My sister Kari arranged the service, and my sister Amber sang acapella just before I spoke these words.  These words were my way of contributing: the best way I knew how.  The lights were low, and the mic was hot.  And warm tears ran down my cheeks while I spoke.
—————–

Ellipses

When it hit me, really hit me, like hunger hits you more than the knowledge of a thin wallet, or like the frozen mist in front of your face and on your lips hits you more than the exact temperature on the thermometer; when it really hit me that my father was going to die, it was raining.

And it was good that it was raining.

I was walking to my car, about a mile from the train station, and the rain settled comfortably onto my short hair and waterproof jacket. And I know a good number of reasons why it settled like that. The material of the clothes I was wearing, properties of water and, you know, all that scientific stuff that makes it act the way it does. I like those reasons; that’s just the sort of person I am.

But this day, even though I know all those sciency reasons, I think I really know why.

The rain was comfortable on me, because I needed to be wet. I needed to feel a part of this world. I wanted to feel, and feel the rain and the wind and the use of my legs, and the air in my lungs, because I couldn’t give those things to my father, and so I was feeling them for him. I was feeling the cool English air blowing into my unzipped jacket and whipping the water around my Pac-Man t-shirt.

I remember playing Pac-Man on our Atari. It was a borrowed Atari, actually, if I remember right, myself being about 3 or 4 years old at the time. But I remember playing that Atari, and watching Spider-Man on television, and having Superman underoos. And those were all peripherals to the immutable centre of my world: my parents. And thinking of video games, is it any wonder that I play video games and even helped make a few when some of my first memories involve sitting on my father’s lap and trying to hit the keys that made the “batter” swing at the “ball”? I put those things in quotes because they were supposed to be a batter and a ball, but really, they looked like their intended shape only if God worked strictly with blocks. Who ever heard of a square ball, anyway? But did we care that the ball was a little shifting square across the screen or that a string of connected blocks (the bat, if you have no clue what I’m talking about there), that the block-string bat was going to hit it out of the cubist park?

No way. We didn’t mind one bit.

See, even if we were looking at the most ridiculous graphics in the world, it wasn’t about what was on the screen. It was about us. We were a tour de force, as the French would say. An exception, something this world wasn’t ready for. Me and my dad, we were the stuff.

I remember one day I got to see his work. It was freaking Christmas as far as I was concerned. I was about 5, I’d say. I had to get up early in the morning, but I didn’t mind at all, no sir. Got my boy scouts hat on for luck, a big blue peaked trucker hat with netting in the back for the mullet to show and a wolf on a diamond on the front. Come to think of it, I wasn’t even in boy scouts yet, so I don’t know where I got that: probably from my dad, score another one for him. So I had my trucker hat on, which was fitting, too, in hindsight, because my dad’s work was being a trucker. And for our father-son work day, we went to somewhere very like Waffle House. The smells of cigarette smoke, burned reheated coffee, and sweet blessed bacon grease, all mixing with a faint hint of maple syrup. Just the thing to get the appetite churning.

Do you think I cared two shakes about the fact that we weren’t in a fancy office? Or that my dad wasn’t some big-shot lawyer? Nah, I figure you’re getting what I’m saying by now. As far as I was concerned, those lawyers must not have known about trucking, because trucking was clearly and absolutely the best occupation one could choose, period, bar none.

Funny enough, my dad did swap the colour of his collar and get into the offices a few years after that, and I remember thinking later that that was something special. That my dad worked from being a truck driver, up through the warehouse, right into to those clean tucked-in-polo-shirt meetings with the company truck (not a rig, this time) and a big awkward car-phone between the seats. My high school educated dad, rubbing shoulders with those stuff-shirts. Good men, many of them. Though some of them, he might have rubbed them the wrong way. And maybe he was stressed out about those things, I don’t know. It’s only now, as a grown man, that I’m even aware of such worries, that the job sometimes requires dealing with more jerks than elementary school. All I know is, my dad was a hard worker, and he knew his stuff.

But boy, working for him, the pay was lousy. When he was in the warehouse, I would go in on Saturdays and help. I say I was helping, and I did sweep and pick up, don’t get me wrong, but hindsight shows I was probably putting fittings in the wrong places and doing a sweep-job that woulda gotten him fired if his boss had seen it. But there I was, working with my dad. We had to work extra hard around “inventory”; no idea why, of course. And I was saving up for a Batman clock. Not the old Adam West batman with those ever-flattering tights. The new movie Batman of the eighties. The trouble was, though, at 25 cents an hour, it was going to take me a lot of Saturday hours to hit that grand total of five whole dollars.

The thing that I realise now that I’ve got a wallet of my own, is that he probably didn’t even have that 25 cents to give.

That rain felt good though.

The night he died, it was raining too. And surprisingly, it felt different than the other rain. Different from the cold, windy, English rain. This was a southern rain, big wet drops that chill you from the sticky heat filling the air. The drops were sparse, like salty tears, and rather than me feeling everything with heightened senses like before, this feeling was just… numb. He was gone from this world. That’s all. Just gone.

But he’d tell you differently, at that. He’d tell you that he wasn’t gone. That he was more there than he ever had been. My dad, Keith Hardin, would praise the Lord, because he had finally been made real. He had peeled off the skin clothes of this sick and dying world, shed his achy cancer filled bones, and left them behind for the robes of purity, honour, and eternal Righteousness. Yeah, that’s what he would tell you.

So it hurt us, and it hurts us still, but it hurt him sticking around. So, following the example of the one called Christ, we put him first, even though it’s the last thing we want to do. It sure is the last thing I want to do.

Now, I skipped and jumped through childhood with the father that raised me, the man that loved me, because that’s how life starts to look as you get older. This event, then that one. When you’re trundling through the rain with news of impending death, you don’t see a solid timeline. You see scattered events with big, years-long gaps in between.To me, those little tidbits are the very foundation of who he was, and who he is to this day. He was loving, and he was loved.

It’s a bit like anything, I suppose. It’s tough to say why things are they way they are. If someone were to ask me why I loved my father, and why I wept in the rain, bathing myself in salty tears of my own and fresh ones from above, immersed in shattered pieces of falling clouds, I couldn’t give them a one-sentence reason. I’d probably tell that someone to sit down, grab a coffee or two, and listen as I told them about Pac-Man, about Count Chocula cereal, about hunting and how to clean a gun, or about hard hard work. I’d drift in and out of memory after memory, highlighting his character in each. And in the end, I’d probably never have said the exact words, “I love my dad because, dot dot dot.” No, in the end, it wouldn’t be that way, because it was never about reasons to begin with. My dad did those things, all of those things, because he was my daddy, mine and my sister’s. Because he was my mother’s husband. Because he was my grandparent’s oldest son.

And in that vein, you must know that he would define himself in one more way, above it all. And I would not disagree. He was a passionate, sincere, devout follower of Christ. My father knew Him, and sought to know Him daily. Many were his failings, and many were his triumphs. But it was always true of him that he was trying to be more and better. My dad was harder on himself than anyone I’ve ever met, striving in totality to live so perfect a life before God that, between you and me, I think it might have made it harder for him. I think that if he had only shot for a more moderate lifestyle, he might have had more successes in faith than he did have.

But he knew, and truly believed, that, as the scriptures say, narrow is the road to salvation.

And while I said he may have made it harder on himself than some people I’ve encountered in this life, I could not be more proud to say this. He did it. His life in the end was something that he could look on with the sense of achievement that he always strove for. My dad sought to live by a standard, The Standard, and I’m proud of the results of that quest.

He died at peace.

And I would challenge anyone, as I myself am challenged, to know oneself so completely as to master their weaknesses and press on in the Faith. He knew himself, fought himself every step of the way, and he overcame, in the name of Jesus, by the blood of the Lamb.

And what do you know. Here I am after all, saying, “I love my dad, because, dot dot dot.” I love my dad because he was a good man. The best. And because he faced himself, his vices, his weaknesses, in battle, and because he won.

“Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name.” Psalms 91:14

“…they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31

Survivors include his loving wife, Martha of the home, parents, Milton and Venicia Hardin of Cabot, daughter, Kari Stevens and husband David of Lonoke, son, Jeremy Hardin and wife Sarah Boyle of London, England, daughter, Amber McDonald and husband Ricky of Jacksonville, brother, Kevin Hardin and wife Karen of Tulsa, OK, sister Michelle Smith and husband, George of Casa Grande, AZ as well as six grandchildren and a host of family and friends. A service of remembrance will be 10:00 am Wednesday May 27, 2009 at McArthur Assembly of God in Jacksonville with Rev. Larry Burton officiating. Interment will follow in Serenity Gardens Cemetery. Visitation will be at Wood Bean Funeral Home on Tuesday evening from 6-8pm.

Hot coffee spilled as Wesley put down his post-consumer recycled cup and cardboard sleeve, and it burned his hand.

“Ah, damn,” he said, shaking his hand as if to throw off the sting.

The girl beside him on the plush book store couch shuffled and scooted away.

“Don’t worry, The situation is under control,” Wes said to the girl.

She looked up from her book. “Pardon?”

“Don’t worry about it. You didn’t mean to bump the table just then; it was bad timing on my part.”

“But I didn’t…”

“Water under the bridge, like I said. Though I may let you buy me a drink at the bar across the street.”

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding.” She went back to her book.

Wes breathed in and blew on his hand. “Ow” he said.

The girl started to gather her backpack and leave.

“Ok, ok, you didn’t spill it. Let me buy you a drink for falsely accusing you.” He smiled apologetically.

She paused, standing, biting her lip.

“Its an outdoor bar, just across the street. It’ll take ten minutes of your time, and the sun is going down. It’s a great view if nothing else.”

She looked around and back at Wes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wes noticed another girl walking from the coffee till into the bookstore. He got up. “Right, tell you what. I’ll go grab a spot. If you’d like a quick drink, I’ll be over there.” With that, he walked to the exit, away from the girl he had seen from the corner of his eye.

Wes put on his sunglasses and crossed the street. Outside in the fenced-in bar seating, he sat on a raised chair at a small round table, like the kind you see in the bar areas of tex-mex restaurants, and he made sure the view was nice. Partly in case she came, and partly in case she didn’t. At least he’d have a good view of the ocean for his solitary drink.

The smell of grilling fish and meat drifted out of the bar’s kitchen, overpowering the smell of salt water for a moment.

Heels clicking alerted him to someone’s approach, and he cringed at the thought that the second girl might have seen him and followed him. He turned, and today’s couch-mate approached. She was still biting her lip.

“One drink,” she said as she put her bag on the tall table and sat opposite him.

“On me.” Wes said.

“Not again,” she said.

Wes laughed, “Well, I can be clumsy.” He extended his hand over the top of the table. “I’m Wes.”

She hesitated, then put her hand into his. It was soft, a reprieve from the thick hot humid air surrounding them. How something so warm could be so refreshing, Wes didn’t know.

“I, uh, I’m Tracey.” she slid her hand out of his.

“Right, what are you having? I’ll grab a server for us.”

“A margarita for me.”

Wes got a man’s attention and placed her order, then ordered a bottle of Anchor Steam for himself. When he looked back at Tracey, she had her head a little to one side, looking at him with with her lips pressed together in silent concentration. Wes imagined that this was her expression for hammering in nails and hanging pictures, too.

“Two questions for you,” she said.

Wes leaned back in his tall bar chair and lifted his sunglasses onto the top of his head. “What would you like to know?”

“First, did you know that the shuttle launch is happening soon, just across the water?”

“Really? No, it’s a lucky coincidence, but they happen often enough, right? It’s not exactly a rarity here.”

She put her purse off the table and onto her lap. “Yeah, but this is a big one. A new space station is going up tonight. It’s the biggest launch since the Apollo missions.”

“Seriously? I must have missed that on the news.” The drinks arrived, and Wes put the cold bottle to his lips and drank.

“Second question…”

“Shoot.”

“Did you really spill a hot drink on yourself just to talk to me?” she smiled a little. It was the first time she had smiled at him, and it was hesitant, like it was in spite of herself.

Wes held his hands up. “I won’t say either way, but some things are definitely worth enduring for good company.” He smiled back.

“Hmm” she said conspiratorially, and sipped her margarita.

They looked out over the water, the sun behind them and the humid Florida sky ahead of them.

“It’s very like humanity to launch on an evening like this,” Wes said over the open bottle before taking another drink.

“How so?”

Wes looked down at the label on his bottle, “There is plenty of beauty around here…” he looked up at Tracey, “Yet human-kind feels the need to compete. Why not just enjoy the view instead of cluttering it up?”

She smiled, “Smooth. You sure you didn’t know about the launch?”

“Honest. And I’m being serious. It damn near ruins a perfect night.”

Tracey leaned forward. “I disagree. You only enjoy this view because of the ‘clutterings’ of people. There would be no bar here, the beach would be a lot less groomed, and you’d be sucking on coconut milk instead of that bottle, and that’s if you hadn’t died of smallpox or something at the age of two. Essentially, you live on the backs of tinkerers and complain for the movement beneath you.”

Wes laughed. “Smooth.” He raised his bottle. She raised her wide conical glass. They drank.

“I appreciate where we are as a culture,” Wes said. “but we’ve really only gotten where we are between killing each other. Tinkering is the hobby. Killing is the full-time job. So forgive me for not trusting the hobbies of the mad,” he shifted in his tex-mex bar chair, “comfortable as they are.”

She drained her glass. “Basically, you’d say this is half-empty, and I’d call it half-full.”

“Tracey, I’d call that completely empty, but that’s not cynicism; you’ve finished your glass. I’m going to get another for myself. Can I order you anything?”

A light like a camera flash, brighter that the evening sun and coming from the opposite direction, shone from across the waters. Wes and Tracey both stared at the launch in progress. The super-bright flame grew obscured by plumes of smokey steam like a ground-based thunderhead expanding slowly and massively. Gathering. Wes sat back down and watched the ocean reflecting the artificial sunrise. The gigantic bulky rocket looked misshapen, like it was the wrong shape to be attempting to escape the earth’s forces. It disappeared behind the low and fluffy Florida clouds.

“I’m surprised they aren’t constructing it in space rather than launching it whole.” Wes said.

Thunder clapped in their ears then, and rumbled in continually. The sound of the blasting engines had finally reached them across the water. Then the projectile reappeared. It had arced back toward them, but it appeared joined, tethered to the earth by the plumes pouring out behind it, culminating at the mass of launch smoke hanging above and around the rocket’s original position. The plumes had scattered north and south, two pyroclastic bulges forming threateningly on either side of the arced thick rocket trail.

A server set a bottle down in front of him and a glass opposite, in front of Tracey. His eyes met hers; he realised that she had bought a round and was staying for another drink. She smiled and raised her glass. The thunder and opposing lighting from God’s sun and man’s met at Tracey, this beautiful thing with a sideways smile, raising her drink casually at the place where rebellion met diety. The two suns illuminated her cheeks and left a shadow in the middle, down her forehead, nose, and centre of her lips. The darkness there contrasted perfectly, highlighting the curves of her face. It was beautiful, though the light on one side was flickering.

Wes smiled back, lifted his second Anchor Steam to his lips, and tilted his head back.

With his head back, Wes saw it. The rocket wasn’t straight. And it didn’t appear to be rising any more.

“Wes?” Tracey asked. He didn’t hear her.

The giant bullet was no longer being propelled directly by the plumes and flame. Like a water hose-pipe partially blocked, the blasting engines seemed to be spouting out to one side, and the satellite was now pointed upward, despite the fact that it was flying parallel to the horizon. And it was crossing the water.

And then the sound changed. A crack reached them, and the thunder began to grow.

A glass shattered. Tex-mex chairs scooted on the concrete. Car keys jangled. The sounds of panic began to fill the evening air.

Like a fireworks display, the flagging rocket bloomed into flame, upward and out, first blinding everyone below, then cooling into a hundred thousand fireflies. Like the rocket had somehow asexually reproduced, its many tiny children now seeking to return to earth, each leaving their own trail of smoke and flame hanging in the humid air. They seemed to drift so slowly down, but then faster, and closer, until they were no longer fireflies, but shooting stars, then fireballs, then suns, each clouding the sky behind them, all falling toward the seat that Wes occupied.

Wes jumped out of the chair, throwing it back into the table behind him, and went around the table. Tracey was looking at the falling sky, jaw hanging open, the glass in her hand half-empty.

He grabbed her arm above the elbow and pulled her out of the chair and onto her feet. She didn’t struggle, but she looked at Wes with wide eyes and open mouth. Her purse fell out of her lap and onto the cement. She bent to pick up the spilled contents.

Wes jerked her upright and pulled her out of the seating area, through the low fence gate and into the parking lot.

Sun met earth where they had been sitting, and tonnes of rocket fuel rained on the city around them. Wes pushed Tracey into his Honda and got into the driver’s seat.

She was screaming, “Go, go, go, go GO!”

Wes started the car and pulled out of the parking spot. There were half a dozen stationary cars just outside the parking lot on the street, but he swerved around them and drove against traffic on the opposite side of the road, dodging oncoming cars. Fire rained, and the air burned. A car coming toward them was hit and disappeared in a liquid spash of white-hot golden disaster. Wes yanked the wheel to the right to dodge it, and crossed back into his own lane. He tried to correct the wheel, but he couldn’t straighten it quickly enough and he hopped the curb and struck a lamp post with the passenger side of the car. Tracey screamed.

The sound of metal on concrete grated on Wes’s ears. He had blown a tire on the passenger side. He drove on, half on the curb, half off, until a piece of flaming debris crashed onto the sidewalk a hundred yards ahead.

He stopped the car, went around to Tracey’s side, and yanked open her door. She threw herself out of the car and began sprinting down the street. Her heels clicked for two steps, and her left ankle bent outward, carrying her tumbling to the ground. Wes leapt after her and lifted her arm around his neck, supporting her weight. He looked for a clear bit of sky, saw some to the west, toward the setting sun, away from what had been the outdoor bar seating, and set off between the buildings down side streets.

*

“Can we slow down, please? My foot really hurts.”

Wes kept his pace.

“Are you listening? I said my foot fucking hurts!”

They stopped. “I am listening, yes. But I don’t think you realise the situation we’re in, Tracey.”

“Oh is that it? I just don’t understand? You have got to be kidding me. There is no power, everything is on fire, all we’ve seen of people are looters, and we’re lost in what appears to be the ghetto part of town. What don’t I understand!”

Wes pulled her arm down from his neck and stood facing her while she leaned all of her weight onto her good ankle. “What you don’t understand, Tracey, is that there are good people, and bad people. And most people are bad. Some are bad enough to be bad when everything is peachy, but some pretend to be good until no one’s looking.”

He took both of her hands. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, no one is looking! Who have we seen? What did you say? What is everyone that we’ve seen doing, Tracey?”

She bit her lip and made her concentration face. A tear appeared at the corner of her eye. “Looting.”

“That’s right. And those are just the careless ones, Tracey. God knows what the careful ones are up to right now.”

She shivered. Wes gently pulled her arm around his neck again, and the set off down the dark humid street.

*

“Shh, I heard something around that corner. Let’s turn around.” Wes steered himself and Tracey to his right instead of straight ahead. They were leaving the street and crossing into a building site.

“Careful.” Wes told her.

“I hate it when people say that,” Tracey whispered. “Who isn’t careful? Everyone’s careful. You don’t make someone more careful by telling them that. You just annoy them.”

“I suppose so,” he breathed. “How’s this? Watch those heels.” He grinned where she could see.

“Smooth.”

A bag of nails fell behind them, knocked over by someone unseen.

“Hello?” Tracey said.

“Shh” Wes told her with a finger to his lips.

“Let her go,” a man said from behind them. Wes turned around and saw a dark shape across the construction site.

“It’s okay, he’s helping me.” Tracey told the shape.

“Let her go and we’ll leave you alone,” the dark shape said to Wes.

“We?” Wes said. He was hoping it was just the one. He could handle just the one.

“We.” another man’s voice said to his right. Another one coughed to his left. And another behind them, where he had been walking.

“Run” Wes said simply, and picked up a two-by-four from a pile. It would be the last thing he would ever say to her, but he didn’t know it.

He charged the man who had spoken and saw movement to his right. He pivoted and swung the plank like a baseball bat, connecting with the man’s skull and sending a meaty crack echoing off the unfinished building surfaces. In swinging, though, he had thrown his weight into it and lost his balance. He fell next to his limp bleeding attacker. A gunshot rang in their ears, and everyone dropped. Everyone but Tracey, who was limping away from the construction site, her heels clicking unevenly with each step. Another gunshot exploded an upright piece of the wooden skeleton, then a third sounded. The unconscious attacker next to Wes convulsed.

“Shit,” the first man said, “that you, Peck?”

“What?” a voice shouted from a few yards away. “My ears are ringing, I can’t hear shit!”

“Who told you to shoot?”

“What? Shoot who?”

Wes raised to his knees and dove with his plank at the leader voice. Another gunshot exploded the night air and the bullet ricocheted off the cement foundation and splintered another supporting beam. Wes landed just short of the dark shape in front of him and swiped out with the plank, connected with the squatting man’s ankle with a crack, and pulled the plank back to himself. A sound like yawning filled the site, and tools began to rain from the top scaffolding as the frame of the building shifted.

*

“Go, go, go,” Tracey breathed to herself. She had heard more gunshots behind her as she clicked away, then shouting, but when she looked over her shoulder, all she saw was the wooden frame and scaffolding collapsing.

Sirens met her ears, then, and she took off her heels and began to cry as she limpingly ran toward them.

Yard Time

Tad kept his head down as the guard floated by, and he kept his thoughts clear for good measure. Or tried.

“Don’t think of escaping, don’t think of escaping, don’t think of escaping.” he mumbled to himself.

How did they float? Tad couldn’t float. If he could, he wouldn’t be here, that was for sure…

A shadow fell across Tad’s bare feet, blocking the yard-time sun.

He had been thinking again, and about escaping.

It didn’t speak, the floating robe, because it didn’t have a mouth. Or a head. Just a sticky red patch, always wet, where a neck should have been. The red wet stain on the neckless shoulders was looking at him, he knew it.

The cloth was yellow, but not with dye. It was age, and stains, stains from who knew what. Stains from the wet spots on the beds of young children. Stains of fear. Broken by the sticky red absence of neck. And held together at odd angles by black stitches, stitched like sewn up wounds.

Not that Tad looked. Not that Tad ever looked.

Tad stayed there, frozen, and knew it knew his thoughts. It started moving again, Tad saw by the shadow. Started moving closer. He thought of running, but another of the inmates pointed in his direction and shouted words he did not know.

Tad was in a cage then. He didn’t go to the cage, he just was there. How long had he been here, in this prison? Light streamed down his wide and tall room, but he didn’t know from where. And the cage ceiling prevented him from trying to see. It was too short to stand up. Not out of necessity, for nothing was occupying the space above or around the cage. It was, because it hurt.

Since coming here, Tad existed to hurt. He was a god of pain, he knew it so well. He was authoritative on the matter. Volumes could have been written from his expertise on suffering.

Since? It had been different once, hadn’t it?

“When was it different?” he asked his empty cage.

No reply came.

He kicked out at the wall of the cage, and it bent where his bare feet had been.

“Hello?” He crawled forward and felt the bent metal. It was solid, thick, real. And yet, bent all the same.

“Is this real?”

No answer.

This is what they did, the guards. They played tricks on you. Made you think you were getting out or that there was a way, and the next time Tad kicked, it would rip his skin open.

Tad was a god of pain, experiencing it endlessly, forever and ever.

How did the other inmates read his thoughts? He accepted that the guards could know his mind, but the fellow on the prison yard had alerted the guards even before he ran, when he had thought of running.

Tad looked up. The top of his cage was lower. It had changed when he wasn’t looking. He could do no more than sit, now. All for a thought, an idea of preserving himself.

“They’ve broken me.” he told the empty space, and he kicked the cage wall again.

The metal ripped from the frame, separated, and left a hole in his cage. Another trick. He would go out, and be in just another cage, a smaller one.

He stared at the hole in his cage, watched it.

A scraping noise, metal on cement, broke the silence. The cage wall he’d kicked off was dragging itself toward him. It moved like it thought. Everything thought, here. And it all thought like Tad, like all the things he was afraid to think of.

“Damn you!” he shouted, and inched backwards, tighter against the cage wall behind him.

The metal piece started to rise, to bend itself in knots around the jagged edges of the broken face metal, twining itself back into place, screeching like it hurt itself to move, but it did it anyway, to hurt Tad. A piece of jagged twining metal reached out for his bare feet while the rest reattached itself.

Tad pushed back hard away from it, and the cage wall behind him ripped free. Another hole. Tad climbed out of it to get away from the moving wall.

He was out of the cage. The new broken piece began to pull itself toward him. The first piece began untwisting itself again.

Tad turned and ran, to throw himself against the cement wall of the room that held the cage. To claw at it.

When his weight met the cement wall, the bricks and mortar came apart and flew outward. Sunlight streamed in, filtered through the dust, and he was blinded. The noise of two pieces of metal scraping along the floor still sounded behind him, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the prison yard ahead.  He stood between worlds of light and dark.

The yard was filled with hundreds of guards, shoulder to shoulder, looming and filling his field of vision. The sound of wet cloth crumpling echoed across the yard as all the shoulders shifted, and all the red spots looked at him.

But he was out.

“How am I out?”

In unison, as though of one mind, the guards began to move. There was no queuing or clearing as the ones in front made room for others to move. They all moved together, like a hundred fingers on an unseen hand, driven by a single mind. They moved toward Tad.

Metal touched his heel, one of the pieces of his cage; Tad jumped away from it. Into the nearest guard. Its cloth felt coarse, like dirty canvas, and its black prickly stitches scratched him. He pushed against it, and it came apart, falling to heaps of cloth like stripped flesh, hanging on his arms and hands, heavy, and slowing him down.

Tad was surrounded, but he just wanted them not to touch him any more. He shoved with both arms, throwing reams of cloth this way and that, putting his weight into each push, until, dazed, Tad saw that he was up to his waist in stained sticky cloth, and he pushed and waded until he stood on gravel again.

Tad looked, and saw a small sea of cloth and stitches, and behind him, his prison in rubble burying all the pieces of his cage. Somehow Tad’s thrashing had destroyed all.

“Is this real?” he asked the yard, the sun, and the gravel.

No answer.

He was a god of pain.  He had been since… when?  Forever?

The guards liked to play tricks on him.  Maybe this trick had gone on for years.  Maybe he had always had the power to escape, and that was their joke, their game.  Like the elephant tied to the stump that it remembered being unable to remove, Tad could have been free at any time.

And maybe they could take the power and subsequent freedom away.

“It’s a trick,” he told the dusty sunlight.  Tad would appear in his cage again, and it would be smaller.  He started to go to the rubble, to place himself in its confines again.  And then he thought.  He thought and thought, and then some more, letting himself think, and he didn’t keep his thoughts off escaping.

How did the guards float?  Could he float?  If he could, he wouldn’t be here…

Tad lifted his chin, bent his knees, and pushed the earth away from himself with his bare feet.  He watch the ground grow simpler and simpler, and the rocky hills became little mounds of earth, flattening into the curvature of the far away world below him.

Dedication

The call centre headset squealed before cutting out. It always did that when hung up.

Jim stood up in the greenish florescent lighting of his cubicled office and stretched, arms wide, behind his chair.

“Hard work, saving lives?” Claire said from the next cubicle.

“Nah, have you seen my numbers? I’m like a superhero.” Jim finished his stretching and rested his hands on the back of his cheap office chair. “I figure I’m averaging six calls an hour.”

“Jim, I think this is one area where quality outweighs quantity.”

“And that’s why,” he pointed, “I’m junior assistant shift leader, and you’re just a standard rep.”

“Junior assistant shift leader to the rescue!” Claire said with a smile.

Jim made a motion like he was ripping open his shirt to reveal a superhero logo. Then he straightened. “A cubicle is way better than a phone booth anyway. And let’s not forget. We’re minimum wage superheroes. What’s-his-face was pro bono.”

Claire shook her head and turned back to her desk, reading over the management approved script.

A voice came over the building intercom, “Will security please come to reception? Security to reception, thank you.”

“Seriously Claire, I think you try too hard. You can’t help everyone. And you need to stick to the script. That’s why your calls are so long. You improvise.  Long calls means less calls per hour, which means lower scores.”

She looked up and rolled her eyes where Jim could see. “No, it’s called listening. You should try it sometime.”

The intercom again, “Security to reception, repeat, will security report immediately to reception.”

Jim sat in the cheap office chair and lifted his small headset off the stand, settling it over his ear. He rubbed his lower back, then leaned forward to take another call.

The door to their office burst open and banged against the wall stopper. The inset glass shattered. Screams like headphone feedback filled the office, and Jim spun in his cheap chair to see a bearded stranger with an upturned pistol in hand.

Jim eardrums filled with pain as the man fired the gun into the ceiling.  Dust drifted down from the drop-tiles above, alighting on shoulders and desks like snow.

“I’ve called you people for weeks, and all I get is hold music!” beard-man shouted. “It repeats and repeats that stupid weather channel jazz, and I just want someone to listen to me.  So no one wants to help? Fine!” he brought the gun down like it was getting too heavy, and he stopped with it pointed at his own head.

And every face turned… to Jim, the junior assistant shift leader of their crisis hotline office.  The bearded man followed their eyes and settled his focus on Jim.

Jim stood up, nervous acid churning in his stomach around his thirty minute fast food lunch, and the headset cord went taut, stopping him halfway out of his chair and yanking him back down.  He fumbled the headset off with both hands and tried again, this time making it successfully to his feet.

The bearded man had a confused expression on his face, as if asking, “Are you serious?”  The gun dipped away from his temple, just a little bit.

Jim glanced at his script.  “Uh, you don’t want to do this, sir.  Oh wait, sorry, I mean, what’s your name?”

The man’s jaw hung open.

“Right,” Jim rambled on, thumbing the stapled paper, “well, you have so much to live for… people that care about you… don’t do it…”

The gun came down and pointed at Jim.

Jim’s hands shot out in front of him, “Wait!  Dont’ do it!  You don’t want to do this, we can get you help, we can get you anything you want.  You want money?  I’ll give you money.”  Jim started to fumble with his wallet.

Claire removed her headset, placed it next to her script on the desk, and stood.  She angled herself at a forty five degree angle to the man, making herself less of a target and appearing less confrontational.  She kept her palms up, emphasising her empty hands and her desire to help.  And she earned credibility with the man, turning and speaking calmly to Jim, “Stop talking, Jim.  And sit down, please.”

It took her longer than Jim’s ten minute call average, but she got Raymond, the bearded man, talked down.  No one was shot.  And after the dust settled and everyone was safe, Claire was called into a meeting with district management.  She was promoted that very month to general manager.  (Jim’s boss, several times over. Until she fired him, that is.)

Jim got a job in telesales , one floor down in the call centre building.

Claire changed the hold music.

Lovely as this soap box has been, it has been almost exclusively that: a pulpit for me to indoctrinate with views ranging from philosophical to technical.

What will I be giving back? What currency will I be expending on your behalf? I’m glad you asked, or would have.

While I am very satisfied with my current career direction, I have spent roughly a year trying my hand at novel-writing as well. It has been lovely, but it has also been quite a learning experience. Several of you even had those frightful first drafts inflicted on your minds, for which I apologise. If it is any comfort, remember that I was the first reader and victim, so I share your pain.

So, this blog will become a playground for my short form work. I get the joy of writing, and you lot can tell me how brilliant or awful you think each one is. What character you loved, and which you despised. How I shocked you with my plot twists, or how you lost interest on paragraph three. All well-intended feedback is welcome.

A disclaimer is attached to this, though, and I ask that it be kept in mind.

Even if I share your views on life and morality, the characters in these worlds might not. You don’t swear? Some people do, including characters in my stories. Personally, I don’t exhibit any deranged characteristics (no arguments there, please), but I may write a deranged character. So if your moral sensibilities are easily irritated, feel free to give this a miss.

Also, many of you to whom I rant or speak regularly will no doubt spot a running joke or old topic. I will credit you where I remember, but feel free to chime in if I’ve forgotten exactly who said what to whom.

So I step down from my soap box, brush my fingers along the chipped paint where my feet have stood, smile at the stickers on the sides from all the places it’s been, and sit on the street corner curb that, despite spanning continents, has become my own place of solace and refuge.  Sitting there, turning the splintered crate over in my hands, I smile a sad smile, and I wonder whose shoes will chip away the rest of the paint. And I hope, sincerely and truly, that the characters that use this place of solace from here on out will find it much, much less…

…empty. (No offense, Mother. You’ve been great.)

http://news.cnet.com/koobface-virus-hits-facebook/

What can you do?  Right now, as you read this, infected or not, change your password.  If your password is in the dictionary, you are going to be hacked, period.  Your password should include numbers, letters, uppercase, lowercase, and even punctuation.  It should mean something to you, but be literally impossible to guess.  And again, if it’s a word in the dictionary, all lowercase, it is not impossible to guess.

If you have seen any weird behaviour on your Windows PC, or have ever gotten confusing replies from your friends on Facebook replying to messages you never sent, they’ve probably already got you.  You can scan your computer (using ClamWin, AVG Free, Avast, Windows Defender, and/or Spybot S&D, all free), but if you’ve been infected, the best thing you can do is make sure you have a backup of your documents, pictures, movies, and personal files, and format your machine and reinstall Windows.

This brings up a very important lesson in security.  If people act securely, this virus could never spread.  What do I mean?

1.)  You should never open an email attachment you didn’t expect to receive, even if it’s from someone you know.  (A virus will usually come from someone you know, actually.  They send to contacts in address books in order to play on trust.  Most people know not to accept them from strangers.)
2.)  You should never click a link in an email (or Facebook message).  Never.  Even if the link says www.yahoo.com, it can actually be taking you to www.yahoo1.com, which can then steal your computer’s soul.  If it’s from your bank, go to your browser manually and type the bank address by hand.
3.)  Don’t have an easy password.

‘But my computer is fine!’ you may say.  But viruses and worms and trojans don’t do what they once did.  Most of them have no intention of crashing your computer in a Simpson’s-esque “ha-ha!” moment.  Nowadays, their goal is to get your computer to listen to their commands.  Then, they can get 10,000 computers waiting to do what they’re told.  Like, for example, attacking a bank.  Or any number of other illegal activities.

And I should add that while this ‘koobface’ virus is only on Windows at the moment, there is nothing to say it will stay there.  Irresponsible behaviour online is asking for problems, whether you have a Mac, a PC, or Linux.

(And change your password on Facebook!  Now!)

Links mentioned above:

• http://news.cnet.com/koobface-virus-hits-facebook/ (The article about the virus)
• http://www.facebook.com/security (Facebook security advice)
• http://www.avast.com/ (Free Antivirus)
• http://www.clamwin.com/ (Free Antivirus)
• http://free.avg.com/download-avg-anti-virus-free-edition (Free Antivirus)
• http://www.microsoft.com/windows/products/winfamily/defender/default.mspx (Free AntiSpyware)
• http://www.safer-networking.org/en/spybotsd/index.html (Free AntiSpyware)

I had not seen the film when I decided to read it, so I went into the story unaware that it was, I think it safe to say, largely a love story.  (My
gifting friend was also unaware of the romantic nature of the plot).

Having said that, I have no qualms about saying that I enjoyed the read.  It was
a well paced story with believable characters and engrossing conflict.
Additionally, I think that the author did an excellent job of attaching us to
the main character’s safety.  With some stories, we, the readers, get the
feeling that our protagonist is invincible.  We know that ‘red shirts‘ may come
and go, but the captain is invulnerable.
It is emphasised, naturally but consistently, that this is not the case with our
main character.  She is anything but infallible, and her fragility is
believable and endearing.

As for the romance, while I tend not to read love stories (at all), this one was
acceptable, even for this lover of post-apocalyptic fiction.  Personally, I think this is
because the relationships move like real ones.  This doesn’t feel ‘hollywood’ at
all, with spires of white and braids of gold let down.  The excitement of the
relationship is in the anticipation of it, complete with arguments and
misunderstandings.  And yet, this was accomplished without making the reader
feel like they’re watching East Enders or As the World Turns.  The relationships
aren’t melodramatic.  Just dramatic.

Finally, I have to say that it was rather different for me to sit for the duration of
my reading in the brain of (I assume) a well-portrayed teenage girl.  It was a
bit like listening in on your sister’s conversations with her friends, and
somehow getting the thoughts as well.  While I might not pick up a book
explicitly for the purpose of seeing a female perspective on life and events, it
was refreshingly different from what I read normally, and for the time I was
reading, I did tend to notice events around me in a different light than I would
normally perceive them.  And if I ever need to write female characters
at length, I’ll probably immerse myself in Twilight and the sequels first.

In conclusion, it’s a good read, self contained despite the existence of
sequels, with nice tension and drama.  On the whole it was satisfying, despite being
outside my normal genres.

I have my suspicions that this began as a hyperbole. The role comes with an incredible amount of responsibility, no doubt, and makes waves in the happenings of not only the western world, but of the entire globe.

It is my firm belief, though, that even as a hyperbole (which it is no longer), this title is beyond a misnomer. To use The Free World as an equivalent to the United States of America is simply rude. Do the borders of the continental United States really mark the end of freedom’s homeland? Does opression abound just off-shore? Or I suppose where international waters begin, if one is being technical?

Let us then assume that I’m misinterpreting this title, and that freedom is not synonymous exclusively with life in the USA. That would then denote that the title Leader of the Free World is not saying that freedom is exlcusive to the USA. What it is saying, then, is that the reach of authority of the President is far beyond that of the executive branch of the United States.

It reads a bit like a superhero introduction, doesn’t it? “Wherever there is freedom. Wherever there is peace. Wherever justice abounds and the voice of the people is heard. There you will find… Super-President!”

To be frank, it’s preposterous. This mentality is part of why the United States is criticised globally for world-policing. Not only do many of the inhabitants actually believe that the rest of the world is subject to US law and policy, but one gets the impression that the Office-holder himself/herself has taken to this belief.

To illustrate the fallacy, I hereby dub myself the Leader of Central London. Why? Well, I am actually in charge of a small portion of central London. (Namely, my own personal space.) But the ramifications of my decisions are widespread. If I, for example, were to strip to nude and cover myself in maple syrup before sprinting down Shaftesbury Avenue, I could stop traffic, cause congestion in crowds, and leave a very sticky trail for the space of a mile or two. (I’m that fast, even sticky. Don’t ask me how I know.) But does that really make me the Leader of Central London, just because my actions are capable of affecting the area? No. And so it is with the United States. The US policy will no doubt affect the rest of the world. And financial ties and military strength certainly carry quite a bit of weight. But I sincerely believe and hope that if Mr. or Mrs. President ever tells Britain to close all of her pubs under the antiquated Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution, Gordon Brown or whomever is in charge would tell the Leader of the Free World to stuff it.

In short, with all respect, I wish that the leader and citizens of the United States thought of themselves as members of a global community instead of 1st class passengers on spaceship earth, the rest of the world hanging back in coach.

And like normal, while in transit, I was asked for money by a British charity. (They love their charities here, which is actually quite impressive.)

But today I stopped because I saw no clipboard, and thought the man in the nice dark coat that was getting my attention was lost. So being nice for a change, I removed the earbuds and spoke with him.

The misjudgement of a situation can only last so long, and minutes passed of jovial conversation with no question arising of how to get to Rathbone Place. I had given my first name, been asked where I was from, if I lived in London, whether I was working or attending school, and whether I was happy (to which I said yes).

The last question seemed to be problematic for the gentleman, or perhaps my answer to said question. It seemed that I had derailed him and that he was improvising from then on.

“Are you an artist or a musician?” he said, “because they’re the ones that are happy in what they do. Everyone else seems to live lives they don’t like.”

I told him that I am an artist, and he smiled, seemingly feeling back on track, or maybe just glad I was humouring him.

Finally, colloquial discussion with the stranger ended and he got to his point.

He handed me a book, very colourful, and told me it was similar to yoga and meditation and those things. He showed me the back if his shaved head, a small lock of hair situated there in the middle, and informed me that he was a monk.

Not what I expected, but he seemed a pleasant fellow, so he still had my ear.

“So this is your religious text?” I asked.
“No, it’s not a religion; it’s a spiritual experience.”

Why is it that no religion wants to be known as a religion?

“…and for a donation this book can be yours.”

The penny drops, almost literally.

I fished out my change and gave it to him, just as another man approached. He seemed to think myself and the monk were friends, so he interrupted and asked us both for money.

Myself, the only one at this impromptu meeting without a financial agenda, found the dynamic absolutely hilarious. I had to keep myself from chuckling as the kind monk stood there, seeming torn.

Surely there was some edict in his faith about helping others, or perhaps not. In either case, he didn’t know what to say to the man asking him for money as he asked for money.

I had already given my change away, so I just grinned at the two men as they stood, unspeaking, in a confused situation.

“…I’m a monk!” he stammered. “I’m asking for money, I can’t give it.” He was smiling, but there was a touch of frustration in his voice as he enlightened the beggar.

“Oh right,” the beggar replied, “I can’t spare much, but here’s this…” And be put his change into the monk’s hand.

The monk looked down, then up, then back at the money and said, “Oh right…”

The beggar went away, then the nice monk wished me a nice day and handed me the book, turning to speak to someone else before I was gone.

I kept the book (as I’m always interested in a different point of view), but I have to say that I’m not simply amused by the situation.  I’m also a little disappointed.

Maybe it’s my own past and history that gives me this slant, but I see no point in pontificating on the finer points of any faith if you aren’t helping people on a basic level.  I find it sad that the more giving of the two men was the beggar.  But then, maybe that’s why so many religions praise the financially unattached.  The poor and those that shun the cluttering things of this life.

I think I witnessed first-hand one of the most common failings of organised religion.  The monk, kind as he was, had his agenda, and because of his preoccupation with it, he missed an opportunity to show kindness to someone who seemed to need it.