The Big Tree

-When I was a child,
We lived at the end
Of a long road
And a big tree grew there,
With leafy limbs stretched high and wide.

-It’s Winter branches
Would shiver in the cold,
And we would keep it warm.
-Fresh Spring rain
Rattled the lush canopy,
And played like a tympani.
-The Summer gave us shade:
Great golden boughs
Kept us cool on hotter days.
-We dropped from dangled branches,
Like crunchy leaves
In the chilly Autumn breeze.

-The tree was safe
When playing tag,
But a trip over roots
Gave an occasional bruise.
-Ants were crushed
By fingers and toes,
Climbing it’s trunk.
-Sticks and twigs
Scraped and scratched,
Band-aids were a badge.

-One afternoon,
Hai fell from the highest limb.
Took his breath
And the wind from his sails.
-The big tree
Was scary
On that day.

-Years later,
After I’d grown,
I visited
The old house
On the long road.
The road was tiny,
the house was small,
and the tree was gone.
It stays big
In my memory.

Umbrella

Though I enjoy the gentle rain
And electric fingers skyward,
Clapping thunder in the distance
With a gentle breeze against my cheeks,
I enjoy you most during those walks of wettest weather.
Finding pleasure in the music your shelter provides,
A polyrhythmic percussion,
A chaotic beat that cannot be followed or performed,
Evoking the earliest memories
Of reflections jumped upon
And splashed about,
The river rush of gutters tempting for a swim,
The prospects of fresh mud
And squishy toes in soaking socks.
When the weather lets up,
I may use you as a walking stick
And for a moment I can feel like a gentleman,
Tapping my way one step ahead,
But always hoping for a reason to open you up
When I can remember galoshes and ponchos
And the sticky fingers of childhood.

I Can't Write

I find it very hard to write anything these days.  My creativity seems spent most of the time on my desires as a consumer, pining away for the latest technologies or imagining what I would do if I were to win the lottery.  I can't write poetry.  I can't finish the stories that I start.  I am just unable to inspire myself artistically.  So, I have decided to write journal entries.  I hope that I can just keep that up for a while.  Maybe, once I have practiced writing in that way for a while, maybe I could begin to embellish the truth a bit and then do something creative with my journal.
I started writing as a way to fill the gap that was left behind when I stopped playing music in high school.  I think what I really need to do is pull out my alto clarinet and my bass guitar and start practicing them.  I can continue on with the journal writing, but the music playing may be even more satisfying to me artistically.
I would love to get a jazz trio or a Dixie Land Band going.  That would be a great time even if we just practiced once in a while and never performed in front of an audience.  The playing is far more important than the performing.
Anyway, that is it for today.  I need to write, that is for sure, but my writing for now will be these simple journal posts.

Chapter One: Because of Beethoven

 

Two minutes before he clocked out for the end of his shift, Jak Dirk received a direct transmission from Human Resources.

Please, pay a visit to office T6 of Human Resources before you leave for the day. Make sure to clock out and bring your belongings. Ask for Greg. This was boldly displayed across his field of vision with the team building catch phrase of the month: We appreciate all that you do for us, followed by the spinning three dimensional WFS logo. He turned his head to check the clock.

Jak had been to Human Resources only once before and that was when he was hired on for his current position at World Financial Securities. That was ten years ago. He briefly wondered why they had called him in, but he did not think too much on it. He confidently walked down the corridor that lead to the HR department with his one-suit zipped tight and his hair freshly combed. There was always the slight chance for promotion and he wanted to look good for the occasion.

The walls of the corridor displayed a pastoral scene: a field of grass stretched out as far as the eye could see, peppered here and there with ash trees. A family sat down for a picnic on a red and white checked cloth beneath the largest of the trees, and a young boy flew a yellow kite with his father’s assistance. Jak stopped for a moment and watched the kite rising higher and higher into the seemingly infinite blue sky. He felt a gust of the central air vent and he imagined that it was real wind blowing through his hair and on his cheeks. The sun was bright and he could almost feel it warm his skin. Then, the screen pixilated for a split second and the simulation started from the beginning with the family unpacking their car, the children running around the field with their arms stretched out as if they were airplanes and the parents embraced for just a moment before they all headed toward the big ash tree. He turned and continued down the corridor.

He walked past a single security guard stationed at the door who did not acknowledge him. Jak stopped and said, “Hello,” before he palmed the security lock to the right of the door. The guard briefly looked up from his reading material and Jak walked into the Human Resources department.

The claustrophobic waiting room was all of thirty-six square feet  dominated with a full size holographic receptionist screen which glowed blue and displayed the three dimensional logo of World Financial Securities. He waited for less than a minute before he received a direct transmission which read in bold letters across his field of vision, Please log in using the palm of your left hand, and then say your eighteen digit social security number, followed by the pound key.

Jak pressed his hand to the holographic surface and said, “785-64-349.100-22-943.00.” He pressed the virtual pound key with his right fore-finger.

The upbeat World Financial Securities jingle was transmitted through Jak’s neuro-deck at an intrusive volume, followed by the appearance of a computer-generated AI that was fashioned after a once successful movie actress and who now stood before him in the blue glow of the holo-screen. He quickly double blinked and navigated to settings> direct transmission> audio and set it to low. These AI neural-audio transmissions were painful at times.

“Hello, 785-64-349.100-22-943.00: Jak Dirk, Department 12: Secure Video Observation, Apartment 10166: Deck Level – Hall G. We appreciate all that you do for us. What brings you to Human Resources today?”

Even though this was all very standard procedure and he fully appreciated the AI’s ample bosom and voluptuous lips, Jak never could get used to these technical formalities. There was something deeply chilling to him about the process, but he kept feelings like that to himself.

“I received a D.T. about ten minutes ago. I was told to ask for Greg in T6.”

“Yes, indeed, you are scheduled to see Greg,” said the blue woman. “Please, have a seat there on the drop bench and Greg will come out to meet you shortly.”

“Do you know what this is regarding,” he asked, knowing that the program would never answer a direct question.

The blue woman repeated herself, “Please, have a seat there on the drop bench and Greg will come out to meet you.” She winked at him and then stood there quietly.

Jak turned to the wall directly behind him and waited for the drop bench to reveal itself from the wall paneling and unfold from the storage outlet. He sat there, rigidly, in the ten by ten inch bench, his hands firmly placed upon the knees for extra support. He preferred to stand, but he knew the pretty blue woman would insist that he remain seated.

It took only a few minutes before her final transmission. “You may now enter. Greg will be waiting for you inside.” The holo-screen faded out, revealing an automatic panel door, which opened as he stood up. He heard the drop bench retract into its enclosure as he left the waiting room.

The panel door closed behind him and Jak was greeted by a svelte seven foot tall robot. Jak looked up, observing its strangely human physique. Its arms were long and thin, had the appearance of a complex musculature system and covered in a silken opalescent skin that glowed slightly beneath the warmth of the recessed lighting in the ceiling above. It wore the regulation beige colored one-suit zipped to the neck, which was longer than a human neck and it’s face was constructed out of a textured three dimensional ultra-definition screen that displayed a likeness of the bot’s choosing. In this case, it appeared to use the image of Jak’s immediate human superior, the recently deceased Rick Harkness. Jak had developed a strong friendship with Rick and his death had been sudden and unexpected. Seeing him now made Jak feel a little nervous when the robot approached him.

“My name is Greg,” the Android-Rick said. “I can see that your neural-audio settings are set to low. Would you prefer that we speak directly?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that,” said Jak.

Greg placed his arm gently on Jak’s shoulder and led him through a long dark corridor that lit up in sections as they proceeded through. The lights dimmed behind them as they walked down the hall. “I can sense through the dilation of your eyes, the temperature of your skin, and your level of perspiration that there is a ninety-five percent chance that you are uneasy about something. May I ask what it is that bothers you, Mr. Dirk?”

“Sure.” Jak never really liked bots, but he tried his best to treat them with respect. He felt that honesty would help break the ice. “Greg, to be honest, I was put off by your choice of digital visage. You look just like a close friend who died recently.”

“I must apologize for that, Mr. Dirk, but it has been written into my programming that I take on the image of one’s direct superior during a meeting of this type. I mean no offense and, as you know, we have yet to replace Mr. Harkness as of yet.”

Jak wondered, is that why I have been brought here? Are they giving me his job?

As if Greg had read Jak’s mind, he said, “I should also make it very clear from the start that the reason why we have brought you here is not for promotion.”

“Then why am I here?”

They approached a single door at the end of the corridor, which opened automatically. “Let’s talk about that inside my office.” Greg patted Jak on the back once more and gestured for him to enter.

The recessed lighting turned on when they walked into the 8 by 8 room, which included a small desk and two chairs at either end. The wall to the right framed a medium sized digital fish tank which tinted the room with a calming bluish hue, and which certainly housed a closed circuit camera used to document the proceedings.

“Please, have a seat, Mr. Dirk,” said Greg, gesturing to the seat furthest from the door.

Jak sat down and said, “So, what’s this all about? I haven’t been to HR since you guys hired me.”

Greg unrolled a docu-glass scroll and quickly scanned it as he spoke, “Mr. Dirk, I have called this meeting because of your consistent failure to meet the benchmarks set for your position in your last review, which I am sure you recall was at 9:00 am on January 6^th of this year and was conducted via video conference with yourself, your direct manager: the now deceased Richard Harkness, and a silent observer representing Human Resources: myself. Do you recall the conference of which I speak?”

Jak’s cheeks flushed and he hoped his look of surprise was not as noticeable as he felt it was. He knew that Greg was programmed to observe reactions like these and he would use these small details to assist in how he would conduct the interview.

“I remember the conference. Yes,” he said.

“You were to undergo special management training during your personal time and prepare for the possibility of your manager’s promotion or retirement. You were meant to be the successor of Richard Harkness, Mr. Dirk. Now, he has passed away. Was that three months ago?” He referred to the scroll for a moment and then looked directly into Jak’s eyes. “That was three months ago, Mr. Dirk. I know that Mr. Harkness was a friend as well as your superior, but you have been given plenty of time to straighten yourself out.”

“I see,” said Jak. “Where are you going with this, Greg?”

“Have I not been clear, Mr. Dirk? It is because of this and other reasons which I will get to shortly that we have decided to terminate your employment with us. Regretfully, I might add, because we have spent much time and money on your training and employment. We gave you opportunities and you failed to take them. You have showed a general lack of ambition and we find that entirely unsuitable for someone in our employ.”

Jak was taken aback. “Well, you certainly do not pull any punches, do you Greg?” He nervously tapped is feet on the ground for a moment, but quickly stopped, knowing that Greg would take note of it. Knowing this, he considered starting it up again to make it seem as if he were not too concerned with what Greg was thinking, but he decided against it. He needed to remain calm.

“My programming requires me to notify you of the true nature of our meeting within thirty seconds of you sitting down. “

“Well, I don’t care too much for your programming, Greg,” said Jak. He wiped his sweaty brow and combed his fingers through his hair before taking a deep breath.

“I suppose that I would feel the same way as you if I were in your shoes. However, take a moment and imagine if I had dragged this out with unnecessary small talk. Would you be less angry if I had started out by asking how your family was doing?”

“I don’t have a family.” Jak could feel his entire body relax. He was disgusted, but at ease.

Greg quickly glanced at the docu-glass and said, “Of course. How about if I had started by asking if you had enjoyed the replay of Super Bowl XLV between the Green Bay Packers and the Pittsburgh Steelers that aired last weekend?” His voice was calm, calculated and in complete control.

“I suppose that would upset me even more,” said Jak.

“You see? I am programmed to minimize the potential psychological damage that situations like these can create within someone in your current position. In fact, I can detect through the simple observation of your skin temperature, muscle tension, perspiration level, micro-expressions and dilation of your pupils that your level of stress has actually dropped from before we entered this room. Also, by using other resources that are available to me, I am informed that you are actually relieved and you have settled into a general sense of calm.”

“Quit hacking my deck, Greg.” Jak pushed his seat back and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees with his head in his hands. He took another deep breath.

Greg actually smiled for a moment and said, “I am hacking nothing, Mr. Dirk. You know that I have a direct link to your neural deck at all times.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Although I do not have direct access to your thoughts, I am capable of observing your physical and psychological status, I can check your personal data records and peruse your direct transmissions at all times.”

He continued, “It should be no surprise to you that we have full legal access to your neural deck, Mr. Dirk. You waived all rights to your privacy upon accepting employment with us and we will continue to have full access to this information until this termination has been completed and you have signed and initialed your termination packet in triplicate.”

Jak looked blankly into Greg’s digital face and said, “No, I am not surprised. ” This time, he did very little to hide his look of disgust, his mouth was agape.

“Let us continue, shall we? The records show that you never logged into the training program. Not once. Even so, we had actually contemplated keeping you on, regardless of your obvious lack of ambition. You have done your job well in the past.”

“Yeah, I monitor a screen all day long. It’s not difficult work.”

“However, upon further review, it became clear to us that you have an insubordinate streak in you that we simply cannot tolerate.”

Jak sat back in his seat again and stretched his legs forward. He had grown tired of this conversation, but he wanted to stay for the duration.

“We have sent reprimands regarding your performance via direct transmission on numerous occasions,” said Greg.

“I suppose that I was expecting something more official than a D.T. if I was truly being reprimanded for performance issues. Just this morning, I received a direct transmission in five-font, scrolling in my lower peripheral view,” said Jak.

“Yes, I sent that to you myself, Mr. Dirk. It said, ‘You Have Violated the NO MUSIC Clause of Your Employee Contract.’ It was sent to you in eight-font bold, Mr. Dirk.”

“O.K., it was eight-font bold, but it was followed by the monthly team building phrase: ‘We appreciate what you do for us’ in three dimensional twelve-font bold italic. How was I supposed to interpret that?”

“As you know, Mr. Dirk, all direct transmissions from Human Resources include the monthly team-building catch phrase as the footer to all internalized emails, letters, and direct transmissions. This is simply company policy. It was not added to lessen the seriousness of your violation. Furthermore, it is also company policy to send reprimands in eight-font bold scroll to minimize the level of discontent with the employee and to promote a positive work attitude.”

Jak stood up and slammed his fist on the desk. “Minimize my level of discontent? You just fired me!” He yelled, “You screen-faces are fucking unbelievable, inhuman.”

Greg stood up, gesturing to the Jak’s chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Dirk.” He was speaking and transmitting through audio and text simultaneously. Greg was at full command presence and the effect it had on Jak was deafening and frightening. “There is no need for hostility or racist behavior. I may be un-human, but I am certainly not inhuman.”

Jak looked down at the desk and slowly sat back in his chair. He clenched his fists.

“Mr. Dirk, I am programmed to-“

“Yeah, you are programmed to-“

“DO NOT INTERRUPT ME AGAIN, Mr. Dirk.” Greg set Jak’s deck to full volume and it felt like a piercing needle through the base of his skull. He doubled over and grabbed his head. “I am programmed to do my job. I am also programmed to call security to assist me when I sense an increased level of threat.”

“Please, get off my deck, man,” said Jak. “I am sorry for losing my temper.”

Greg continued to speak as he did before, “I am also programmed to have the human emotion of compassion, Mr. Dirk. I am sorry if I hurt you. Let us continue our conversation, yes? I think we would both prefer that security is not involved. Now, take a few deep breaths.”

Jak listened and did as he was told.

Keep Your Dreams On Your Mind And Your Data in The Cloud

-The New Computer

I have a ten year old Dell PC with an hyper threaded single core 3 GHz processor, a mid-grade graphics card, two hard drives with a combined storage of 400 GB, 4 GB of DDR2 RAM, USB 2.0 (which has been acting up in strange ways lately) and a recent install of Windows 8 Consumer Preview.  It is a decent computer.  Even after ten years of use, I believe that it has a few more years of service left in it.  I cannot complain. 

However, lately I have been craving a computer with a little more oomph.  My PC is incapable of playing most computer games except for World of Warcraft, which is intentionally programmed for computers with lower specifications.  This is a well-informed business decision on Blizzard Entertainment’s part, who want a fun and exciting game that everyone can play.  World of Warcraft is a beautiful game with lush graphics and addicting gameplay (I would know, I have been playing it since November of 2006), but there are other games out there that would simply crash my computer if I tried to play them.  For instance, Civilization V, a game that is demanding not because of it’s graphics, but because of the complex algorithms used to power the artificial intelligence in the game.  I have had the game since it was released in September of 2010 and I have completed one out of five games played because it would randomly crash when playing it on my PC.

I have been pricing for good deals on computers for a couple of months now.  I have considered mid grade PC’s, under-powered netbooks, and various tablet computers.  For a while, I even contemplated buying an iPad, an over-priced, albeit nifty device that in no way replaces a proper  computer and simply does not offer the gaming opportunities or programs that I am looking for.  Well, after thorough research and lots of patience, I finally found the computer deal that I had been looking for.  I am currently writing this blog with that computer.

I found a brand new Asus X54C laptop at the local Micro Center for a steal.  It has a dual core 2.2 GHz Intel Sandy Bridge CPU with an Intel HD graphics chip (plus HDMI output), a 15.6” high definition screen,  a 320 GB hard drive, 4 GB of DDR 3 RAM, USB 3.0, and a fresh install of Windows 7 Home Premium.  I have been trying to push this laptop to it’s limits, but I have been unable to do so.  So far, it can handle anything that I throw at it.  I am so pleased.

Now, to put this bargain into perspective, I have compared it to my wife’s HP laptop that she bought two and a half years ago.   I will spare you all of the tech specs and just say that basically, we have very similar computers.  Her processor is a tad faster, but I have USB 3.0.  The Windows Experience Index on hers is a 4.1 whereas mine is a 4.4.  My graphics chip can handle 3D gaming graphics a little more than hers, but it’s not enough for her to cry about.  So, these are very similar laptops, but hers was purchased when the internal  hardware was still brand new.  Her HP laptop cost her about $750.00 and my new Asus cost me only $300.00. 

During my research, I had at one point decided to save up for an eleven inch MacBook Air, which costs $999.00.  The Air has an underclocked Intel Core i5 dual core processor at 1.6 GHz speed, and comes with only 2 GB of DDR3 RAM (it costs two hundred dollars more for the 4GB upgrade, which is a one thousand percent markup).  We can only hope that the extra cost for RAM is going to improve the living conditions of some poor Foxconn employee in China (perhaps, they will receive an extra bowl of rice or a  pair of partially worn New Balance tennis shoes), but we all know that this is not the case and the proceeds will likely be used to erect a floating glass staircase inside a new Apple Store in Luxembourg or Tokyo.  I digress.  The only thing that the MacBook Air has going for it is a sleek design and bragging rights for owning an Apple computer.  So, for $1300.00 after tax, I could have purchased an Apple laptop with lower specs than the Asus that I bought for $300.00.  How could I pass up a deal like that? 

I have really enjoyed this new computer.  Laptops are new to me.  So, on the second day of owning it,  I had a few things to learn regarding the battery. I found out that it is smart to train a laptop battery by charging it and draining it and then charging it again, which is pretty standard.  Also, it is not necessary to keep the battery plugged in while using the AC adaptor.  In fact, storing the battery during these times and when the laptop is not in use will vastly improve the life that your battery can have.  I had no idea until I did some research. 

-It’s All In The Cloud, Baby

My new laptop has decent hard drive space (320 GB), but I decided to see what my options were to store my data on the various cloud services that are available.  I have over 60 GB of music, 30 GB of movies, and over 10 GB of photos on my old PC.  

According to Apple.com, “with iTunes Match, all your music — even songs you’ve imported from CDs — can be stored in iCloud. So you can access your music from all your devices and listen to your entire library, wherever you are.”  It is a handy service that costs only twenty-five dollars a year for a 25,000 song limit and I have been using it since it was first released.  Wherever I go, I can access all of my music with my iPhone 4S by simply downloading directly from the cloud.  The only complaint that I had about the service was that the files could not simply stream from the cloud, but must be downloaded to the device with the option to play during the download process.  I admit, it’s a small gripe for a wonderful service, but if I had a complaint, then that would be it.

Recently, I stumbled upon Google Play, another great cloud music service provided by Apple’s competition.  According to Play.Google.Com, you can “store up to 20,000 songs from your own library for free and instantly access your music on any of your Android devices or the web”.   In Google’s case, ‘instantly access’ not only refers to downloading, but includes streaming as well.  Not only does this work great with my new laptop, but I have also started using it on my iPhone by bookmarking the page in Safari and adding a link to my Homepage for instant access.  The only complaint I had with Google was the amount of time it took to upload all of my music to Google’s servers, which took three days to complete.  After the upload had finished, I believe that it is a better service than Apple’s iTunes Match. 

Because of both of these great services, I have no need to store all of my music on the hard drive of my new laptop.  It is all stored in the cloud and remains safe on the hard drive of my other PC.

While I researched Google Play, I came across another great cloud service, but this one was provided by Microsoft and it is called SkyDrive, one of the great features of Windows Live.  For the introductory user, Microsoft offers 7 GB of free cloud storage (with a 25 GB offer  for users who signed up before April 22, 2012) and other tiers of storage at various price points.  Luckily, I had signed up for SkyDrive a few years ago, but never used it.  The 25 GB option was available to me and I took it.

I decided to store all of my photo and word files on SkyDrive, which provides access from any other computer (including my new Asus), as long as I am signed into Windows Live.  One feature that I really like is that the documents can be edited on any of the Windows Live Office products or sent to your computer to be edited with Microsoft Office.  Also, when using Windows Live Photo Gallery, you can edit your photos on the computer and then seamlessly store them into Windows SkyDrive without needing to store them on your local drive.  When I am ready, I will store all of my video files in SkyDrive as well, but that is the only thing that I need to do to untether my laptop from my old PC.  Soon enough, the PC will be unplugged and stored away, with all of my data still on it’s hard drive for safe keeping.

So, there we have it.  I bought a new laptop for a deal that I simply could not pass up and then I learned about all of the excellent cloud computing options that are out there.  This has been a fun week for me.  I have been looking for work, writing more, playing Civilization V and Diablo 3 without any problems, and just loving this computer.  As for all of my old data?  It’s all in the cloud, baby.

Indecisive: Posing at the Café

At the bookstore, there is so much noise from the high pressure milk steamer and the chatter from the clientele that I can barely think straight. I always see people here studying or writing on their notebook computers, hoping to write the next great American novel or pretending to do so. With all of this noise, is it at all possible to concentrate long enough to put out a decent product?  Still, here I am, just another poser, hoping that the cafe atmosphere will somehow be inspiring.

Last week, while I was writing a poem on my laptop, which, for reasons that I cannot explain, was making me feel extremely awkward, a woman approached me and asked me what I was writing and if I was a writer. I said, “No, I’m not a writer.  I just write for fun.” She looked disappointed and I think that she would have preferred if I said yes. When I was in my twenties and performing my poetry at various readings throughout the county, I would have not hesitated to tell her that I was a writer and a poet, blah blah blah…  Now, I feel, since I have not been published, I can not say that I am a writer. Is that fair to me? Am I being too hard on myself? I just don’t want to be caught up looking like a bullshit artist. Also, since I have never completed a novel, regardless if it was published or not, I refuse to call myself a writer.

To admit that I am a writer is to admit that I am a bad writer. A bad writer is a writer who writes poorly or a writer who does not write enough. If I had my choice, I would rather be a writer who writes poorly and in volume than a writer who writes well, but not at all. Lately, I feel like the latter.

I have had writer’s block for too long. I have ideas of things that I want to write, but I am not executing those ideas. I am squandering my talent (and I don’t even feel very talented.) When I see vulgar trash like Fifty Shades of Grey reach the top of the New York Times best seller list, I wonder what I could achieve if I could only finish what I start. Would I rather be a writer who writes poorly who gets published than be a writer who writes well and is never published? What I want is to write well and in a way that is marketable to the general public. I probably need to go back to school just to be that good at the craft. I could always just keep writing for fun and hope that something comes of it in the future, but that would be similar to target shooting at ten thousand yards with a blindfold on.

By the way, I never did finish that poem I was writing.  I couldn’t help but feel like a phony.  Now, a few days later, I am writing about the incident and how it made me feel.  I guess I could be a writer if I only tried.

Running Creek Road

513 Running Creek, The Graingers

Ralph pulled his skinny arm close to his face. His dressings needed changing. Since the accident, his thoughts were awash by the tides of recovery. The mind numbing ache of pain and loss was wiped away by the timely anesthetic of Oxycodone. He often wished he could drink it down with a fifth of Bourbon, but the woman in charge of his care would never have it. Although, when the drugs wore off, the images of that day would repeat over and over again, like the end of an unchanged real of film. It dominated all of his waking thoughts.

He could still feel how hot it was on that summer day, the annoying trickle of sweat dripping down his back and onto his shirt. He could hear the chirp of crickets near the creek and the hum of dragon flies mating in the air. He could smell the heat rising through the sweet cedar boards of the porch. He could still taste the cold beer.

His wife, Maggie, had gone to Wal-Mart, which was at the North edge of town, across the street from Fort Lowery military base where a wild commotion occurred two days before. The news stations arrived. Helicopters were deployed. Everybody wondered what was going on, but nobody knew what happened. This was odd behavior for a small town like Lowery, where everyone knew everybody else and few secrets could be kept for longer than a hot minute. The silence after the event was surely stranger than the event itself. Nothing newsworthy was reported that night and it seemed nobody gave two thoughts of it afterwards, except for Ralph, who remembered telling his wife to be careful.

“We don’t know what happened over at that base now, honey. Just do me a favor and be careful, OK?” She dismissed his warnings with a quick wave of her hand as she backed out of their driveway in her 2007 Saturn Ion, leaving him in cloud of gravel dust and sipping a beer.

They had briefly argued about the incident at the military base over a chicken dinner the night before. He always hated arguing at dinner, it diminished any chance of appreciation for his cooking. Maggie seldom cooked. She had grown up in a family where her father was the family chef and he always prepared dinner, regardless of how long he worked in the day. Before Ralph and Maggie got married, she would say, “I can cook breakfast…”, but the only problem was that Ralph could cook it better than her. Needless to say, he did most of the cooking.

The argument started at their small dinner table, with Maggie making negative comments about the President, which always got Ralph hot under the collar. She grew up in a Republican household, and he was a Democrat since conception. He sometimes wondered how they would ever get along before they were married, but they simply agreed to disagree. Although, if Maggie ever wanted to get under his skin, as a wife is wont to do, a quick political jab would always do the trick.

“Some people are saying that Obama hasn’t a chance for a second term,” she said before scooping a spoonful of peas in her mouth. She never liked peas, but Ralph would make them anyway.

“Some people are saying, eh?” He looked up at her over the rim of his glasses, his head tilted downward, still facing the plate. “They must have a damn crystal ball then.”

“Well, you know, people are upset about the jobs situation and they just are saying that the public are going to rebel against him next election,” she said, a matter-of-factly, followed by more peas, which were getting cold.

He tried to gently put his fork and knife down, but his frustration was emphasized by the clatter of metal on the plate. A pea rolled off of it and onto the tablecloth. He picked it up with his thumb and forefinger and ate it, licking his fingers after. “You know, those damn Republican’s of yours have hijacked this country-“

“-Here we go again-“

“-That’s right, Maggie, and you started it, repeating that commercial bullshit they call news, and believing it, for crying out loud. First of all, let me reiterate for the umpteenth time, Obama can only do so much as President, OK? Secondly, those damn House Republicans and their wealthy buddies in Wall Street are doing everything in their power to threaten the public with this ‘jobs crisis’. I swear, it’s a goddamned catch phrase.” He accented each point with a firm fingertip on the tabletop. “They would have the public believe that by giving the rich more tax cuts that somehow, millions of jobs would suddenly appear, almost if magically. That is just the same old trickle down hogwash they sold to us in the eighties. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now. The wealthy are too busy planning for their next yacht or their summer house in the Hamptons. They don’t give a damn about you. Frankly, you can’t afford to be a Republican, dear. I know I can’t afford it.”

He picked up his silverware and cut into his chicken breast. It was starting to get cold.

“You get so defensive, Ralph. I am just trying to start a conversation, that’s all.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, and appeared ready to leave the table, but she knew that he wasn’t finished yet.

“It makes me wonder what kind of strange Republican bullshit was going on at the military base the other day. The Republicans always were the damn war party. They got their special interest military contracts and their effin’ wars in Iraq, Afghanistan – and I am the first to admit that Obama does not make me happy about his decisions there,” he said this while pointing his finger out the window, as if it provided a direct view of Washington D.C. and the White House. “He has used those wars as a goddamned employment agency, I swear,” he took a drink from his beer and thought for a moment. “Still, I do wonder what the hell was going on at that base to warrant the local news to arrive and then pretend that nothing happened. Helicopters were flying all over, search lights, and Tom at the Sunoco swears he heard gun fire. Whatever was going on was not normal. Some Republican experiment gone wrong, I say.”

“Now, don’t go on about that, Ralph. I am sure if something dangerous had happened, they would have let us know. Don’t get too ruffled about it; remember I have to go on to the Wal-Mart and pick a few things up tomorrow,” she replied. “And how do you know that it was a ‘Republican experiment gone wrong’? Now, you are talking hogwash. This is a Democrat administration.” She picked up her plate, which signaled she was finished with the discussion and finished with the peas, which she had eaten only half of.

“I’m just saying, that’s all…” He welcomed a change of topic, but the night did not end without his suggesting several times that she wait a few days before visiting the Wal-Mart, “So this can all blow over,” he said with a kiss on her forehead, before rolling over in bed and putting out the light.

The next morning, after she had driven away, he stood there in the driveway for a while, hoping that she would change her mind and turn around for home, instead of going to Wal-Mart. He chuckled to himself, thinking he wouldn’t mind if she stopped going to that place altogether, it being a Chinese-run company and all, but that was just another political discussion that would have fallen on deaf ears. He kicked at some gravel, finished his beer and headed for the screen door to the porch. Several hours passed before Maggie returned.

The driveway was long, their home built on the backside of a three acre lot. Ralph liked how the back door opened up onto a small shady creek, but Maggie didn’t care for the bugs. He always planned to fish that creek, but he spent most of his time on the front porch-swing instead, sipping beers, and waiting for the unemployment check, which came twice a month.

The Graingers had seen better times. He knew their jobs were coming to an end when the Super Wal-Mart with a grocery section was moving into town. The city council welcomed the opportunity with open arms, but the local business owners tried their best to kill the deal. Ralph hoped there was a chance to stop it. So, he and Maggie both joined the picket lines for the few months before the ribbons were cut, and the ground was broken for construction. Looking back on it, he was sure that back room deals had been made, the land had been sold way before the town new about it, and there was nothing anyone could have done.

They were both laid off on the same day from the Kroger store where they had met ten years before, just two young kids. He was twenty-two then, an assistant to the butcher and she was twenty one, working the cash register. It was love at first site and they married three months after their first date. They bought the house and the land early in their marriage, something they were both very proud of. Having no desire to vacation or buy a new home, they never took out a second mortgage. His father would tell him, “Once you buy a home, then that is your home. Don’t let someone else tell you how valuable it is. That place is yours. Do you hear me, son? Don’t ever get rid of it.” They had no real debts to speak of, but the unemployment would run out in four months at the same time for both of them. He often stared out into the distance, wondering what to do. Then, he would wake up on the swing with drool on his chin, wondering where his wife had gone off to.

Her arrival was signaled by the distinct crunch of gravel in the distance. The sound of rocks flinging upward from her tires and hitting the bottom of her Saturn, indicated a sense of speed and immediacy. It was these sounds that woke Ralph up from his nap on the porch swing. His thoughts were confused by sleep and the fog of alcohol, but he knew something was wrong and he stood up so quickly that he nearly lost his balance from a head rush. He knocked over a couple of empty beer bottles and they rolled behind the swing. He steadied himself for a moment and then flung himself out the screen door to his wife’s car, which was barreling headlong towards the house, as if she were unable to stop.

“Maggie?!” he hollered, trying to blind his eyes from the reflection of the sun on her windshield. “Slow down, Maggie!” The hand at his brow was quickly covered in perspiration. The sun was hot, the air was humid, and there was no wind.

Something was definitely wrong, he was sure of it. He felt the hair on his neck stand up and a chill went through his body as if the temperature had dramatically dropped. He waved his arms in front of himself, signaling her to stop the car, but he was unsure if she could see his silhouette with the sun blinding her from behind him.

Suddenly, she swerved out of the way, nearly hitting him with her bumper as he jumped aside, and into the grass. She slammed on the breaks so hard that the car spun out, hitting the porch with a blunt thud and a crunch. The car was stopped, and Maggie slumped over in the driver’s seat, her head resting against the car horn, heard two miles away as it echoed throughout the surrounding wilderness. Folks in the town wondered what the ruckus was all about.

He wanted to laugh at first, in hopes to lighten the mood, but he realized that he was only kidding himself when the car horn kept up like a steady moan. He got up from off of the ground, dusted himself, and quickly checked the damage to the car and the porch before making his way to the back of the car, where he could reach the driver’s side door and assess his wife.

He gently pulled his wife’s head away from the steering column and the horn finally stopped. Then, he poked his head through the car window, reached in with his hand and turned off the engine, removing the keys and putting them in his shirt pocket.

“Mag’?” he asked gently, “Maggie, are you OK, hun?” Her hair was wet with sweat; her face was burning up with fever; her eyes were unable to focus on him and rolled about in all directions. He was sure she had a concussion.

The driver’s side door was jammed, so he went around to the other side and gently removed her from the car through the passenger’s side door, making sure not to twist her in case she had injured her back or neck. When he first moved her, she let out a guttural moan that was somewhat like a growl. Hearing this put a fear in him that made his skin crawl and he stopped what he was doing for just a moment. Then, she looked up at him with weak albeit insistent eyes, the Maggie he knew, awake, aware and she whispered, “Was… the… Mart… parking lot…” there was a long pause, long enough for him to finish pulling her out. When he had fully removed her from the car, he carried her like a baby in both arms toward the house and she looked at him again. “It bit me,” she croaked. Her eyes glazed over and she fainted.

Why he had not called an ambulance or the police right away, he was not sure, but once Ralph had got his wife inside the house and onto the bed in the downstairs guest room, he was well aware that she needed professional help.

He went into the kitchen, grabbed the wall phone, and dialed 911. The phone rang for three minutes before the call was picked up by an answering machine telling him that all of the lines were busy and he should try back in a few minutes.

“Fuck!” he yelled into the receiver before slamming it back into its cradle, where it slipped off and fell to the floor, shattering on the kitchen tile. “Fuck!!” he yelled again. He and his wife had never invested in a cell phone because the reception was poor in the area. Now, he wished he had one, just in case.

He ran to the guest room where his wife had wet the bed and the sheets were soaked with her sweat. He dabbed and squeezed a cold wet rag on her forehead, which was hot when he lifted it away and actually warmed the bowl of ice water he had brought in to keep her cool.

He noticed a rip through her lower right pant leg and he wondered if this was where she had been bitten. He pulled back the denim and took a close look at the wound. It festered with puss and blood, and pulsated at the rate of her heartbeat, which had become irregular like her breathing. The bite was strange. He noticed that quickly. It was not a dog bite. He was certain of that. It looked almost as if a small child had bitten her or perhaps a monkey. Whatever it was, it was dangerous and potentially lethal. That was clear to him. He could smell that she had defecated while he was examining her and he could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks. He had never been so scared in his life.

“Oh my, Maggie, we need to get you some help.” She groaned in response and he kissed her forehead, which dried his lips. “You’re burning up. Ok, we are going to the hospital, Mag. I am going to put you back in the car and take you to the hospital.” He stood up and left the room.

Ralph gathered a few things from the house for the trip to the emergency room and hoped that she could not hear his tears. He needed to be strong for Maggie. He needed to save her. He grabbed her favorite night gown from their bedroom and her Bible, which she kept next to the lamp on her bedside table. He gathered up their toothbrushes and a change of clothes for him. There was no time for a shower. From the kitchen, he poured a cold glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and ran back to the room, where she looked withered in the soiled bed clothes. Her skin seemed transparent; her blue veins were visible even in the dim finger-like shadows of dusk that slowly fell upon the room.

Ralph crouched beside the bed, wetting his fingers in the glass of water and dabbing them gently on her forehead and then her lips.

“You need to drink this, Mag. For god’s sake, you need to drink some of this, ‘cause you are really ill, OK? I don’t know what is going on or what happened to you, but we are going to leave in just a minute. I am going to load these few things in the back of your car, and then I am coming to get you, but first, take a sip, babe.” He grabbed her head gently from behind. It felt like a rotting melon in the heat and a reek emanated from her hair and scalp that smelled like death. He stuffed several pillows behind her and tilted her head slightly forward. Then he poured water into her mouth, slowly and carefully.

With what little energy she had, Maggie put up her hand as if to tell him no, but he knew she had lost too much water from the sweating and the incontinence. He thought that she would die if he could not get her to drink. At first she coughed it up, some of it running down her chin like drool, and some of it sputtered out like the engine of a river boat, coating his arm with hot water and phlegm that was thick, green, and wormy. He persisted and he saw her swallow a few sips, but each drink was slow and labored and he feared that she would choke.

He put the water down at the side of the bed and gently touched her forehead one more time, hoping that somehow the cold water had improved her condition. Her left hand reached out and grabbed his right arm firmly, gripping him with icy fingers, and she spoke with a vigorous voice not her own. “What the fuck are you waiting for?!” She squeezed for a few seconds and opened her eyes wide, which seemed to be filled with hate, regret and fear all at the same time. She was trembling.

Ralph was taken aback and he jumped away from her startled, almost unable to break her grasp. “You are delirious, Maggie. You don’t even know what you are saying now.” He knew he had to be calm. He got up quickly, gathered the things he had brought down from their bed room, and ran out to pack the car.

She seemed lighter in his arms when he first brought her inside. Now, lifting her up from the bed was a chore. She was limp as a wet dish rag, but heavier than a sack of bricks and carrying her to the car was a labor of love. Her head lay in the crook of his neck, her right arm was slung across his shoulder and her skin was sticky with sweat and human waste. He considered removing her soiled clothes to keep her cool and wash off the filth from her body before putting her in the car, but he knew there was little time and he decided against it.

After setting Maggie down in the passenger seat, he tilted it back so she would not choke, but not too far. He wanted her to feel the wind on her cheeks when he was driving. He took hold of the seatbelt and crossed over her to lock it in place, not aware that part of her blouse had got between the belt and the buckle. Not listening for the click of the seatbelt, and thinking loudly to himself, I can’t lose her, I can’t lose her, she’s all I’ve got, I can’t lose her, he slammed the door shut, ran around to the driver’s side and quickly crawled through the window feet first.

Ralph patted his pant legs for the keys, then his back pocket, before he remembered putting them in the pocket of his shirt, which was drenched with the sweat of panic and haste. The car started right up, and he shoved it in reverse, ripped the bumper from where Maggie had crashed it earlier and then peeled out, speeding down the driveway, a shower of gravel flying higher than the setting sun behind him.

In Lowery, Running Creek road marked the city limits on the Eastern side of town. The Graingers lived on the south end, not too far from Summer Street, which marked the Southern boundary. The hospital was located in the North Western corner, downtown at First and Pew. Pew Street was named after the seven competing churches that lined the road. Ralph often joked how there were more priests than parishioners in Lowery (with so many of the youth gone to fight in the Middle East). The row of churches, cathedrals, and synagogues seemed to pave the way for the Hospital, where both First and Pew stopped in a dead end. That was where Ralph was headed.

“Where are we going,” Maggie asked with a raspy whisper. “I don’t know where we’re going.”

“You’re sick, hun. Do you remember what happened earlier?”

She was mumbling. Ralph wiped the tears from his cheeks, so happy to hear her speak.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” She sounded dreamy, almost childlike.

“Just relax a little bit longer, Mag. Save your energy. We are going to the hospital.” She was muttering something under her breath that he could not hear. He needed to concentrate on driving.

Running Creek was at the edge of town, but Lowery was small and it took Ralph only a few minutes to reach Main Street. He soon turned left on Providence. He made sure the emergency blinkers were on and did his best to ignore the red lights. Traffic was often sparse at night. The roads had been clear and his foot was on the floor. He felt lucky. He was sure that Maggie would make it.

“We are six minutes away, Mag. We are almost there. Hold on for me. OK?” He reached over with his right hand and gently touched her knee. His left hand gripped the steering wheel for dear life; his right foot never moved from the gas pedal.

He checked his mirrors. It was dark now. He saw the street lamps switching on, one by one, casting their pale light on the street and stretching behind him in the distance. He plowed through Second Street with a green signal.

Suddenly, Ralph was startled by a slow moving car that honked its horn and turned its high beams on. He abruptly slammed on the breaks. His glasses flew off of his face and he threw an arm in front of Maggie, which he always did out of habit. The glasses tumbled between his legs and fell near the gas pedal. The pressure from the quick stop had unlatched Maggie’s belt buckle, which was never locked in place. He could hear her gasp and wheeze.

“We are almost there, Maggie.” He couldn’t reach his glasses, so he stepped on the gas once more.

From the corner of his eye, Ralph noticed the seatbelt sliding up Maggie’s shoulder. He turned his head briefly and took his right hand off the steering wheel to lock it in place. He did not see the tractor trailer stalled in the intersection of Providence and First.

Grabbing his arm to warn him of the sudden impact before them, Maggie gouged his flesh with her forefinger as she squeezed him tight, slicing into his arm. Ralph looked up just in time to see the tractor, slammed the breaks, and made a hard left, but it wasn’t soon enough. The crash scene investigators would determine later on that he was driving at eighty-five miles an hour on impact.

The driver’s side airbag did not deploy and Ralph’s nose splattered when his head hit the steering column. The center console thrust towards him and sharply to the left, shattering his right knee. He did not remember screaming. He felt for Maggie’s hand and it was limp beside him. He felt warmth pooling in his lap and he considered how long it had been since he last wet himself. Then, Ralph lost consciousness.

He woke in the car only a few minutes later. He heard the scattering of civilians, who were unsure what to do. Some of them called the fire department. Others called the police department. He could hear a woman crying in the street. He heard someone say something about gasoline. He heard his own blood rushing through his veins. He could hear the gurgled exhale of his smashed nose. His right shoulder felt as if it had been ripped from his body and he wiggled his fingers to confirm if this was true. The broken knee felt like a distant throb, hidden behind the confusion of a concussed brain. He heard the sirens in the distance, but they soon were muffled by the beating of his own heart.

Ralph felt something warm on his right cheek. He felt blood coursing down his face and onto his neck and chin. He couldn’t open his right eye to see Maggie. He reached up with his left hand and pawed at the left side of his face, which was swollen, but not too bad. Then, his arm limply fell back down to his side. He tried to open the door, but had only the energy to try once, forgetting it was jammed from Maggie’s wreck an hour or so before.

He could feel the cold night air flowing in from above him, but he couldn’t recall if the Ion had a sun roof. Afraid of what he might see, Ralph slowly opened his left eye. He tried his best not to move his neck. The windshield was gone. He could see the dented steering column and he wondered if his skull was fractured. He could see the shattered plastic mess of the dashboard and the mixed makings of the meters and gauges it housed. Then, he saw Maggie’s severed head in his lap. Her glassy eyes stared up at him, her skin was pale, and her crooked mouth was gaping and contorted, frozen in a silent, terrified scream. Ralph cried out for her. He choked on his bloody sobs. The tears came from a hidden well of emotion that one should never hope to find. He felt every muscle in his body spasm and contract. The world was spinning around him. Ralph thought he might die then. Someone asked, “Are you OK?” Then, he blacked out.