New story about a man who loses his ear. Comedy, really. Though at some points the humor is weak. You'll have to understand that it is a rough draft, and a little rushed. I'll have to go back and draw some points out and enhance the humor at some points. It's at 11 pages.

Halloween is tomorrow. I'm actually looking forward to it. We'll sit around at Tara's and watch The Exorcist, and have a small party-ish kind of thing. Should be fun.

I'm kind of exhausted. I had an exam in my Psyc of Language class. It was ... not pleasant. I had a difficult time with it. We were allowed to have a single sheet of notes, front and back, to use during the exam. I managed to condense all 14 pages of my notes onto that sheet of paper. Impressive? I think so. It was really good that I did that, because there was a lot of questions that I don't think I would have gotten if I hadn't done that. Luckily, the last exam in the class is a take-home final. Thank God.

Next Tuesday is an exam in Archaeology of Ancient Greece. It kind of concerns me, because it can be a very difficult class. Everyone wish me luck on that.

Zeke is wearing his fancy Shakespeare collar. On Friday, he gets to take it off. Until then, he looks rather goofy. Everyone seems to enjoy it, but I'm not sure how much he likes it. I think he tolerates it, but he'd rather prefer it wasn't there. Sometimes it frustrates him.

Anyway, I need to get to bed. Later!

Hokey, so ... I'm kind of questioning whether or not I should be posting stories online because, well, there is the possibility that if I ever got published someday, someone could have stolen my stories and that would create all kinds of fun legal problems. So instead, I'm gonna post sort of a list, and if you want to read it, then feel free to ask. I'd be happy to send you a copy.

So, without further ado:
A story about Childbirth, entitled "Life is a Disgusting Thing"
A story about Minoan culture, entitled "Sacrifices"
A story about an innocent murder suspect, entitled "Noah's Parting"
A story about a bank robbery, entitled "The Bank Heist"
A story about a man driving his Volvo, entitled "Volvos and Corgis"
And soon to come ... a story about an ear (yes, the body part) running away to lead a life of its own

Feel free to request a copy of any of these. I love to share.


Anyway, the weather has grown cold--and it's absolutely delightful. I get to wear my hoodies (which everyone knows I love), bundle up warmly, and relish the bright skies and beautiful outdoors.

So, to wrap up: ask to see my stories, and I love the weather.

The second half of The Lightbringer ... sorry it took so long. There is definitely more on the way, because I know all of you people that don't exist are waiting on the edges of your respective seats. I do apologize for any strange formatting errors.

Geal was up before the rooster crowed. All three members of the royal family, along with Sir Shae and a guard of two dozen loyal men, arrived at the wooden fortifications just as the sun was beginning to break the horizon. They were escorted through the heavily-guarded structure, finally reaching the covered portico in the center where a makeshift court was held. The royals stepped forward, taking the lead, Shae’s eyes follwed them with careful precision.

Arthur was tall, statuesque. He had only the bare beginnings of a beard, eyes that were such a shining green that they almost appeared to be jade. His hair was messy, almost indistinguishable between brown and blonde, and his shoulders broader than a bull’s. He was strong-voiced, and his words carried easily over this quickly-built court. Though he spoke in a quiet voice, there was no mistaking his words throughout the open hall. He looked impressive; everything about him was kingly. He was dressed simply in blues and reds, not the royal purples one would expect of such a mighty ruler. His laugh was easy, delightful, infectious, and seemed to compel people to join in without forcing them to. The jade eyes would dance with merriment at his laugh, as if he could not contain his happiness. There was an ease about his movements, almost as if he were flowing, like water. He was quiet, unassuming. As his guests entered, he gave them quick, welcoming smile, as if he were genuinely happy to be in their presence.

“My guests, please, welcome. And do not bother with formalities,” he added quickly as Merrich and Geal bowed their heads in his presence. “We are here to welcome you. Please, eat, drink. We must have some civility before we meet with the barbarians,” Arthur invited, almost as if they were going to have lunch with Saxons.

The three Irishmen moved to take their seats near the head of the table, quietly, almost as if intimidated by the ease with which Arthur lived. “Sir Geal, you seem to have grown weary since last I saw you. And now I can see for myself the scar Hengest has given you,” Arthur began conversationally.

“Yes, Artorius,” Geal said with a smile, “I seem to be marked by the barbarians for my transgressions.”

“Transgressions? Your transgressions, good sir, have brought me relief and safety. If Geal is Irish Light, then you are truly the Lightbringer for my kingdom. You should wear the scar proudly as a sign of honor!”

Geal nodded in acquiescence. “I thank you, Artorius. But I must say, my lord, if I am the Lightbringer, then you please must be the bear for our kingdom.”

Arthur laughed, impressed with Geal’s answer. “So let it be—may the bards sing of the Lightbringer and The Bear for all of history!” Arthur raised his glass in toast, and the table followed his example.

Raghnall cleared his throat politely. “Artorius, if you do not mind, I have concerns for our venture. It appears that Hengest has sent his brother Horsa to divide our forces. Horsa is now sitting between us and King Lot to the north. If was do not have a single front, how shall we come out of this victorious?”

“I should suggest, my lord, that we try to rescue our friend. We must encourage Horsa to move out of position, and allow Lot safe passage,” Arthur said, both careful and carefree.

Raghnall, however, was dissatisfied with his answer. “And how shall we compel Horsa to leave? I do not suppose you suggest asking for him to move?”

“Nay, good lord, we must use arms. We have been told that Horsa’s army is small, only a provision to make it difficult for Lot to pass while Hengest continues to mass forces. If we take the initiative, I believe we can remove Horsa without taking significant losses ourselves.”

“I see,” Merrich chimed in, “But how many should we send? Who shall lead them? We have many questions yet to be addressed.”

Arthur smiled at Merrich, his eyes dancing with amusement. “My lord, perhaps you would like to take charge. I hear you are an impressive commander, and I know many troops would want to follow the renowned Prince Merrich.”

Merrich bowed diplomatically. “If that is what my lords desire, I will do all I can to bring it into being.” Raghnall nodded his head slowly, giving consent to his son.

Artorius smiled broadly. “Now then, have the Irish any more questions?”

***

The Irish were back at camp. Merrich, the inspiring prince, was taking the Irish army to rescue their staunch ally. It pulled at emotions deep inside the men, calling upon their natural desire for heroics. Passions aroused, the soldiers had assembled and were leaving within a matter of hours. Only a third of the soldiers were leaving with Sir Merrich, but after they departed, there was a strange silence in the camp.

It was in this deathly silence that Sir Geal arrived at Shae’s quarters. His father had requested that Geal and Shae organize the Irish flank. He stopped, deep in thought, only to be startled by the sound of voices inside the tent.

“I tell you, Arthur has commanded that Merrich lead the army against Horsa,” came the deep growl of Shae, hushed quietly.

“And you wish me to tell Hengest?” The voice was quiet, slitheringly snake-like, a darkness that made even a battle-hardened prince shiver.

“If he knows, then that will remove Merrich’s surprise. Perhaps with reinforcements, Horsa can destroy the Irish army, isolate Lot, and kill the Irish crowned prince. Merrich thinks he is solidifying victory, but the Saxons can take this small battle and turn it into the final victory of the war!” Shae’s voice rose in intensity as excitement took a hold on him.

Geal burst into the tent, shocking the two inside. A small, beady-eyed man who looked remarkably like a weasel froze instantly, but Shae was ever the soldier. Without missing a beat, he leapt across the tent, his large foot meeting Geal in the chest.

The air expelled from his chest with a puff as he flew backwards, ripping through the tent doors and rolling on the dirt outside in the bright light. He jumped to his feet, never stopping for a second, and his fist met his attacker in the abdomen. Geal followed it up with a strong hook to the jaw, but this barely slowed down the large man. Shae leveled his own punch, again knocking Geal back several steps.

The fight was drawing a crowd, and the weasel, fear in his black eyes, ran. The crowd of Irishmen had no trouble detaining him, while the fight between the two knights raged in the center of the mob, the sunlight glinting off their armor.

Shae was strong and unyielding. With every punch he threw, Geal felt like he was being struck with a brick. The blood ran from his mouth and nose, even from a cut across his forehead from a rock. Another mighty punch landed across Geal’s jaw, throwing him to the ground. He swept his arm along the ground, throwing dust into Shae’s eyes. The sting knocked Shae back, and Geal jumped to his feet, without a pause, landing a strong punch to the man’s temple, sending him crashing to the ground.

“He’s a traitor!” Geal bellowed, trembling with rage.

The soldiers moved in closer, tightening the ring around them. “He was going to tell Hengest of my brother’s army! He,” Geal shouted, swirling on the weasel, “was the messenger!” The soldiers around the weasel held him tightly as he wriggled in their grasp.

Shae stood up, snarling angrily, the sun casting dark shadows over his growling face. “You! I’ll rip your eyes from your—” he shouted, interrupted by a hard fist in his solar plexus.

Geal cursed, a shooting stinging pain running through his finger. “Turn them over to my father. Let the king decide to do with the traitors,” he spat and stalked away, his movements rigid with anger and adrenaline.

***

Merrich returned the next week. Many were missing: friends, fathers, brothers. They were triumphant, but it was bittersweet. Many were lost in the battle; but the Saxons did not expect the attack. Horsa was killed; Merrich had returned unharmed; King Lot had safe passage, and his armies were camping outside of Arthur’s fortifications. Merrich had trouble breathing—a mace had struck his chest, leaving a starburst scar, and Geal had broken his finger against the traitor’s head. The Irish were deep in mourning for their brethren, but necessity compelled them forward. Raghnall and his sons worked alongside the other kings, working hard to create a strategy against Hengest.

The Council of Kings lasted several days. There was much to talk about, much to decide. It seemed at times that too many kingdoms had gathered together; so many were jostling for position, so many were trying to come out bigger than before. The kings all had differing fights with the Saxons, and different ways to deal with them after the war. Many strategies for battle were proposed, and many discarded. It was on the fifth day that the plan was decided.

The English would ride to field, forming at the center, with the assembled kings flanking on both sides. Raghnall’s armies were in the left flank, led by both him and his sons. They would try to draw the barbarians up Badon’s Hill, where the steep terrain could slow down the advancing Saxons to a near-complete stop. If everything went according to plan, the English could draw the Saxons in close, and the flanks could circle around, enclosing the barbarians. The Saxons should be trapped, making for easy targets.

***

Bleak December. Snow covered the field, pristine and unbroken. It smoothed over the valleys and hills, making land flat and even. The Great Equalizer. Trees dotted the landscape, small pockets of green on the field of white. The boughs of the tree hung low under the weight of snow, and an eerie silence permeated the landscape. There was a quality of stillness, a stillness that seemed it could never be broken, but soon it would be shattered like glass.

Sunlight danced across the snow, reflected upwards by the white, giving the entire field a sense of glowing, radiating light. The men shifted uncomfortably, standing impatiently at the top of the high hill. With this vantage point, they could see the darkness in the distance: the barbarians. The soldiers stamped impatiently; the tense feelings hung in the air. Everyone moved quietly, trying to steel themselves for the battle ahead.

Merrich stood quietly between his father and brother. His breath steamed as it left his mouth, curling and twisting like a snake. None of the three said anything—this was not a time for words. The Irish were behind them, silently at the ready. Their swords were drawn; cold could make them difficult to remove from the sheath. He went through moves in his head, concentrating on the ordeal before him. Merrich looked over to his brother—he was surely doing the same—and then back to the field. Hengest was readying his own troops. The dark spot in the distance was slowly changing shapes as the men organized themselves. The intense light made it hard to see the Saxons, but the threats were obvious when the line began to march forward in a slow, deadly charge. Merrich turned to the men behind him and raised his sword slowly, deliberately. “Ireland!” he shouted, the cheers of the soldiers drowning out his echo that bounced off the snow.

The yelling started to come together, making a terrible roar. “Merrich the Strong!” the Irishmen shouted in unison, swinging their swords in the air. “Geal the Lightbringer!” The shouting reached a fervor, and with a single swing of Merrich’s sword, the men broke, charging toward the barbarians as the snow began to fall.

***

Geal walked back, struggling in the deep snow. His leg was covered in blood, running down toward his foot. At the top of the hill, he turned. The snow, so pristine, was now a deep maroon, the violence made more pronounced by the purity that had existed before. Men lay dead and dying beneath him. He turned, unable to look back. The plan devised by the Council of Kings had worked perfectly. The Saxons were slowed trying to run up the steep hill, exposing them to arrows, while the armies led by Arthur circled around them, trapping them. Nothing went wrong, but the young knight was still filled with a sick feeling. He had never been in such an expansive battle, never seen so much death. Geal felt sick to his stomach.

“Geal,” a voice said softly.

Merrich stood up, his face bloodied. His shoulder was drooped, exhausted from heaving the heavy sword. “Hengest has escaped. His personal guard surrounded him and broke through the right flank. Arthur went after him, but they can’t catch him. And father—we can’t find him.” Merrich looked down, ready to fall in exhaustion.

A soft cry rose up the hill, alerting the two men. “We have found Lord Raghnall!” came a voice, barely reaching them. “My lords, he—he didn’t make it.”

Merrich collapsed, the snow making a cloud around him.

***

He stood at the top of the hill, the sunlight peaking over the horizon. The reds, purples shot across the sky. The grass before him grew from blackness to olives and sages, to emeralds and jades. The trees were just as he remembered them, full and strong. The castle sat, nestled in safety, flags flying high. The coast crashed gently on the shore, a soft, soothing noise rising into the air. The sun pulled higher, the water growing into a brilliant blue in the illuminating rays. Sir Geal was home once more.

This is the first part of a short story I wrote entitled "The Lightbringer." Enjoy, if you dare.

He crested the top of the hill, his destination finally in sight. A castle, nestled among the hills, rested next to the sea. The sun was setting, deep oranges and purples shooting across the sky. Emerald grasses covered the ground, ranging from the glassy sapphire sea to as far as the eye could see. Small white animals dotted the pastures, small clumps of sheep and cattle. The setting sun cast long shadows across the landscape. The scenery was idyllic, like heaven to the man who looked over it. The man was young, thin, but muscles were clearly visible through his thin shirt. His vibrant red hair looked like flames in the fading sunlight, and a long, elaborate sword hung from his belt. He staggered forward a couple steps, his slender frame exhausted and pained from his journey, but smiled despite it. He was home.

He entered the castle, his body aching and tired. But this was not a chance to rest; there was work to be done. The young man limped toward the enormous doorway before him; the two sentries, recognizing him, instantly stepped aside to let him through. Grunting, he pushed the tall arched door open, struggling under its heavy weight. “Lord!” he shouted, his voiced carrying down the long corridor.

The figure at the end of the hall shifted slightly, gesturing him forward. He limped down toward the regal figure, trying to ignore the pain deep in his leg. The tired young man reached the end of the corridor, stopping to kneel before the elderly man in the large gold chair.

“Arise, good knight.”

“Lord Raghnall, I come with news from the east. The Saxons have left their lands, rising on the warpath. They destroy all in their path. The Lord Artorius is raising an army. He requests your help, lord,” the young man began, his quiet voice lined deep with concern.

“Sir Geal, the English can deal with their own troubles. Arthur has done nothing for the peoples of Ireland. He has given none of his great prosperity and renown to our island. His own uncle, King Lot of Wales, has been very gracious to our kingdom. He has paid us in tribute, opened his land to trade, and even you possess a gift from him. Yet Arthur has done nothing. Why should we come to his aid now?”

“I am sorry, liege lord. He says that the Saxons, the barbarians from the north, will stop at nothing. They will conquer all, and divided all the kingdoms of our isles will fall,” Geal answered, wishing to God for His great strength.

“The honorable King Arthur has supposed a lot. Why should the Saxons continue to the west? England has more than enough land for the barbarians,” Lord Raghnall said, his voice thick with contempt.

“My lord, the king believes in the greed of the barbarians. It may be more than enough, but it will not satisfy their bloodlust. We must band together to protect ourselves. Already seven kings, including Lot, whose allegiance you hold so dear, have already pledged their armies to Arthur,” Sir Geal answered, hoping this plea would appeal to his king.

“Lot—pledged to Artorius?” Lord Raghnall was obviously shocked, taken aback. He stroked his beard, a thoughtful look in his crystal blue eyes. “Why would Lot do this without consulting to me?”

“I believe, lord, that he understands the troubles of the islands.”

“He is closer to England. He is more at risk than Ireland.”

“Perhaps, my lord, but we, too, have a lot to lose.”

“Sir Geal, you have given me much to think about,” the king said abruptly. “You are dismissed now. Go relax; you must be weary from your long journey.” Geal bowed again, his achy legs a testament to his lord’s words, and turned to leave. “It is good to have you back, son.” Geal smiled in gratitude as he walked away from his king and father.

***

“Geal, Geal!”

The knight turned, looking down the stone hallway. A young man, only two years older than Sir Geal, jogged through toward him. He had a shock of messy brown hair that complimented his deep brown eyes and a winning smile. Where Geal was slender, this man was short and stocky, obviously a physical being. Geal smiled in recognition.

“How are you, Merrich?”

“Just fine, brother! How was your trip to Briton?”

Geal’s smile remained, though his eyes looked distraught. “I do not know. Artorius is requesting help from all the nearby kingdoms. He says that the Saxons won’t stop until Horsa and Hengest are dead.”

Merrich frowned, thoughtful. “Arthur is rarely wrong about such things. And Hengest is as brutal a king as they come; I doubt he’ll rest until the world is under his control. What does father say?”

“He is unsure. He doubts Arthur’s reasoning. You know our father, he is careful in his decisions, and this is no exception,” Geal said diplomatically.

“Arthur is wise, and not easily fooled. I believe him; Hengest will kill and destroy. Nothing will make him happy. We must come to the aid of Arthur, if we are to save our own kingdom.”

***

Sir Geal sighed, concern evident in every breath. It was almost a week later when Lord Raghnall called his son back, telling him that Ireland would defend its own borders. Arthur would have to defend himself from the Saxons. Geal was sent to organize the kingdoms borders, and now here he was, mobilizing a backcountry fort, trying to prepare the poorly-trained troops for the ferocity of the barbarians. He was on a walk a few miles from the wooden fort, only a dozen soldiers as his guard. It was mid-afternoon, the sun distant, high in the sky. They walked in quiet through an emerald forest. The sun spilt through the foliage, creating an array of wonderful greens as it pierced through the leaves. It was soothing, pleasant, but soon the calm was broken.

A fierce, wild cry broke through the trees, and chaos erupted around the Irish soldiers. Almost thirty men burst through the forest onto the soldiers, dirty, clad in the hides of animals, screaming in an incomprehensible, violent language, their weapons wicked and deadly.

“Saxons!” a soldier cried, drawing his sword in his shaking hand.

The fight was fast, brutal, lasting only a matter of minutes. Blades and blood flew everywhere, cries of fury and anguish resounded through the air. It was savage, sharp, and in the end, few were left standing. Geal was covered in sweat, a deep and bloody scar across his eye. He breathed heavily, standing over a wounded Saxon who clutched his arm that lay limp by his side. “What are you here for?” Geal said, menace in his voice.

The Saxon looked up at him, a fury in his eyes. “You!”

Geal started, shocked, and looked back into the Saxon’s eyes, as if he could tell whether or not the man was lying. “Why would you want me?”

“You are a risk,” the Saxon sneered, “If you convince your father to go to the Britons, then Arthur’s army will be too strong. Hengest wants you dead!” The Saxon spat on Geal’s face, then struggled to draw his sword before an Irish dagger sunk into his throat.

***

It was a four days’ journey back to Raghnall’s castle, and Geal didn’t waste a minute. His return was greeted with shock; he hadn’t even been gone two weeks and was supposed to be gone for months. The news of the attempted assassination was even more shocking: a barbarian invasion and the attempt to kill the young prince outraged the Irish kingdom. The cut on his eye had scarred over, jarring his princely appearance. The scar was a reminder to all who saw him that Hengest would not leave Ireland alone, and Raghnall’s entire kingdom was clamoring for revenge.

It took only three days to amass the first army. Sir Merrich, the future king, was to lead them to Arthur’s aid. Geal’s older brother was violent with anger. His love for his brother was unquestioned, and it was all his father and brother could do to restrain him from heading out alone to take on Hengest and Horsa.

And it was a fortnight after his scarring when Geal stepped off the boat, back in Arthur’s kingdom. He was in the second army, led by his father, and would be welcomed into their host’s court at dawn of the next day. The soldiers were restless, ready for a fight. Geal softly touched his forehead, feeling the mark above his eye. The Irish soldiers camped at their landing site, only a half an hour’s walk from Arthur’s fortifications. Horsa and Hengest were moving to the west, trying to cut off Lot’s forces from Arthur’s. Geal slipped into his tent.

He was tired. It had been a long day; a long month, really. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, only to be startled out of his near sleep when someone approached his tent.

“Sir Geal?” a voice questioned politely.

“Come in,” Geal invited, never even opening his eyes.

A tall man entered, broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome. He was dressed in full armor, ready for a fight; but then again, he was hardly ever out of battle-dress. Everything about him was military—he was an enormous and physical man, and rumors circled around Ireland that he was so large, he once crushed an enemy’s skull with his bare hands. “My lord, how do you feel?” the man asked, his voice a deep rumble, bear-like and gravelly.

“I am fine, Sir Shae,” Geal answered, his eyes opening reluctantly. “Please, have a seat.”

“Do not worry, my lord. I shan’t be long. I was sent by your father to tell you that Arthur invites your family to break your fast in his camp. He wants you ready to leave before the sun rises,” Sir Shae delivered the message and awaited a response.

“Thank you, Sir Shae. You may tell him that I will be ready.” Sir Geal closed his eyes again, and fell asleep before he was able to get to bed.

Ags win 54-14. Gig'em, Aggies! Finally playing like a Division I team!!

Writing a story write now for my Creative Writing class. The topic is "Gross Out." I'll be sure to post it after I am finished. I'm on the first paragraph right now.

I wrote another story. It's Arthurian. I'll post it in the next couple of days. I think it's pretty good. It's 14 pages long, which makes it the single longest thing I've ever written. Impressive? I'm not sure. At least it's a milestone, in a way. It could probably be lengthened to a novella at some point. But for now, I'm busy with other writings.

Speaking of other writings, I also have a 4-6 page History essay that is due on Thursday, so I'd probably better get to work.

This is something I wrote for my Creative Writing class. Enjoy.

Beloved John,

Thank you for enquiring. Yes, Elise is doing well. We are happy to have finally settled into the new house, but I don’t look forward to emptying all the boxes. It is too strange that you mention that strange dream in your last letter. I, too, had the same dream just three nights ago! Yet where yours ended, mine kept going.

The bell rang, just as in your dream. We stood there in the bell tower, surveying the landscape. The decrepit, ruined gothic architecture cast ghostly shadows in the moonlight. The rain was only a light drizzle where we were, but the storm was obviously headed our way. The dull roar of explosions continued to sound in the distance, occasionally punctuated with the clap of thunder. I wiped the blood from my face, and you continued to grin at me.

“Still okay, little brother?” you asked.

“I am,” I answered, wiping my now-bloody hand on my uniform. “But I am ready for this to end.”

“We all are, little brother. We all are.”

We watched the flashes from artillery in the distance, a sort of peaceful quiet around us, despite the apparent chaos on the ground below. The silence was broken several minutes later by the squawk of the radio. We had the go-ahead. You knelt, shouldering the rifle, and looked carefully through the scope. I wiped the blood from my face again and cursed. “This blood keeps getting in my eyes.”

You tossed me a rag, which I quickly tied around my forehead, hoping to staunch the flow of blood and keep it out of my eyes. “See him yet?” I asked. You shook your head, and that’s when it happened.

The bell tower rocked, hit by an artillery shell. You tumbled, managing to brace yourself with your arms. I was sent sprawling, bouncing across the floor like a ragdoll, coming to rest against the opposite wall. I was dizzy, and had the most curious floating feeling, which I can only now on recollection attribute to that strange sensation that is so particular to dreams. There was an intense pain shooting up my arm, and I could see my blood pooling once around me once again. You looked over to me and cursed, your eyes wide with horror.

“Christ, there’s shrapnel in you!” You clamored over to me, your hands hovering just over my body, as if in a desperate dilemma to help or to stop from making it worse.

I coughed. “John, I’m okay. We need to keep going. We need to get him.”

“Hell, there’s no way you can make that! This could take hours, you’re losing way too much blood.” Your eyes were fixed to mine, almost as if you were afraid to look elsewhere. That unnerved me more than anything.

I reached with my good arm, feeling the wound at my shoulder. A large, thin sheet of metal stuck out of the shoulder cavity, right where I would put the butt of my rifle. I touched it softly, then gasped in pain as it moved, only to have that flexing in my chest disturb the wound more.

“Don’t move!” you scolded, obviously still trying to make a decision.

“John, we can’t abandon the mission. There’s too much riding on us. Forget about this, I’ll be okay. For now, we need to make sure that all this effort isn’t wasted. You hear me, John? We need to make sure it isn’t wasted!”

You nodded abruptly, curtly, as if you couldn’t deal with more. You reached into a pack that had been thrown across the floor in the blast, pulling out some forceps and a strip of gauze.

After my wound was dressed, you helped me struggle to my feet. I swayed slightly, the loss of blood effecting my balance. I steadied myself on the wall, and then swore silently. “John, that’s him! There!” I gestured weakly with my hurt arm.

You lifted the rifle to your shoulder, staring intently down the scope. A small man, dressed in an over-the-top military uniform, medals seeming to hang from every strip of cloth on him, walking swiftly down a hallway in a building several blocks away. “Confirmed target, proceeding,” you said, which I repeated into our battered radio.

I barely heard the sound of the gunshot, drowned out by the constant artillery. The man slumped to the floor, a large red stain appearing on the wall beside him. “Confirmed kill,” you said with finality. I raised the radio to repeat the message when a the bell tower was hit again.

Both of us were thrown to the ground, and I felt a large crack on the back of my head. I reached back and touched the base of my skull, feeling the sticky blood. I looked over to you, my eyes unfocused and bleary. “John?” I whispered, my breath ragged, as my eyes sank closed into darkness.

Have you ever had a dream within a dream? I suddenly found myself floating, deep in an empty nothingness. It has that indescribable quality that dreams so often do. I was hovering in this calm gray that seemed endless. I could see nothing to break the monotony of my surroundings, yet I didn’t mind much. I was strangely at comfort in this place, and I closed my eyes blissfully. I felt a tug deep in the core of my body, and knew instantly without even opening my eyes that I was moving forward, as if called by an unseen source. “Little brother,” a shadowy voice rumbled, that I could only vaguely recognize as yours. “Little brother, you will come here soon, so very soon. But it is not quite your time to stay. You must know what your wife will feel. She would be lost, alone in the world, should you stay in this place.”

“John?” I answered groggily. “She can’t stay here too?”

The thing pulling me continued, and I suddenly realized that it was taking me away from this calm place. “No, little brother. It is not time for her. You must go back, and give it to me.”

“Give what to you?” I questioned, now straining to see where you were in the midst of the gray. “John? Give what to you?” I repeated, an answer never coming.

Slowly I wakened from the dream within a dream, and my eyes fluttered open to see you staring down at me. “Are you okay?” you asked, the worry abundant in your voice.

“No,” I whispered, the blood thick in my throat, bubbling out of my mouth in a coughing fit. My fingers pulled their way up my chest, pulling one of my breast pockets open, tearing off the button. I pulled a carefully folded piece of paper from the pocket, stuffing it into your hand. “Give this to Elise, John. Promise me.”

“Christ, man … you’re going to make it. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think so, John.” I closed my eyes, my breath growing faint in my chest. “Tell Elise I love her, man.”

It was then that I woke up in the dead of night. I knew I was home only by the sigh of Elise at my side. It is truly a strange dream, is it not, John? I still can’t believe that our dreams were so similar. It is truly unfortunate that you woke up in the middle of yours. I wish to know how yours would have ended. Please do fill me in if you have the dream again.

Do you think it means anything? I have had some trouble over this. It is one of the most intense, realistic dreams I’ve ever had in my life. I wonder where we were. I could only assume it would be Germany, and if they continue the way they have, it is possible that we would wind up there.

It is good to hear from you, John. Please write soon; I anxiously await news from your end!

Your Little Brother

Please keep in mind it is only a rough draft. I imagine that I will post an updated, cleaned-up version sometime. Let me know what you think. Criticisms welcome.

Mood: Excited

So I haven't updated the blog in two weeks after I said I would start.

I've moved into the new apartment. I've been sleeping on a cot. It's wonderful. But I actually got some furniture this weekend. I currently have a desk in my study, a recliner, tv, bookshelf, and coffee table in the living room, and a dresser and nightstand in my bedroom. It's awesome. I feel like I actually live here!

While I was home for Angela's graduation (Congratulations to her) I met with a corgi breeder. I picked out a dog I liked, and I'm going to purchase him soon. She promised me she would hold him for me, so that's pretty cool. I took some pictures of him, so I'll post them here once I get them on my computer and online.

I'm a bit hungry. I really feel like I should try cooking here at my apartment more often, so that I can save a bit of money, and so I can actually learn some "life skills."

Also, I was hired at the MSC Bookstore. I'm going through training tomorrow, and start working on Thursday. It should be interesting ... I'm still trying to figure out if I'm excited or dreading it. I'm not really sure.

Short entry, because I'm trying to get stuff done around the apartment. Also, I don't have a quote to end today, so ... too bad!

Mood: Slightly stressed?

Here it is, two years later. I have moved on from Xanga (that only lasted nine months). I've been wanting a blog back for a while now, but haven't ever really had the time to go about starting things up again. Hopefully now that school is out (for a couple weeks, at least) I will have time to try to get into some kind of "groove" with the whole blogging thing.

My Creative Writing teacher once said that the best thing to do if you want to write is to write every day. I want to write. I'll try to write every day.

I actually have a quote that goes along with that, but, alas, I cannot find my quotations dictionary. Perhaps I need to get a new one soon. I always did love quotes.

I'm going to be leaving the old posts up here. They're kind of ... from a darker period of my life, I suppose. As weird as it is to think of me having a darker period. Suffice it to say, I'm rather embarassed about them now, but at the same time, I believe it's important for me to keep them, in an effort to remember who I am and where I have been. It might not be the best thing for all my new friends (who can potentially find out about this blog) to read those old ideas of mine ... but perhaps it'll give them some clarity into my life. Either way, they are there. Not necessarily for the readers, but for me. I'm ashamed, but I also feel it is important to keep them.

I am packing up stuff to move into a new apartment. I'm moving into a new place, all by myself. I've never lived alone before. It's going to be interesting. I hope I don't get lonely. That is something I'm ... very concerned about. As it is, I hardly ever see my roommates, but that's partly because I'm hardly ever in my apartment. It's too messy. But if I get a new place, perhaps I'll stay there more (because, in theory, it'll be a thousand times cleaner). But if I'm in my new apartment more, with no one else there ... I'm afraid that I'll wither without human contact. (I like the word "wither." The sounds are cool. Almost like "cellar door.") That is part of the reason why I'm looking into purchasing a dog.

I like dogs. I like them very much. They are kind, always happy to see you, the most cheerful animals I have ever met. Man's best friend. Did you know that people who own dogs are less likely to die of stress-related factors than people who don't own dogs? Also, the people who own dogs report lower levels of stress in their life. And college students (like myself) are theoretically at the most stressful period in their life. Many studies have shown that people consider college to be the most stressful time in their life. So I think it's a good idea for all college students (or almost all) to be issued a dog with their acceptance letter.

Welsh Corgis are the best. I'm looking into getting one of those. It's been stressful just trying to find one. (Ironic. Just the paragraph above I talked about how dogs are supposed to LOWER the stress.) For those of you who don't know what a Corgi looks like ... http://www.houstonpembrokes.org/images/flowers_ind.jpg ... Everyone, please keep your fingers crossed, I want to try to get the dog in about a month's time. This would allow me a few months to train and socialize the dog before school start's up in August, and I might have to cut back on the amount of time spent with the dog.

I need to go. Tara just got off work, so we must try to do some packing before we get dinner.


"I hate kids and pets! They're all a royal pain in the butt!" - Spike Spiegal, Cowboy Bebop