Weights

If there is one thing that makes you feel like an idiot while moving, it’s moving weights.

“Jesus, dude, what’s in this box?”

“Oh that box? Just heavy matter.”

I mean, the things are designed for one sole purpose: to be heavy. I can’t think of another item whose sole purpose is to be a force.

“Oh, your own weight set? You must use them a lot.”

“Nope, never touched them.”

They are like the physical representation of your shattered hope to get into shape. And the weight of them as you move, the amount of energy it takes to get them from your room to your car, the sweat pouring down your face, is the manifestation of just how far you haven’t come.

“Why don’t you just get rid of them then?”

“Well, you know, someday…”

You spend more time thinking about how to move them than you’ve ever thought about working out. Should I take them all in one go and risk wearing myself out? Should I strategically disperse the weights through multiple boxes, making everything slightly more difficult?

And, let me remind you, that their only purpose is to be heavy.

“Oh God! There are more weights!?”

My solution is to have my friends help me move.

Fiction: Far Away Man

There is a man that lives far away. Alone, in his cottage, he doesn’t view the world like us. There aren’t the same problems out there.

He doesn’t worry about politicians or debates. He doesn’t particularly care. As long as the sun rises each morning and sets each evening, well, he’s just fine.

Out in his cottage, where the man lives, far away, there are few problems he cannot handle. Every problem is there to be solved, to be conquered. These problems are only problems as long as he has left them undone.

He get’s up, his body frail. It is stiff, painful. Frozen meat trying to thaw too quickly. His eyes burn, scratchy. He hobbles his way to the bathroom.

Here he sits, not because he has to, but because the trek from the bed to the bath is longer than it used to be. His urine tinkles into the bowl, bright yellow. He rests his face in his palms, eyes again shut, hoping for a few last moments of rest before the day.

In the shower he coughs blood. Just another problem.

He doesn’t need to see other people. He’s just fine with that. Everything he needs he does on his own. Water comes from the well. Milk from the cow. Food from the land. His life is simple. Just how he likes it.

His hands take a bit to warm up. They don’t work like they used to. Early in the day they feel more like clubs than hands. But after a little bit of work in the field they loosen up, fingers breaking free to be of use.

At least for awhile.

Just another problem. But the man doesn’t mind. Because out in his cottage, he doesn’t have to deal with the problems of other people. He needn’t worry about those things you worry about. His problems are his own and no one else’s. And he doesn’t want yours. And that’s just how he likes it.

Fiction: Heart

This is actually the start of something potentially gigantic. I have this idea for  a novel that I’ve been kicking around. The beginning of the story is pretty clear in my mind, so I thought I would at least give it a first go here. I don’t think I’d actually put up the whole story on the blog, but for the sake of writing something I figured what the hell. I hope you find it intriguing!

Smalltown, North Dakota wasn’t known for much, unless you count The Great Grain Debate of 1925 which attracted upwards thirty farmers from towns such as Littleville, Tiny City, and Anothertown. The Debate lasted three days and three nights, until Thomas Sanders, tired and exhausted and quite ready to curl up back in bed, brought the opposing parties to a compromise that lasted for decades to come. They were quite the memorable few days that became local legend.

And that was really all Smalltown, North Dakota was ever known for, until August 1st, 2011, when William Thomas Sanders, at the age of 14, stumbled upon the glowing light out in the wheat field. Smalltown was about to become the center of attention for an entire planet.

From far away it was hard to differentiate the white glow from the wheat. The sun sometimes did funny things. Tricked the eyes. Will squinted. He swore there was a strange light.

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt the need to investigate. He was always a little curious like that.

Will waded his way through the wheat, which was quite tall. Almost time to harvest.

As he grew closer, the white glow’s true size became apparent. It was huge, a dome covering nearly an acre of land, engulfing the wheat beneath it. Will shielded his eyes, but continued to walk forward. He pushed his way through until eventually he was in an open field. Which was odd, because there shouldn’t have been an open field. There should have been more wheat. Instead, there was just dirt. Father wasn’t going to be happy about that.

Will stood on the edge of a circle. On the outside, acres of wheat fields. On the inside, the glowing essence of light of unknown origin. Will thought he could see things in the light. Things that were floating. He pushed in further.

He met no resistance beyond the increasing brightness. He slowly approached one of the floating objects. It was floating just below Will’s eyes. It was red and fleshy and when Will realized what it was his mouth fell open.

It was a heart.

He stared at it. And stared at it. It began to swell. It slowly grew and Will was afraid it was going to pop. Will didn’t know what to do. Will didn’t know what was going on. Nobody would have blamed him.

The heart contracted. Not sharply, but like a fist slowly squeezing shut. Blood was slowly sent out into a circulatory system that wasn’t present, but the redness oozed through the air as if the veins were there anyways. It spread around the heart, tracing where the lungs would be. Large, thick lines inched their way up, down, left, and right, creating a stickman of blood.

Will tried to step away but fell onto his butt. He looked up at the body of veins in horror. Before him was a human slowly being formed in blood. But just as the blood reached the furthest extremities of the lifeform in front of him, it began to disappear. Once again, beginning from the heart, the veins slowly went away, as if the blood were evaporating in the air. It passed through the body, erasing its presence, until again there was only a heart floating in front of him.

The heart again began to swell.

Will looked around. How many hearts were there? More hearts then at The Great Grain Debate of 1925, that is for sure. Fifty? A hundred?

Will didn’t stick around to count. Will sprinted home.

It’s coming

My urge to write fiction is growing. It has been much too long since I’ve been able to dedicate myself to writing much of anything. But I can feel “it” coming.

I hate writing about not writing, but sometimes I guess I just have to do it. It is like a clog in the drain that just needs to get worked out or else nothing is going to come through.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but for these past many months I just haven’t felt like writing fiction. My life has been complicated on more levels than I could have possibly imagined a year ago. I’ve barely been reading, let alone writing. It seems that the only time I have wanted to write is when I want to vent my real-life problems. And for as much as I do that here, I try to keep that to a minimum.

But recently, very recently, as in these past few weeks, I’ve been able to read more. And reading always gets my creativity flowing. Ideas percolate. Little strings appear that, if I pull on them, just might lead to something greater. And I can feel that starting to happen again.

I’m not sure when I’ll start posting more here, hopefully sooner rather than later, but I will. It is not an exaggeration to say that I think of this blog everyday. I certainly haven’t forgotten about it. The passion hasn’t gone away. Unfortunately, in tough and confusing times, motivation dwindles and the bitterness of reality takes over.

Maybe I’m stabilizing, or maybe I’m not, but for one reason or another I can feel “it” coming back. And hopefully “it” is worth it.

Quickbeam

My girlfriend and I were in Glacier National Park. We were hiking on this beautiful trail. One of those trails where every time you take a corner it is even more beautiful than the last. It was a long hike, but fairly flat. We were brainstorming what we were going to name our cat.

We had decided that once we were settled in a place for awhile we would get a cat. She had wanted a cat forever. I always joked about how we could barely support ourselves, let alone another living mammal. Even so, I like cats and am a sucker for stuff like that, so we had decided we were going to get one once we got back from our trip.

We wanted our cat to have a unique, yet nerdy name. While we hiked through the mountains we listed off obscure characters from fantasy and science fiction. We blew through a lot of Star Trek and Battlestar Gallactica, but that didn’t seem right. Although someday I would like a pet named Odo. We started listing Lord of the Rings characters. She was practically an encyclopedia for that kind of stuff. Then she came up with Quickbeam.

Quickbeam, as some astute readers may remember, is the hasty ent in the Lord of the Rings. It had been a joke between us that Quickbeam was my favorite character and completely underrepresented in the movies. I wish I could say I thought of the name, but I didn’t. When she said it though, the discussion was over. We were naming our cat Quickbeam whether she liked it or not.

Luckily, she liked it.

A few weeks later we were at an adoption center, surrounded by nearly a dozen kittens. I was pretty sure my girlfriend was going to die of cuteness overload. Somehow we had to pick just one. I personally wanted a male cat, because in my experiences they are just more relaxed. She was okay with this, because she just wanted something cute. That narrowed the pool down.

One little guy really stood out though. He was this small, black little cat with just the right balance of cuddliness and playfulness. There were a few “Are you sure?”s back and forth, until we eventually decided that he was our cat.

His name was Horace. I almost wanted him to keep that name just because of how ridiculous it was for this tiny little kitten. But alas, it was not meant to be.

For he was Quickbeam.

We brought him home and got him set-up for the night. He had his cardboard box turned into a kitty bed and a few toys. He was much more curious about exploring the brand new room. We let him roam about freely for awhile to get his bearings. He got tired pretty fast.

I can’t recall if it was that first night or the one after, but for whatever reason I had to be alone with him for an evening because my girlfriend had obligations. That night I played with Quickbeam, trying to wear him out as much as possible to he’d sleep through the night. I eventually wore him out pretty good, so I laid down on the couch, covered myself up with a blanket, and plopped him on top of me.

He began trying to nurse from me. He laid there on my chest, pawing the blanket and sucking trying to find a nipple. I had become his mother.

Time passed and we experienced all of those cat hijinks that ensue. He was incredibly playful, sometimes violently so. We were probably to blame for that as much as him. I had my fair share of deep scratches and bites. But he was also super loveable. He liked people, liked cuddling in your lap, loved sleeping on your head at night. He always wanted to come under the covers and sleep between me and my girlfriend.

He was a good cat. I’ve had a few cats growing up. I liked all of them, but they certainly have their own personalities, their own quirks. I certainly liked Quickbeam the most though, because he was mine. He was my first child.

When my girlfriend and I broke up, Quickbeam was one of those many sacrifices I had to make. For as much as I loved him, I knew he wasn’t mine to keep. There certainly wasn’t any debate over that.

And for as terrible as I felt about the whole situation, the thing that shocked me the most was how much I missed Quickbeam when he was gone. When all was said and done, I had only had him in my life for a few months, but hell if I didn’t get used to his constant presence. I got used to always having him there, even when I was the only one home. I was never alone when he was there, and now he was gone. That really surprised me.

My now ex-girlfriend called me yesterday. We hadn’t spoken on the phone in over 5 months. I was in class and couldn’t answer. She left a message. She told me that she had bad news about Quickbeam and that I should call back.

My heart immediately sunk. She certainly wouldn’t be calling me just because he was having a bad day. I assumed the worst. During the next class break I called back.

Quickbeam had developed feline infectious peritonitis. A fatal disease. Incurable. He had become lethargic. He wouldn’t eat. His stomach was growing large with fluid. She’d brought him to the vet twice. He was going to die.

I went over to her place today. This was the first time I had seen her since we broke up. Quickbeam was lying there in a blanket. I could tell right away he wasn’t good. His face looked strange, his eye was messed up, his stomach disproportionately large. I could tell he wasn’t all there either. He wasn’t very attentive. His movements weren’t graceful.

I pet him a little bit, but he seemed really uncomfortable. He sort of stumbled away. Eventually he hid under her bed. I’ve always heard cats are private like that when they are dying.

Part of me always imagined being on better terms with my ex-girlfriend in the future and being able to see Quickbeam frequently again. I imagined coming in and having him run up to me like before. I never stopped thinking he was my cat, only that he didn’t live with me anymore.

Tomorrow she is going to bring Quickbeam to the vet and put him down. And that is what he needs. But that doesn’t make life any more fair for him. Or for her. He is 9 months old. If that isn’t bullshit I don’t know what is. The only lesson I can take away is that sometimes life just sucks. It isn’t always fair. It is random and uncontrollable.

I don’t regret getting Quickbeam for a second. He was a good cat. He was my boy.