means very little. I know, I've done it. I even enjoyed it. It's not a bad job by any means but it does feel somewhat pointless. Wasting time being another person. 

Now I work with the same children everyday. I am what is called a Paraprofessional though it seems few people know what that means. Actually, I honestly didn't know what it meant until I just looked it up. Apparently, it means "a person trained to assist a doctor, lawyer, teacher or other professional but is not licensed to practice in that profession." Another definition is "a trained worker who is not a member of a profession but who assists a professional." I suppose that makes sense. Whatever. I work in special education with other paraprofessionals under a special education teacher. We work with 4th-6th graders and essentially make sure they don't go crazy in class. That's a bit simplified. We work with students who need more support than others, who may need a little help academically or socially, who need to work on controlling themselves in various situations. We spend all day with 1-3 students, working with them in and out of the classroom. It's fun! I enjoy it. Children are the most ridiculous people. They will say the craziest things, the worst things, things that just don't make any logical sense. It is very strange to work with them and remember yourself at their age, the similarities and the differences. 

They also drive you crazy. They refuse to do simple tasks, they make meaningless excuses, they bluff and lie and infuriate you but in the end, you have to remember they're just kids. Stupid stupid kids, but kids nonetheless. Everyone says you have to have alot of patience to do my job and that is very true. I find myself feeling aggravated, wanting to scream "JUST DO THE WORKSHEET ITS A STUPID LITTLE WORKSHEET AND THEN YOU'LL BE DONE JEEZ WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?" But then I remember the most important part about the job, the fact that you are not working with a fellow adult, you are working with a child and children are stupid. They are. It's not their fault, they're just young. I remember that and the irritation fades away. I remind myself they're going to get it, eventually, just have to help them get there. Help them understand the world a little more. That's what my job really is. 

So I enjoy my new job. It's going really well. I make just enough to cover expenses with a little(and I mean little) extra and for now, that's enough. Yes, I want to make more money and yes, I want to be a full-time 'real' teacher but for now, I'm pretty happy with where I've ended up in life, especially in a nice apartment with my girlfriend. She is the one who 'brings home the bacon' as it were. Sometimes, I feel aggravated about this, that I'm not providing for her nearly as much as she is providing for me. She's bought all the furniture and that shit is expensive, meanwhile I pay my half of the rent and utilities and little else. It's frustrating, I want to buy her everything but I can't. It's not about her making more than me, I could care less about that, it's simply the fact that I can't give her everything she wants, I can't even cover my half of the expenses of everything. But it is what it is. I'm working on it. You'd think we'd pay a little more for the people whose jobs it is to work with the nation's youth day in and day out but ya know, priorities and all that. 

I don't really like new year's resolutions. If you make a resolution simply because it's a new year, you're not going to keep it. If you want a change, make a change regardless of what month it is. A new year means a new start, I guess? But does it, really? What happens to all those previous years? They're still there. What's the difference between making a decision to go to the gym more in August 22nd rather than January 1st? I tell you what, I'd bet on the one who decided in August to keep going longer than the one in January. 

What's funny is despite not liking "New Year Resolutions", I kind of made one. I decided to attempt to edit my Nano-Novel a chapter at a time, one a day. I'm probably not going to stick to it completely but so far it's working well. I guess I also resolve to write more and send my writing to publications and stuff. That's a good one. This should be the year my Novel finally becomes "Finished," at least as much as it can be. That's exciting to me. 

I also want to go back to those writing exercises I did, though that feels so long ago. Taking those story ideas and expanding upon them, working upon them. It would be nice to work on a few short things after spending so much time on Blood and Ashes. I'd have to find that writing exercises book again. It should be around here somewhere. 

I'm also rereading The Wheel of Time. It is an Epic Fantasy Series by the late Robert Jordan and helped finished by Brandon Sanderson. The last book is dated to come out January 8th, 2013. I have read them all and in preparation for the final book, I am reading them all again. When I say 'Epic Fantasy', I mean it. You will not find a story with more scope, a world more fully realized, a tale more fantastic than The Wheel of Time. 14 vast volumes (+1 prequel), more than 11,004 pages, more than 635 chapters, more than 4,056,130 words. It is an enormous amount of text, monumental. It would take more than 419 hours to listen to the full tale in audiobooks. The first novel, The Eye of The World was published in 1990. Nearly as old as I am, I suppose it makes sense I fell into this world and have never wanted to leave. I discovered them from my brother in high school and devoured them. It was as if someone had taken Lord of The Rings and created something...BIGGER! More compelling, with more intricate characters and plots and twists and turns the likes of which you couldn't even imagine. Throw in a world with deeply complex political machinations, various different cultures and a uniquely amazing magic system. Throw in badass combat and gruesome battles and you have something amazing. 

So I'm going back in, starting at the beginning with books I haven't touched in years. It feels really really good, going back to the characters I grew up with, seeing them at the beginning and knowing what they become...It's fantastic. Is it slow? Is it boring? Of course, with the world as huge as it is, Jordan spends too much time detailing various things, he takes his time as he weaves the story, too much time many people argue. I love it, though. I love being enveloped in the world. I love the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings movies, I love the detail and world building and everything else. I would say The Wheel of Time is simply put, the most complex and deep fantasy epic ever told. Yeah. Pretty much. Eat it critics. 

I finished the prequel in two days. New Spring, it's called and it is essentially pointless. It adds little to the overall story and ultimately, Jordan should not have wasted his time. It feels like an overlong prologue, really, which I guess is what it is. It gives you information about a few places, a few characters but with the story in The Wheel of Time so huge, the cast of characters so enormous, why give these few a little more time? Like I said, it adds very little. 

The Eye of The World, however, is a great fantasy story and would be if it were on its own. Three farm boys  from the middle of nowhere will become crucially important in a battle of Light versus The Dark One, good versus evil? Awesome. Chased by creatures of The Dark One? Great start. Periods of intense action and battle are punctuated by pauses and rests of calm, filled with detail about the world and the places the characters find themselves in. It's a great story, each chapter revealing new information, giving you hints and feelings about a world ultimately more vast than you can imagine, with the feeling that there is always something new to experience, to learn about, to discover. 

It can feel slow, however. It's fairly lengthy and certain parts do feel overly long, leaving you wondering when the next awesome thing is going to happen. That's why The Great Hunt is so great. It is the second novel in the series and it starts off with a bang and doesn't seem to let up. I am about a quarter way through and loving it. It seems to take everything about the first book and make it better. 

What's also amazing is how much I'm picking up on while rereading it. There are so many hints and tells that Jordan gives you that you simply don't see the first time you read it. It's amazing how much he knew of the overall story he was going to tell. I am a writer who simply sees where the story is taking him, fixing things along the way. It's obvious Jordan had so much of the story plotted and figured out even as he wrote the very first book. It's wild. 

This post has become lengthy and wordy, so I'll end it and say Happy New Year. Try to keep those New Year's Resolutions. I know I will. 

Also, it's apparently JRR Tolkien's birthday today. He essentially created the fantasy genre and his stories are great. Middle Earth is its own deep and fantastic world. In honor of him, I leave this quote, it's a great one:

"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

-Gandalf

Tragedy

I've put off writing a blogpost simply because I do not know how to write it. I don't know what to say about the tragic events that happened and yet I don't just want to go on as if nothing happened. Something happened. Something awful and terrible and horrible and bad. What else can you say?

I could say I'm sending all my prayers and condolences but honestly, whether I'm doing it or not, saying it on the internet seems more like something people do to make themselves feel better. I just don't see how a bunch of strangers on the internet saying things like that is going to make the victims feel any differently. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, either, to say that stuff, just that I personally don't see the point in it. Others feel differently and even if it is just something to make the one who says it feel better, what's wrong with that? What's wrong with someone feeling like they are helping in some small way even if they aren't? We all need to feel better. Frankly this is an event we won't forget for a long time to come.

I'm not sure if it's even hit me, really. Whenever I think about it, my mind kind of slides off, puts it deep down. I know it's an awful thing. I work with children every day and to imagine that kind of thing happening...It's unbelievable. Maybe that's why I can't wrap my head around it. It is simply illogical, impossible to me. The idea that someone could do something like that....

It doesn't matter about the guns. It really doesn't. In the big picture, people are still going to be able to own guns. So they might be a little harder to get. Who cares? The mindset of this country is such that no big gun reform is ever going to happen. I'm not saying it should. I know plenty of intelligent and careful people that own guns, that I trust to own guns. But then, there's a hell of a lot of strangers and stupid people in the USA that also likely own guns and that's the part that scares me. Who knows. What we really need is better mental health, not armed guards in our schools. Seriously NRA? Yeah, great way to scare and intimidate the children and faculty. And what about movie theaters? Armed guards there too? Everywhere there's a mass shooting? And how much would that cost, exactly? Arming guards and putting them in every school? How about the poorer schools, would they get less guards? Any way you look at it, it's a stupid fucking idea.

And arming the teachers isn't a good idea to me, either. That would fundamentally change the teacher-student relationship. Everything the teacher said would take on a new meaning with the students knowing they have access to a freaking gun. School would become an awful place with a dangerous atmosphere. It would feel less safe, not safer.

What we need to know is that the people who own guns are rational and responsible individuals. How do we do that? I don't know, anything that could be put in place would piss off the people with guns who would cry about the government getting into their business and shit like that. Hey, guess what, if you own something that can easily kill another human being, maybe the government should know about it? I don't know. Like I said, I feel conflicted. I know rational and responsible people who own guns but I also know there are alot of people out there who aren't rational or responsible.

I remember watching the news that day. The media scrambled to find out why and how this happened though I kept thinking, "Don't we already know?" We find out the guy was mentally ill. Of course he was fucking mentally ill, he shot up an elementary school. It wouldn't have mattered if there had been any sign of mental illness in the past, a person who commits that act is not acting rationally, logically, or in any sane manner of any kind. The guy was mentally ill and got ahold of weaponry and went to town, that's it. I knew that the second I heard about it. I don't know. Seems like the media was just pointing out the obvious because we need to dissect every little aspect, nitpick every little detail and understand....But we can't understand. The person was mentally ill. They were not acting sane and you can't understand why an insane person is acting insane.

But who am I? Nobody, really. Honestly, we should just be nicer to each other. Kumbaya and all that. I guess that's all I have to say.

I Won NanoWrimo

I did. I won. Through sheer stubborn madness, I wrote 1666 words a day and broke the 50k word plateau on November 30th, 2012. It actually felt...easy at times. Like it wasn't a big deal. Other days it felt like pulling teeth. Days where I just didn't want to freaking write, ya know? Those days from childhood where I felt like "No Mom, I don't want to do the dishes, I did the dishes yesterday and the day before that. I JUST DONT WANT TO DO THEM TODAY!!!" I didn't want to write more words. I didn't want to waste my time in a make-believe world and figure out how to write this scene, or this character, or fix this plot-hole, or decide where this character was going or why, or what would happen when they got to this place or...The list goes on. I created a world that lives in my mind and keeps growing with always more questions, one after the other, answers always leading to more questions. What happens now? What happens next? Why would they do this? Why wouldn't they? Why do they care? Why did this happen? How is this going to happen? They have no end and at times, I just didn't want to deal with them. I didn't want to think hard and come up with solutions to the various plot/character/story problems, even the basic problem of "what comes next?" I didn't want to do it. I wanted to veg out, watch tv or play video games, distract myself with 100 different things to do. But I had to. I had to write those words because I had a deadline. A somewhat meaningless deadline, but a deadline none the less. Motivation to keep going.

And I enjoyed it. I enjoy watching the scenes unfold, seeing my mind vomit new ideas that I'd never consider before, seeing my characters react to the situations I hurled them into. Even though I know I enjoy it, it is difficult to find the motivation to write. I find excuses and distractions everywhere and in everything. It's easy. It's why a huge amount of college students take Adderall these days despite very few of them actually needing it or having a prescription. The problem with that is you never learn to get rid of the distractions yourself, you never figure out how to really focus and just get shit done without the meds. Or at least, I imagine that's so. I'm kind of glad I never got into taking it because it sounds like an easy way to get used to it. I could have seen myself getting into it quite easily since I am one hell of a procrastinator. Ten-page paper? Wait till last night to do it, take some Adderall and finish it in one frenzied focused night, churning that shit out like a printing press. I'm getting off topic.

I participate in Nano because it forces me to write. I have to ignore the distractions and write or else I won't get those 1667 words down that day and that means I'll have twice as much to do the next day and on and on and very soon I'll get into a big hole and that 50k ending will forever be out of my reach. Sure it's basically meaningless. Winning does not provide anything beyond satisfaction. There is no prize money, there is no prize at all other than the writing itself. That writing provides the satisfaction. The ability to say "Here, I fucking wrote this, 50000 words of crap but I sat on my ass and I typed one word after another and I put in the time and effort to string together a plot of some sort filled with characters and a setting and all that shit that a novel needs. Look at it. LOOK AT IT!" It feels good.

See, I have many ideas. I have an overflowing well of ideas, bursting out of my subconscious into the fruitful fields of my conscious. The problem is my mind is a graveyard of ideas. It's a veritable prison of ideas. It strangles the very life from my ideas and leaves them dessicated pitiful wrecks, mere shades of their former creative glory. That might be putting it a bit dramatically, but its true. I come up with ideas that are great at first, imaginative, powerful, vivid, beautiful...and then my mind stalks up behind and stabs them in the back with a dagger, the dagger of reality. When I go to put my ideas into words, they crack and crumble, they become stale and boring and lifeless. They don't become what I envisioned and I falter, the once noble and proud idea becoming corrupt and frail, shattering apart into many pieces. So I keep my ideas inside my head. With walls of "That sounds stupid" or "How would I even do this?" or "I'm never going to be able to make this work". My mind-prison has guards of "Why even bother?" and "It will never be published" and the worst one, the evil slithering snake of an excuse, the warden of the mind-prison and all out torturer: "You've got the scene/idea in your head but you can't quite figure out how to write it down, why don't you take some more time to think about it first?" That is the worst one of all, the one that keeps me from writing the most. I trick myself into thinking, "hey, if I just take some more time, I will be able to write it super quick and flawlessly later." It's silly and stupid. False logic. The trickster at his worst. It's great as well, as long as I keep telling myself that, why, I never need write anything down at all, ever!

And that's why Nanowrimo is so great. It doesn't matter if you have the perfect way of writing that scene or idea down, you have to fucking start writing anyways because you've got to get those 1667 words down on freaking paper because the next days going require another 1667 more words, maybe a new idea and scene as well, so just get writing and who cares if it sounds awful? You can fix it later, get it down because pretty soon you'll be on the next scene and the next idea and the one after that and so on, until finally, after 30 frantic days and hours tapping keys with gnarled fingers you've got an entire story down, 50,000 words, read 'em and weep, baby, there they are. And you know the best part? Some of those scenes and ideas are incredible, are amazing, worked out perfectly just as you wrote them because hey you took the time and effort to write them down instead of leaving them sitting idle in your mind gathering dust and chained up in your mind-prison of doom.

It's what happens when I try to start a blog post. I get ideas for posts but they stay locked up, the keys swinging on the warden's belt telling me I should just wait, wait because the idea isn't perfect yet and you don't even know if it's worth a whole post so why not just keep it locked up in there for awhile?

Nanowrimo forces me to tear down the walls, kill the guards and warden and release the imprisoned ideas from their shackles, let them fly and write them down and who cares if they suck? It feels great.

Hopefully, the more I let my ideas escape, the easier it will be in the future. Hey, I broke the chains on this blogpost idea, didn't I?




(PS: If you think National Novel Writing Month is a cool and awesome thing (which it totally is!), and you have some disposable income, then go and donate whatever you can to keep them running it every year. They run entirely on donations and essentially motivate hundreds of thousands of people to express their creative side for a whole month. https://store.lettersandlight.org/donations

And hey, don't just donate, join me next year. Anyone can do it and it's a hell of a good time.)

A Halloween Tale

Unliving.

They jogged down the street with their weapons held tight. He had a 9mm he'd taken from a twice-killed cop and she had a fire axe she'd grabbed from a fire station they'd broken into a few days ago. It was strange to think the world had ended only a week ago.

He glanced at her, with her brown hair cut short and her eyes alert but tired. They were both tired. They hadn't been able to stop running for awhile.

The sun dipped below the horizon. They'd need to find shelter and soon.

A nearby house stood with a slight lean, faded yellow paint and the windows broken out. He pointed. She nodded.

They scanned the area before darting across the street and up the porch steps. They put their shoulders to either side of the door and looked at each other. With a nod, he pulled open the door and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Rotting flesh. He took a couple steps in, gun raised, checking rooms. She followed behind, making sure nothing could sneak up on them.

He cleared the kitchen and stepped around an island countertop. Something lifted its head from its kneeling position, looking up. A blond woman with stringy hair, sunken eyes and bloody mouth. Its eyes were red. It moaned. He put the gun to its forehead and pulled the trigger without thinking. The gun jerked. The head snapped back and the body fell.

"Hell?" She asked, moving into the kitchen. "What happened to not wasting ammo or making noise?"

He shook his head and shrugged. "Sorry. Just happened."

She sighed. "Let's clear this place and quick."

A moan came from upstairs along with heavy footsteps.

"Come on," she whispered, walking to the carpeted stairs.

He followed.

The stairs went up to a short landing, jack-nifed and then went up to the second floor. A heavy old guy with its eyes on the man and woman in the kitchen staggered down to the landing and hitting the wall.

"I got it," she said, taking a couple steps slowly and carefully, axe held with white knuckles.

Another moan came from upstairs and the railing creaked.

She looked up as a body dropped on top of her.

"Fuck!" The man yelled.

The body hit the stairs and slid down. The woman fell near the landing and didn't move.

The heavy creature standing on the stairs crouched and grabbed the woman's hair, pulling her head up to his mouth.

Without a thought the man raised and fired. The creature tipped, falling onto its back on the landing.

The man breathed a sigh of relief.

The body that fell grabbed his ankles and yanked.

He fell, banging the back of his head against the tiled kitchen floor and losing the gun.

The creature, a young man once perhaps, now a snarling beast, crawled on top of the man. He struggled, dazed, trying to keep the things mouth away from him until an axe split the things head in twain. It stopped moving and the man pushed it off him, gasping for breath.

The woman stood, bloody axe in her hands, eyes wide.

They looked at each other for a moment. There was no point in asking if either was alright. Of course they weren't.

"Bitten?"
"No."
"Me neither."

She gave him a hand up. "How many bullets you got left in that thing?"

He checked. "Three."

She nodded. "Let's finish it."

They cleared the rest of the house, glancing out windows and noticing movement outside. Their noise had drawn attention.

They moved quickly, searching the place for food and supplies. They found an old can of beans and a box of band aids, that was it. They slipped out the back while zombies broke down the front door.

The sun hung lower in the sky, a darkening purple leaching out across the blue sky.

They snuck from the house down the street a few blocks before sitting and taking a rest.

"We need shelter," he said.

"I saw something in the house. Picture of a school. I think its nearby."

"A school?"

"Might be a decent place. It was summer when...it still is summer. Probably weren't many people in the school when the shit hit the fan. Could be safe."

He nodded. "Maybe food in the cafeteria too."

She nodded back.

"Good idea."

They headed through the town looking for the elementary school. They moved furtively, not down the street but through the backyards of houses, over fences and behind buildings, staying hidden as much as possible.

Meanwhile, he thought about her. He didn't know her name and she didn't know his. They hadn't known each other before the end of the world and they'd both decided it'd be better if they just didn't get attached in any particular way. They helped each other survive and that was that.

They'd been part of a larger group before, but that'd all gone to hell when a group of unliving had found them while they'd been sleeping. Whoever had been supposed to be watching had fallen asleep and the monsters had fallen upon the living like it a fresh meat buffet. In the chaos, he'd run into her and they'd escaped together.

They'd come to trust each other though. You couldn't survive together these days without saving each others' lives a few times. They depended on each other, they were comfortable, that was enough.

The school loomed up on a hill surrounded by sports fields and a short chain link fence. They spotted one lone body, wandering the field without purpose. They quietly went over the fence and up to it. She felled it in one clean blow.

Past the fields lay the back parking lot of the school, a few vehicles here and there, sitting abandoned, an ambulance, a town dump truck, 4-door sedans and a minivan here and there. Left to rust forever in the after-days of the apocalypse?

They spotted no movement and jogged to the back door as only the last dregs of sunlight remained. Darkness swiftly arrived, a pale half moon glowing above.

The back double door had a heavy chain wrapped around the handles but no lock. Must have been a rush job. It held the doors but all you had to do was loosen the chain and unwrap it, leaving the handles free.

They looked at each other, nodded. She would be first this time. They switched who went first every time, just to be fair.

He gripped a handle and pulled one door open. She watched, waiting. Nothing came. She entered.

He followed, wiping sweat from his brow.

The halls within were dark with shadows. Lockers lined the blue-and-white-tiled walls. They shut the doors behind them and the dark hall became impenetrable. A disgusting aroma filled his nostrils.

"Light?" He whispered.

"Wait."

They waited. Slowly, their eyes adjusted to the darkness to the extent they could see the vague shape of the hall. Nothing moved.

She moved forward, step by step, often stopping for minutes at a time, listening.

"Sign," she said.

He pulled a little penlight out and flicked the light on briefly, illuminating the sign. It had two arrows pointing opposite ways in a hall that crossed their own. Beside the two arrows were the words "Cafeteria" and "Gym." He turned the light off and they waited for their eyes to adjust again. They continued.

They came to the cafeteria without incident. The man could feel his pulse quickening. Nothing could be this easy. Nothing had been this easy. It made sense though, it was summer, the school could have been totally empty when the infection hit. It was possible. It could be untouched. But then, why was it locked? What was the smell?

They opened the door and peeked in. There were windows in the far wall but they appeared to have been covered up, moonlight only showing faintly around the edges. The large space within lay shrouded in shadow, impossible to discern anything.

They waited.

"Light," she whispered.

He pulled out a heavy Maglight which would illuminate the room much better than the penlight.

He turned it on. His eyes widened.

"Oh shit," she whispered.

Hundreds of stretchers stood in rows within. Dark smears covered the walls and floor. The stench seemed to spill out of the room, decomposing flesh mixed with human waste and blood, nearly overwhelming.

Bodies. Corpses covered the stretchers and the floor. All dead.

He vomited, causing the light to jerk up and down. He realized what must have happened. The school hadn't been deserted, it'd been turned into a temporary infirmary of sorts after the infection hit. He'd known hospitals had filled past capacity in many places and so other buildings had been used. They'd run into the worst possible place they could have.

They heard scuffling. He turned the light. One of the bodies was looking at them and crawling slowly across the floor. Other bodies were standing up, looking towards the door. A low moan could be heard from hundreds of voices. One scrambled quicker than the others, hurtling toward them on all fours.

He shot it in the face. It fell. The gunshot rang out around them.

"Gethefuckouttahere!" The woman yelled.

They both turned and ran. He kept the light in front of them, illuminating their path. He saw discarded medical trash littering the hall, blood smears on the floor, little things they couldn't have seen when the light was off.

They tried to get to the back door. The moaning behind them grew louder and they could hear bare feet slapping the cold tile of the floor.

They must have missed the turn. He saw a pair of blue double doors lying open and the gymnasium within. More stretchers, more bodies.

"Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit," he said. His heart thudded in his ears as the footsteps behind them grew louder and zombies began pouring out of the gym. "We're fucked." A corpse charged them and he dropped it with a bullet, his ears ringing.

"Here!" She shouted to his right.

He turned.

She was at a classroom door, fiddling with a stuck doorknob. She jerked it open and flung herself inside.

He followed as hands grasped at the pack on his back. He turned and put his hand against the door to shut it closed.

A creature pushed her head inside the room, her hair fallen out, her eyes bug wild and her teeth exposed.

He felt a pain in his arm and dropped the flashlight.

The woman was there, swinging the axe into the corpses' face. It fell back. He shut the door and locked it as fists banged against it.

The dropped flashlight illuminated the both of them, gasping for breath. They looked at each other. They both saw the blood drip. They both saw the bite at the same time.

"No!"

She raised the axe.

The gun went off.

She fell back.

His body shook.

He put his back to the door and slid down to the floor. He could hear the dead outside. The door shook from their blows.

Her body lay just outside the pool of light. He saw blood seeping out in a dark pool beneath her.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He checked the gun, knowing it was empty. It was. He looked at the bite, still bleeding, the skin red around it. He looked away.

Questions assaulted him. Was he feeling differently or was that his imagination, because of what he knew was coming? How long would it take? How would it feel?

He wished things had been differently. Why had he fired? He should have let her kill him. Now...now there was nothing.

He stood and went over to her body. He went through her pockets. He found a wallet in her back pocket. He brought it into the light.

Her name was Anne Mary-Smith, 32 years old, brown hair, brown hair, 5'9'', 140 lbs. His hand that held the license shook. Nerves or...something else? He put the license in his pocket.

He pulled his pack off his back. Inside was a shirt which he ripped and wrapped around the bite and tied tightly. It wouldn't matter but he couldn't think of anything else to do.

He picked up the flashlight and surveyed the room. A large classroom filled with desks, all stacked against the far wall. A blackboard took up most of a wall and a large wooden desk sat in front of it.

He went over and sat on the desk. He pulled out the license and looked at it. The picture looked very different from the woman he'd known, younger, happier, smiling about something. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her smile.

He jerked, falling off the desk. His body shook uncontrollably.

He gasped for breath, coming back. He reached up to the top of the desk and pulled himself up. He took deep breaths.

He staggered over to the board. He felt...woozy. sick. He vomited on the floor. Bloody.

Thoughts came slowly, through a haze. Disconnected. He dropped the gun. Memories faded.

Was this it? One thought came through, clear. Was it over?

He put the license on the desk and grabbed a piece of chalk. He started writing on the board. He needed to leave something. Anything. Something to tell whoever came after that there were two people in this room who had fought and survived, who had a story. Who had lived. Who had killed each other...

Her....What was her name? He couldn't remember. Jenny...long blond hair, blue eyes, a sharp smile...

He smiled and then stopped, grasping his head. No, that was someone different, someone from before....before what? Saliva dripped from his mouth. So hungry. He needed something to eat. Anything.

He fell back against the desk and the chalk fell from his hand. He fought to clear his mind. At least he had written something, had left something for someone else to find...His mind cleared for a moment, looking upon the blackboard.

He'd written nothing. Gibberish in white chalk.

Why was he here? His stomach growled. He was starving.

A low moan escaped from his lips.

Spaghetti and Champagne

Just a little story I wrote for a fiction-writing exercise in one of my college courses. I forget what the prompt was, perhaps I had to use the two elements, spaghetti and champagne? I don't know, but here it is. 

Spaghetti and Champagne

            The water boiled, bubbles forming and exploding simultaneously in a chaotic cacophony of splashing. Dale dumped the spaghetti in, calming the chaos, and put the top back on the pot. In ten minutes or so, it'd be ready. Jen would be home by then. He started on the sauce, grabbing the jar of Prego on the counter, twisting off the cap and dumping it into a cast iron pan currently warming up on the stove next to the pot of spaghetti. He tasted the sauce, mushroom and basil on the label, and nodded his head. She'd be surprised, he'd sweep her off her feet. It'd be perfect.

            He went to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of Bollinger Ay champagne. He had no idea what the name meant, but it was expensive and that was good enough. He grabbed two flute glasses and brought the champagne to the small plastic kitchen table. It looked pretty enough with the flowery tablecloth he'd laid out. He thought it was her favorite, but wasn't sure. It would be enough though, that he'd simply thought to have it, or at least he hoped so.

            There were two places set and a tall candle in the middle. Their finest china, which had come from Jen's mother, and her grandmother before that. She would appreciate everything, all the effort he'd put in. It'd show her he truly cared about her, truly wanted to make the relationship work.

            He placed the glasses, popped the champagne, and poured, afterwards setting the champagne on the table. He took a moment, looking over the table set up. It was lovely. The dinner was only spaghetti, but he didn't really know how to make anything else, especially not chicken carbonara, the meal she'd ordered on their first date at that lovely Italian place. What was it called again? Oh well, it didn't matter. The simple fact that he'd done all this would be enough. It would be such a pleasant surprise. He grabbed a lighter and lit the candle. When she came home, he'd dim the lights. How romantic, a candlelit dinner. He couldn't wait.

            A hiss from the kitchen brought him out of his thoughts and he dashed to the stove, taking the top off and stirring the noodles. He tried one. Still a little hard, a minute or two more would be perfect.

            His cellphone buzzed in his pocket. It was Jen. His heart skipped a beat and he felt nervous, as if he was going on one of his first dates. He smiled and answered.

            “Hey honey,” he said, trying not to sound too excited, trying not to give anything away. “Did you just get out of work, are you on your way home?”

            “Hi Dale,” she said rather formally. She sounded tired. “I just got out of work.”

            “You sound tired, is everything alright?” He gulped. Was something wrong? It didn't matter, as soon as she got home and saw everything, it would be alright.

            “No, Dale, nothing's right. Nothing's working.”

            He hesitated, wiping his face with his free hand. “Well,” He said. “Well just come home and we'll figure it out. We'll work it out. Just come home and we'll talk.”

            “I'm not coming home, Dale.”

            “But-” He was walking around the kitchen now. “But you have to. Just come home, Jen. I'll...I'll make it alright. Just please come home.” He sounded desperate and he hated it. He wondered if he should just tell her, ruin the surprise. It wouldn't be a surprise anyways, if she never knew about it.

            “I'm sorry Dale, it's over.”

            “No wait!” He replied, smacking his hand on the kitchen counter, hard but not caring about the pain. “What about your stuff? Your mother's china? All your things? Just come home and get your things. We don't even have to talk if you don't want to-”

            “Throw my stuff away. I don't care about it anymore. I can't come home, Dale. I just can't. I'm-” She sighed. “I'm seeing someone else. I'm sorry. This is goodbye.” She didn't even give him a chance to respond, he just heard a click, her hanging up on him.

            He set his phone on the counter. The pot was hissing again, and the sauce was simmering, bubbles forming and popping at a slow rate. He turned off the heat to both, poured the pasta into the colander in the sink. He shook it a couple times. He brought the pasta over to the flowery clothed kitchen table with tongs, and set a mound of spaghetti on each plate. He set the colander on the table and went back for the sauce. He put an oven mitt on, grabbed the cast iron handle and brought the sauce over with a large spoon, spooning out a pool onto each pile of noodles. He set the pan onto the table.

            He took a seat, folding his white napkin onto his lap as was proper. He took his glass of champagne and clinked it against the other one. He took a sip.

            “It's good, isn't it? I wonder what Bollinger Ay means? Something in French probably.”

            She wouldn't have known either.

            He mixed the spaghetti and sauce around with his fork. He took a bite, slurping up the noodles that hung out of his mouth.

            Even though she wouldn't have said anything, he knew she would've been annoyed.

            “Sorry. I know you hate it when I do that.”

            He ate in silence for a few moments, sipping at the champagne.

            “I know it's no chicken carbonara.” He smiled. She would've smiled too. “What was that lovely Italian place called again?”

            She wouldn't have remembered either of course, but they would've had a good laugh remembering that first date. The recent past would've been forgotten. All would've been well.

I'm The Worst Blogger

Another week flies by and once again I'm a day late with my blog post. Does it matter if yesterday was my five year anniversary with my girlfriend? Or that I got demolished playing 80 minutes of rugby on Saturday? Nah, it doesn't matter. It's on me. Said I was going to post and I am. Just a day late. Again. Won't happen again. I mean a third time. I mean it's possible but...ah whatever. I'll get on with it.

I've been working more and more on the second half of the novel I started last Nanowrimo. It's becoming an altogether different beast, a creature with parts of its body hacked off and new limbs grafted on, an ugly thing, perhaps, but I think it's getting better and better. The story is growing, the cast is growing, it's becoming a deeper, fuller story. Each group with an agenda, each character with a motivation and I like it. Just need to keep on with it. Hopefully I finish it by November, if not, I'll probably start on the sequel anyways. Starting the sequel could give me some insight into the novel itself, so we'll see.

Working with children is a strange thing. I guess I could say working with people in general is a strange thing. It's not the same as working on an object or performing manual labor though let's be honest, in practically every job there is, you have to interact with people in one way or another. You have to gauge and guess their thoughts and feelings. I'm doing it constantly while I interact with my students. It's especially difficult because their feelings fluctuate constantly, super highs and super lows. I get frustrated because they get angry over what I see as little things but they can't see that. They can't see that mountains are molehills, all they see are mountains. It is important to note many adults have this problem as well. And it's not like I can just tell them something doesn't matter. I know it mattered to me back then and I remember it didn't matter what adults said, they didn't understand how I was feeling. It's true. There is this strange divide. I am one of those adults now. Through years of experience you realize the world is enormous, it's bigger than your petty problems, but right now their world is pretty small. It pretty much consists of their school and their friends and their family. I can see that.

I do my best but sometimes I just feel useless. There's just situations where I don't know what to do. How to stop a child from being mean. Sure I can make him stop for a moment or while I'm there but I know kids are cruel. They will be cruel. It will happen and not being able to stop every act of bullying or cruelty is frustrating, even though I know awareness and prevention of bullying has come a long ways, even from back when I was in elementary school. Kids have a very difficult time putting themselves in other people's shoes. Hell, adults have a difficult time doing that, which is something that kind of irritates me. It's tough, but that's the deal. It's impossible to totally know what someone else is thinking so every interaction is a gamble of sorts.

Despite all this ranting, I am enjoying the job. Interacting with kids is hilarious and crazy, and always interesting. Teaching a student a difficult idea can be incredibly infuriating but when you finally hit on the right thing to say and they finally get it, it's a really great feeling. Makes you feel good about what you're doing, despite the shit pay.

That's it for now, maybe I won't be a terrible blogger next time.


Ben

P.S. November is Coming