The Camping Trip (Part 3)

Continued from Part 2.

The four sat for a moment, rain pattering away.

"Well, that was kind of fucked up," Andrew broke the tension. “It wasn’t a bad story though, I’ll admit.”

“She ruined my story though!”

“Well, it killed some time, I suppose,” added Jeff. “Who’s up?”

“Andrew’s the one who thought this whole thing up - he should go,” Lydia said.

Suspirium puellarum Celadus thraex

"Orange juice?" Corporal Williams offered the Lieutenant a pouch full of Tang. After the third month, the Lieutenant had stopped correcting him.

"Sure," the Lieutenant said as he relaxed back into his chair. "I just can't figure it out. Everything in this room has a meaning. Something clear, something distinct. But this... this!"

"I understand sir and I wish I could help."

The White Whale

She was the pride of the fleet - a gleaming white ship with red trim that dominated any port she visited. And she was in trouble.

"Sir, we're reporting extensive damage throughout the ship - hydraulics are basically non-responsive, we're down to the last AA battery, and we're only running on a fifth of our power. If they're able to rearm and reinforce, well..."

The Dance

There is truth in the dance. Bodies interacting, people displaying a primal movement, bone-deep impulse - whatever it may be - released by the rhythm.

But, like the fart sound of two sweaty chests during sex, there is humor in the dance as well. At least Rodney was a good sport about it.

"It's not so much that he has two left feet," a voice floated out onto the floor. "He has a three legged race going on out there!" Rodney ignored the jab - he knew what he looked like. Beth, however...

"Hey you wanker!" she shouted at the unseen heckler. "Why don't you get a life!?"

"Beth, please," Rodney whispered, paired with an ill-timed hip thrust.

The Camping Trip (Part 2)

Continued from Part 1.

“So the prince and the farmer’s daughter got married and lived happily ever after.” Lydia finished up. 

The boys expressed their thanks for the story. Julia, however, was less than pleased. 

“That’s it? That’s your story?”

“Yes...is there something wrong with it?” Lydia asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, it sucked. How fucking girly.”

A Churning Desire

“Come, human. Advance.”

I obliged. I suppose I technically had a choice to do otherwise in the existential sense, but with choice came consequence, and I didn’t want to find out where insubordination would get me. My feet took me to the first of the black granite steps. My nerves stopped me there. My mind mulled over the fact that there really isn’t such a thing as “black granite” - the stairs, dais, and great chair were probably all made of gabbro.

My mind was funny like that.

The Camping Trip (Part 1)

The four of them huddled together in the tent. “When is this rain going to let up?” Andrew asked for the fifth time. No one bothered to answer – they were far too cold and miserable. “Guys, seriously. We need to lighten the mood in here.” Andrew tried, “It's not like we're going to die out here – it's going to suck for a bit, but then we'll head back to camp, take a hot shower, eat some hot food, then sleep in our regular beds.” “Easy for you to say,” Julia piped up, “You're the one who led us out here.”

The Great Challenge

I had about a mile left to swim. It'd been tough - I certainly wasn't prepared for the whole ordeal, but beyond the exhaustion, beyond the aches, I knew I could do it.

There were about a half-dozen of us still swimming - the chase boats had picked up about a full dozen. The shore was in sight. I could do it. I could push through.

The Assassination Attempt

The bullet crashed into the wall two feet away from her head. Her ears rang from the fraternal triplets of sound - the shot, the breach of the sound barrier, and the impact in the wall - but she did not flinch.


"I knew you didn't have it in you," she derided.

The man - well, more boy than his three decades of unpleasant life might otherwise suggest - broke down, crumbling to the floor in a pile of elbows and ankles and knees and tears. He'd failed. His attempt at freedom, the culmination of countless stealthy nights researching, building, planning, all undone by his inability to kill his captor.

Was it his humanity? Was this inability merely the manifestation of the fear of the unknown? The existential angst over freedom - true freedom? Was he, as a member of the human race, more inclined to accept the tortures he knew - the relentless tortures of the flesh - over the tortures of the unknown? The mind-bending prospect that what he would face without her would be solely of his own doing? What choice would any of us make when confronted with the option of no longer having an entity to praise and to blame, to consult and to obey, to shape our very existence and to give form to our reactions. Could any of us kill our god?

Or was it just him. His psychology. His defect.

The woman said his name. Once softly. Once sternly. His sobbing stopped.

"Clean yourself up and have dinner ready in an hour."

"Yes, mother."

An ode to my 03 Impala.

I have to confess, at first I didn't like you.

Call it irrational, call it longing for my truck (sold without my consent), but whatever it was, you started out in the negative. I suppose that changed.

Over the four years you were part of my life, you saw a lot more of me - a real me - than most other people. From the boring daily commute - to work, to school - to the cross-country adventures, you proved a faithful companion.

Patsy, I miss you.