I’ve tried for many years to set a schedule for myself. An eating schedule, a writing schedule, a plan my life away schedule. But I am currently trying to create for myself some semblance of a blogging schedule. I feel like doing so would create consistency and consistency will bring me more readers.
By the look of this blog currently, it seems that consistency must frighten me, or something. There is absolutely no rhyme or reason to the nonsense I spew forth into the void that is a blog with low readership. But I keep on keeping on like a choo choo train around an endless track.
Because I am stubborn and refuse to break my streak. This will be day 30, FYI.
So, let’s set one thing in proverbial stone right now, shall we? Henceforth, Fridays shall be known as “Fiction Fridays”. I have done posts in the past with the heading of “Fiction Friday”, namely at least one during Birthday Month Blogs. I think, honestly, I could be wrong, I’m usually wrong about a lot of things. But while I am trying to maintain a streak on this blog, I am going to attempt to create fiction on a weekly basis.
The goal for this being, obviously, gaining readership, and consistency. But also doing so will give me a full-on week to write the thing and make it sound less like I’m making it up half an hour before I post it. Which is usually the case 99.99% of the time. Now the question is this. Should I make this “Fiction Friday” thing a different story each week, sort of like “Randomized Fiction”, or should I make it installments of the same story until it is complete? For the heck of it, let’s throw a poll in just to see if anyone will vote.
I mean, I might as well use as many premium features as possible, right? I usually post any polls on my Facebook page. But I have considered moving them to the website.
I have yet to figure out what will happen on the rest of the days of the week, but I know at least a small amount of time on one or both of my days off from my day job will be dedicated to nothing but working on one or more of my NUMEROUS Works-in-Progress projects. Those are the Pretend Fantasy Novel, the 2nd Story project, the drawing challenge (I need to finish that dang duck), and I’m sure there is something I’m forgetting.
Now, that’s not to say that there might not pop up some fiction on other days of the week, we will just have to see how I feel or what comes to me at the time. But between working for a living, motherhood, and that sleep thing I have to get once in a while, I have hardly any time to get anything done besides wallow in self pity. But we will see what we can manage.
For now, I will bed you a Dieu. Work will come early and I’m sure The Kid will be crawling in my bed within the hour. Goodnight, friends.
To be frank, the why can be summed up with one word, and that one word is a who. Mom.
You see, my mother was one of those mom’s who encouraged, to the fullest extent of the law, her children, if she thought her children could make something of themselves. And even if she didn’t really think they could make a life of it, but if it made them happy. And I truly believe it made her happy to encourage us and cheer us on, and root for us.
Take my brother, for example. My brother, the second oldest in the family and the second son, was a football player. He was, I believe, on the first football team at our elementary school. Now, when my biography gets written in 115 years, don’t quote me. But that’s how I remember it. Both brothers played basketball for a minute, but Second really took to football like no body’s business.
And even though she knew that he could get seriously injured doing it, and she knew that if he did she couldn’t legally race onto the field and pummel the ever-loving nonsense out of the boy who dared to tackle her player, she thoroughly enjoyed cheering him and the rest of the team on from the bleachers. This did have a lot to do with the fact that she made friends with the other moms, but that’s not what we’re talking about here.
She loved to cheer her children on. When the Oldest was the first to graduate high school, she was thrilled. Anytime we did anything good, she was happy for us, and encouraged us.
She is also the reason why I stuck with the education major in college. Sophomore year I wanted to change my major to creative writing. I also had a point where I wanted to drop out, take a few semesters off, and join the circus get a job. But that’s not what we’re discussing here either.
“Tear Drops Frozen In Time”
When I was in elementary school, I’m not sure what grade (it was a LONG time ago) I wrote a story. “Duh, Crystal” is what you are probably thinking as you roll your eyes and consider scrolling on. But if you stick with me, I will get to the point. I’m not sure this was my first ever story. I’m not even sure how much I wrote. But I can tell you what it was about and how it began. It was written in a notebook, not spiral bound, and the loose sheets were tucked into a folder with my school’s mascot on them.
Now, in that grade, in my state, we did writing portfolios as an end-of-year assessment of our knowledge. These portfolios usually included various types of writing, including fiction pieces. That year, I remember a teacher, who wasn’t usually at our school, there helping us with those writing portfolios. I remember spending a lot of time in what passed as a computer lab in a rural Kentucky elementary school in the early 90s and that woman being there.
It was around this time that I wrote “Tear Drops”. And I remember either myself or Mom mentioning that I should take my story to school and let that teacher read it. Now keep in mind the story was not finished, and had it been, it would have been a LONG one. Because I have always been long winded.
Thinking about the story now, I am remembering other stories I wrote, and wishing I’d kept copies of all of them.
Also, honey, I asked for a frickin’ TYPEWRITER for Christmas one year. Second (the brother) kept trying to throw me off the scent when I guess that the biggish box under the tree was my typewriter. Man, I miss that clickity clack sometimes.
Back to the point. My mom was my biggest fan, always. And she was the first and for a long time only person I nervously handed my stories over to for them to be read. And when she read that one, she said she loved it and it would be a great story.
And, as I said, I can’t remember whose idea it was for me to take that story to school and share with this woman I did not really know, who I assume I thought was a bigwig when it came to writing. Because I shared it with her and she too seemed to love the story. And she did something that was probably bad for me in the long run. She told me that she knew some people in publishing and said that she would tell them about my story.
You do not, under any circumstances tell a child, especially one who longs for acceptance and praise, that you’re going to do something that will make them dream. Because that kid, me, will take that thing and make it HER ENTIRE PERSONALITY FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE.
I let a stranger make me believe I was going to be a published author as a child.
But listen, dear readers, because I am not the only one who was offended when that mystery lady failed to make me a famous author before puberty. Because who do you think was the first person who I ran right home to and told about this silly lady in the computer room who is gonna talk to her book friends?
Yup. Da Momma.
Eventually, portfolio writing season came to an end and that lady disappeared from my school like my paycheck after the bills are paid. I never saw her again, until one fateful evening, where we were, ironically, in line at waiting to pay our way in to a high school football game (where my brother was playing, we only went when he was a player). I’m not sure how much time had passed between the two meetings, but I’m not lying when I say my mother wanted to ask her about it.
I remember telling her that the woman probably wouldn’t even remember all that, and to forget about it.
Unfortunately
It was sometime later when it came to pass that the story in question, “Tear Drops Frozen in Time” went missing. It went missing because it got placed into storage that ended up probably being put in long term storage (literally a crawl space in a decrepit building behind our house). It was placed there because I should have been paying more attention to what was going where.
Sadly, though, my mom blamed herself for it going missing, and its likely eventual burning in a trash pile later on. I don’t care what I told her and how many times I tried to tell her not to worry about it, but she blamed herself for it for years. And if I could have asked her about it on her death bed, I’m sure she would have still blamed herself, even decades later.
In conclusion, it is her fault. Her fault not for the story going missing, but for that story setting me on this pointless uphill path of wanting to be a writer. I blame her for that, and that is all, when it comes to the story. Her faith and hope and absolute enthusiasm that we could do great things. And you know, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Except that story going missing. I would fix that bit.
Bonus Content: “Tear Drops” A Synopsis.
Like I said, it has been multiple decades, since I wrote the story, but I can give you the gist of what it was about. The story was centered those glass teardrop shaped ornaments that usually hang off chandeliers and lamps. I don’t know for sure where I got it, but I know where I left it and that’s yet another story for another time. Okay, it’s not that big a story, when I was young and I hyperfused on one thing I would tend to pack that thing around with me wherever I went. This time, I took the glass tear drop to my uncle’s house for the weekend. All of us kids went, and they had two little girls younger than us. We were playing in an old van and I had it wrapped up in a tissue or handkerchief and I tucked it in the cubby in the door and forgot it there. Never went back to that house either, because they moved.
Any who, “Tear Drops Frozen in Time” was going to be about an adopted girl who, one day on her way home from school, obviously while carrying around a teardrop shaped crystal, sees the light from the sun change. Shimmering lights (like what you’d see when sun comes through crystals, like a prism, or rainbows are all over the ground when monsters (?) like she’s never seen before, come out of the light and kidnap her.
But also, in another world, there are two women who look a great deal alike (twins?). Except one is clearly evil and has the other good woman locked up. There’s this great sphere with shapes in it. Some of the spaces are empty and some are not. One space is teardrop shaped. These women, who are sisters it turns out, argue.
The evil woman wants to capture this girl because she has the teardrop and the good one, who wants out to stop her evil sister, is SHOCKER the girl’s MOTHER! The girl is actually from this other world and the teardrops are powerful crystals that can do many things, including but not limited to traveling between worlds. The mother sent the girl to the mortal world/our world/ boring old frumpy earth to protect her and the teardrop she carries everywhere was a gift to help protect her.
Like everyone says, “it happens so fast.” And boy are they right. I can still see you for the first time, in my arms all puffy and pink.
I can still see you in your father’s arms, and the glow on his face when he looked upon yours.
I can still see you sleeping at home. I can still see the you and I, you sleeping peacefully in my arms as I struggle to stay awake in that rocking chair, knowing that once I lay you down you will wake back up.
I can still see you fussing with your first teeth coming in, we could not settle you for long.
I can still see you giving up the pacifier.
Honestly I was trying to get you to take it so I could go back to sleep after you went back to sleep but you were like, “no my dude.” Never took it again.
The bottle weening, and then the sippy cup weening, the first steps, the dime incident—which was also the first emergency room visit. The second visit being the minor head wound.
FYI head wounds are bleeders. They’ll bleed like crazy and it’ll just be a scratch.
Potty training was THE WORST. Like, sometimes I can’t believe we all got through that relatively unscathed.
You are still my reason for living and still sometimes on my last nerve. You are amazing and smart and silly and ridiculous and frustrating and special and bonkers and wonderful.
You are the best thing to ever happen to me but I still don’t recommend parenthood because it is stressful and expensive and exhausting and the most amazing thing in the whole world.
I will never ever love another creature or thing on this earth like I love you, and the whole of my heart is yours. You above all else always.
I would kill a man (or woman, I do not discriminate based on gender) for you, within reason. Give me a good reason, to do it. This is by no means me admitting to murder.
If anyone ever hurts you they will experience the wrath of god by my own hand. There is no other Hell like a mother scorned. I’m not very strong but I’ll go down swinging!
This got really dark really fast lol
I want nothing but the best for you and I push you through your homework and trying because it’ll help you in the long run. And yes, I don’t let you eat constantly because it’s not good for you. I don’t want you to be like me. I don’t want you to be shaped like me. Is that bad? I often wonder if I’m being a bad mom because of that.
I want you to be happy. No matter what you choose to do in life, I want it to be something you love and that makes you happy.
But you cannot be a cash register—Imean cashier— it won’t make you happy trust me. Oh wait. Last time you said you wanted to be a scientist.
We are not rich, but we try really hard to give you everything you need and a little of what you want. And to be honest you get more than a little of what you want. You are and will always be our only child and we have a hard time not spoiling you, just a little.
Know, always, that no matter what, you are loved. You are loved my many. Loved beyond measure, loved without buts, conditions, or circumstances. You are loved with all of your flaws and imperfections, with all your mistakes and bad decisions.
While I have recently written a post about how having too much money makes a person lose their grip on reality, it seems I am in a constant state of not having enough money. So logically the only thing I can think of is all the things I would do if I had enough money to not have to worry about not having enough money. So, a list. This list shall include what I would do if I suddenly had money and what I would do with said money over time.
I would first pay off all of my debt. This is currently about $22,000
I would buy my husband and I new cars. Within reason, of course. I wouldn’t drop a bunch on a new Lambo for him or anything.
I would pay off the house. We’ve lived in it for thirteen years now, and he’s paid the payment. I don’t know how much said payment is, and I don’t know how much we still owe. But I would 1000% take care of that nonsense.
I would obviously take care of the necessary repairs on the thing. I need a new roof, if I’ve not mentioned that.
I would set aside money for my child in a savings account. This would be used for whatever she needed it for in the future.
I would start a small business.
This has been a pipe dream of mine for some time. I would either buy a building or a piece of property and build a building for this small business.
It would be a place for me to make and sell jewelry, resin and clay crafts, and other things I’ve wanted to do over the years.
I would also have my own private office space where I could work and write and all the things I don’t get to do in this universe.
I’ve also imagined owning a large building, like an old grocery store, and dividing it up into workspaces for people to rent out. They could make their craft or preform their service and there would be a storefront where everyone could sell their products. There would also be a coffee shop and baked goods and sandwiches. And maybe a book nook/bookstore.
There would be a significant portion of my money that I mysteriously came into possession of donated to charity, either by way of an already established one or one I created on my own.
Now, don’t look at me and say, “Crystal, dreams come true if you just work hard and—“
Shoosh, just shoosh. I don’t care what we were told growing up and what I now realize I have told my child on multiple occasions. It takes way more than working hard to make dreams come true. Dedication, willpower, energy, and there is one other thing I can’t remember… OH WAIT MONEY. I have $17 in my bank account right now.
And to be perfectly honest with you, I am only here right now, writing this post because I told myself, “No, Crystal. Regardless of whether anyone reads this blog or not, seeing how many days in a row you could post is a personal challenge, not a challenge set and monitored by anyone else. You are going to make a post even if you have to sound absolutely bonkers doing it.”
Plus, I really like seeing that little notification pop up telling me what day of the streak I am on (this should be day seventeen, ironically). I’m probably going to take a screenshot of it and add it to the post, post posting. Wait.
Anywho, I am a long way off before I beat my record. I think, there were some Glitches with Birthday Month Blogs and it didn’t pick them all up right. That was 31 posts.
I have no idea what’s coming in the next few posts, I didn’t know what has going on with this one. Until I realized that if I closed my eyes for too long, I would fall asleep. I’ve only blinked like three times the entirety of this post.
If you’ve stuck around through this entire post, I salute you. If you’ve read a single one of my posts in, well, ever, Fist bump yourself for me. I appreciate it. My husband doesn’t even read them.
Goodnight.
Oh wait don’t leave yet!
If you observed The Drawing Challenge Post, my niece chose a duck. She’s the only one who comments on my youtube.
Also, eventually I’m gonna make a sticker out of the sunflower. I post about that soon too.
This Timed Writing Challenge was something made up on the fly last night. The goal was to use Random Generator, gather some helpful details, and spend what time I had left (until 11pm, my bedtime), attempting to write a complete short story.
Well I failed last night because I’m wordy and give too much info. So this is me finishing the story from last night, because I knew where I was going with it, I just started falling asleep.
Screen recording for proof that I didn’t just pretend, I guess?Random Word, Random Male and Female Names, and Random Sentence.
As the rental car rolled to a stop on the dark road, her fear increased by the moment. Valeria Ingram had been in the passenger seat of the rental for eight hours. She and her fiancé Eduardo Phillips had been driving home from a weekend with her family. They had decided that driving would be more interesting and way cheaper than buying a plane ticket.
And they were right.
They’d had an unusually uneventful weekend with her family. Uneventful meaning she didn’t walk away from the experience with regrets. Her family was loud and rowdy and opinionated. Her parents constantly asked why they weren’t married yet, her older brothers harassed Ed, attempting to involve him in shenanigans. And all the nieces and nephews could drain a persons energy pretty quickly.
But nothing happened that wasn’t typical of her family, no one was rushed to the emergency room this time, there were no Turkey-to-fireball situations like thanksgiving last year.
It was the ride home that was currently causing her distress.
It began fine, with them packing the trunk with their luggage and all the nonsense that her mother sent them home with. Hugs and shoulder squeezes goodbye. Then they piled themselves into the car and drove off, waving out their windows as they did so.
When they got off her parents street and headed toward the highway entrance ramp they discussed plans for the next eight or so hours ahead. They had snacks in the car so they wouldn’t need to stop for food until lunchtime, when they’d also have a bathroom break. They’d agreed on a scenic route to see small town landmarks they missed on the way in. Typical road trip plans.
It was a few hours in when things began to grow, strange. Ed, who’d made the executive decision that he should drive the whole way, began to stare blankly out the windshield. It took Val a minute to realize it wasn’t your typical, “I’ve been driving a while” stare. His demeanor would change, his shoulders would tense, his grip on the steering wheel would tighten, and she could see the muscles in his jaw flex from clenching.
After a while, noticing these episodes come and go, she asked, “You okay, Ed?”
He seemed to immediately snap out if it when she spoke up. “What? Yeah, fine. Why?” He’d asked.
“You just looked a little tense there, you wanna switch out? I can drive a while.” She offered.
“No I’m fine!” He said cheerfully. “We’re not far from a rest stop. I’ll hop out, stretch my legs a bit, just getting a cramp.”
“Oh, okay,” she sighed, relieved. “I could use a stretch myself.
He seemed fine the rest of the trip to the rest stop, where they both got out, stretched their legs. Valeria decided she’d step into the small building that held the restrooms. There was always brochures and fliers for local attractions and parks. She liked collecting them on trips.
She picked one up for a local fall festival, a giant rock that had a gift shop and a diner named after it, and something called The Lion’s Den. It appeared to be an old youth camp. It was on their way home, and on what appeared to be a lovely lake.
They climbed back into the car and got buckled in. She showed Ed the brochures before they pulled out, The Lion’s Den was on top. “What’s this?” He asked, a muscle in his jaw clenching.
“Oh, just some brochures.” Val tapped a finger on the Lions Den. “That looks like it was an old camp! I think they rent out the cabins for vacationers now.” She shrugged. “Seemed neat.” She said. “It’s on a lake!”
“I didn’t realize we were so close.” He mumbled.
“What?” Val wasn’t sure she heard him right.
“I just said I didn’t realize there was anything like that near here.” He shifted the car into gear and pulled out a little faster than he should have.
“Oh.” She sensed something was off.
A few more hours in and she’d been trying to shrug off the bad vibe she was getting from her fiancé, when they stopped for lunch at an old fashioned drive-in diner. She became distracted by the old fashioned menu boards, speaker you could hang on your window for music, and the car hops on roller skates.
They both ordered a burger, but they each got different sides to share. She got a raspberry shake, and he got the car hop’s recommendation, a fresh squeezed strawberry lemonade. As they ate, Ed seemed to relax, he tension seemed to release and his was becoming closer to his old self.
Continued…
They began to laugh and joke, Ed telling her something one of her brothers had said, and she’d laugh and roll he eyes. When they finished eating they cleaned up their trash and put it in its place. As they were getting back in the car, Val caught Ed staring at a tree covered mountain in the distance. She noticed his fists were clenched and she watched him.
Ed had never been violent with her, never said a mean thing to anyone as long as she’d known him. They’d been to for nearly a decade, known each other for longer. They were both nearing forty, but they were happy with how things were. And they had similar ideas for the future.
But Valeria did not know a lot about Eduardo’s past, his childhood and youth. For years all he’d ever tell her was he didn’t have a happy or an easy childhood and he didn’t like to talk about it. He’d told her his family was gone, and that’s why he enjoyed hers so much. “Even the rowdiness, and the nonsense?” She’d asked.
“Especially all of that.” He had smiled when he said it, that sweet friendly smile, the one that drew her to him when they’d met.
When they were finally back in the car and on the road, she tried to keep conversation going, talking about what work would be like Monday, wondering if their neighbor had been sure to water their plants. She point out when she saw animals off in the distance in fields.
But as they drove on Ed became less and less vocal. Soon his responses turned to grunts and soon after that nothing at all. The tense jaw and white knuckles on the steering wheel were back and she very quickly stopped talking.
You could soon cut the air with a knife, and she grew uncomfortable with the silence. She turned on the radio and tuned it to the first station she could get a clear signal on.
A low monotone voice came over the airwaves. “And you’re listening to 101.7 the Lion’s Roar. This is the ‘Righteous Hour’ with me, Brother Saul.”
Val’s brows furrowed as she listened to the host. He sounded like your typical talk radio host, flat toned and quiet. But there was something odd, no, off about it. First, it sounded old, not his voice, but the recording. Like it had been playing for a long time.
“Give your self to the Righteous One. Use your power for The One’s Will and do as the One commands.”
“Oh no thank you.” Val spoke aloud, reaching to turn off the radio. Ed slapped her hand away without saying a word or looking in her direction. She drew it back and held it to herself.
“Ed?!” She said in shock, staring at him. He never said a word or took his eyes off the road. “Why did you do that?!” She asked, shocked more than anything else.
Ed managed a grunt but never moved an inch.
That was the beginning for her, the beginning of the worst ride of her life. She moved herself as far away from him as she could in the confines of the car, and only stared out the window.
It was hours later, and the sun had begun to set when she realized that he’d taken a detour. He’d veered off the main highway m, which would’ve take them almost the whole way home. It was what her father would have called the scenic route. But it didn’t look anything like what would have been on their way home.
But then she saw it. She’d almost missed it in the growing darkness. A billboard with a vaguely familiar logo. She reached into the cubby hole in the her door and pulled out the stack of brochures. There it was, right on top.
“The Lion’s Den”
Not long after the billboard, the headlights of the rental car began to reveal only gravel road lined with old growth fir trees. The road had a steady incline and gradually turned right. On Valeria’s side was nothing but the rock of the mountain they seemed to be climbing. On Ed’s side seemed to be nothing but a drop off of unknown height.
“Ed,” she managed to whisper. “Where are you taking us?” She asked. “Why?”
She did not expect an answer, he hadn’t spoken in hours. But he did, finally. It was low, flat, monotone. But there was almost a growl to the single word. it sent shivers down her spine.
“Home.”
After a few seemingly endless minutes, the road flattened out and widened. They pulled up to a old wooden fence, that had to be thirty years old. It looked neglected, as if it had been decades since anyone had been there.
The unimpeded moonlight shown upon several buildings sitting the grounds, and structures Val could not identify in the darkness. The moon and the headlights of the car were the only sources of light. Until Ed shut off the engine.
Still quiet as death, Ed climbed out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. She was not fast enough to think to lock her door. Hours ago she would have never thought she’d have to lock a door against this man. He pulled her door open and reached inside and grabbed her wrist. She was choked by the belt that was still buckled around her.
He grunted in dissatisfaction and leaned in and unbuckled her seatbelt. It was then that she noticed that somehow even his scent had changed. His smell gave her the feeling that she should run, like prey smelling it’s predator.
She was dragged roughly out of the car and pulled her behind him as he walked to the nearest building. There were no lights inside or out, no sounds either. Not even a breeze to stir the leaves on the tree.
Instead of entering the building he pulled her around it, where, as they drew nearer she could she a massive statue in the center of a field. He pushed her to the ground at the base of this statue. She could feel the tiny cuts on her palms when she caught herself with her hands. She turned to add, tears in her eyes, about to speak, when she looked up at the massive statue looming over them.
The statue was the body of a man, a bare as the statue of David, arms reaching into the dark sky, toward what could only be the full moon. But this man was not just a man. The statue’s head was a lion, baring it’s teeth, his mane trailing down his chest, a crown of thorns atop his head, glaring down at those below that witness it.
Ed stared up at the statue, spoke no words, and raises his hands above his head like the statue in front of him. Then suddenly he fell to his knees, the sound of the rocks cracking against them made Val cringe.
She watched as he bowed and rose, over and over, seemingly never taking his eyes off the statue. Then, a low hum seemed to grow deep in his chest, building and building until it was a guttural roar. The quiet man she once knew, her shy fiancé was roaring at the base of a grotesque effigy of some god unknown to her.
It took a moment but she soon began to recognize that there was more than just Ed’s roar. There were several, coming from all around them. And then she saw, emerging from the shadows of buildings, the tree line, everywhere and no where. People. They were surrounding them and the statue, roaring their own praise, falling to their knees before it.
Except for one man, sunken eyes, long gray hair and beard, and, from what she could see in the light, a burn scar across his face. He stepped forward, and stood next to Ed, who rose before him. Everyone, who looked as rough and worn as he, stopped suddenly. The silence was shocking.
“Eduardo, my son.” The old man said in a raspy voice. “You’ve heard the Righteous One’s call, we prayed he would bring you back. And you are home.” He proclaimed, resting his hands on Ed’s shoulders, their foreheads meeting. The man released Ed from the embrace, and looked him in the eye. “And you’ve brought us a friend.”
The man turned his gaze upon Valeria and the look in his eyes told her to scream.
Valeria Ingram and Eduardo Philips we’re both reported missing three days later by her parents, when phone calls to their cellphones and home went unanswered. Their rental car was never returned, leading authorities to believe they went missing at some point on their trip home. Locations in their planned route, which Ingram had shared with her parents, for safety reasons, were checked for surveillance.
They were seen at the rest stop where they stretched their legs and Ingram was shown collecting brochures. Phillips was seen via security cameras behaving strangely, pulling his hair and stretching as if to reach the sky.
There last known location was Gilly’s Drive In Diner. They cannot be seen in security footage anywhere along their planned route and credit card activity stopped at the diner.
Two weeks after their disappearance and missing persons reports were filed, cellphones and other personal belongings identified as their were found strewn along the highway they would have taken home.
To date there are currently no leads and no reported sightings of the couple. authorities ask if you know anything or have seen anything, to contact them via their non-emergency or the anonymous tip line.
So? How’d I do? I legit have some background? This whole thing was compelling. I specifically skipped my melatonin so I wouldn’t fall asleep finishing this!
As the rental car rolled to a stop on the dark road, her fear increased by the moment. Valeria Ingram had been in the passenger seat of the rental for eight hours. She and her fiancé Eduardo Phillips had been driving home from a weekend with her family. They had decided that driving would Take be more interesting and way cheaper than buying a plain ticket.
And they were right.
They’d had an unusually uneventful weekend with her family. Uneventful meaning she didn’t walk away from the experience with regrets. Her family was loud and rowdy and opinionated. Her parents constantly asked why they weren’t married yet, her older brothers harassed Ed, attempting to involve him in shenanigans. And all the nieces and nephews could drain a persons energy pretty quickly.
But nothing happened that wasn’t typical of her family, no one was rushed to the emergency room this time, there were no Turkey-to-fireball situations like thanksgiving last year.
It was the ride home that was currently causing her distress.
It began fine, with them packing the truck with their luggage and all the nonsense that her mother sent them home with. Hugs and shoulder squeezes goodbye. Then they liked themselves into the car and drove off, waving out their windows as they did so.
When the got off her parents stewed and headed toward the highway entrance ramp the discussed plans for the next eight or so hours ahead. They had snacks in the car so they wouldn’t need to stop for food until lunchtime, when they’d also have a bathroom break. They’d agreed on a scenic route to see small town landmarks they missed on the way end. Typical road trip stuff.
It was a few hours in when things began to grow, strange. Ed, who’d made the executive decision that he should drive the whole way, began to stare blankly out the windshield. It took Val a minute to realize it wasn’t your typical, “I’ve been driving a while” stare. His demeanor would change, his shoulders would tense, his grip on the steering wheel would tighten, and she could see the muscles in his jaw tighten from clenching.
After a while, noticing these episodes come and go, she asked, “You okay, Ed?”
He seemed to immediately snap out if it when she spoke up. “What? Yeah, fine. Why?” He’d asked.
“You just looked a little tense there, you wanna switch out? I can drive a while.” She offered.
“No I’m fine!” He said cheerfully. “We’re not far from a rest stop. I’ll hope out, stretch my legs a bit, just getting a crap.”
“Oh, okay,” she sighed, relieved. “I could use a stretch myself.
He seemed fine the rest of the trip to the rest stop, where they both got out, stretched their legs. Valeria decided she’d step into the small building that held the restrooms. There was always brochures and fliers for local attractions and parks. She liked collecting them on trips.
She picked one up for a local fall festival, a giant rock that had a gift shop and a dinner named after it, and something called The Lion’s Den. It appeared to be an old youth camp. It was on their way home, and on what appeared to be a lovely lake.
They climbed back into the car and got buckled in. She showed Ed the brochures before they pulled out, The Lion’s Den was on top. “What’s this?” He asked, a muscle in his jaw clenching.
“Oh, just some brochures.” Val tapped a finger on the Lions Den. “That looks like it was an old camp! I think they rent out the cabins for vacationers now.” She shrugged. “Seemed neat.” She said. “It’s on a lake!”
“I didn’t realize we were so close.” He mumbled.
“What?” Val wasn’t sure she hear him right.
“I just said I didn’t realize there was anything like that near here.” He shifted the car into gear and pulled out a little faster than he should have.
“Oh.” She sensed something was off.
A few more hours in and she’d been trying to shrug off the bad vibe she was getting from her fiancé, when they stopped for lunch at an old fashioned drive-in diner. She became distracted by the old fashioned menu boards, speaker you could hang on your window for music, and the car hop’s on roller skates.
They both ordered a burger, but they each got different sides to share. She got a raspberry shake, and he got the car hop’s recommendation, a fresh squeezed strawberry lemonade. As they ate, Ed seemed to relax, he tension seemed to release and his was becoming closer to his old self.
Yes, I’m here again, not with a free ride on the rollercoaster of my downward spiral butsome fiction! This bit of fiction officially part of the PFN Universe. There might be more of these. Hope you enjoy.
The old man staggered through the densely wooded forest looking for edible berries or fungi of some sort. He once picked a mushroom from the base of a large oak and consumed it without thought. He later had wild dreams of fantastical beasts. He now paid closer attention, but when you’re hungry, you eat what you can find.
His thin frail frame and shaggy head of hair and beard wasn’t all that showed his lack of home, the rags that draped poorly over his skeletal form added to the clues that gave away his status of homelessness.
He would be the first to admit to inquiring minds that he was his own problem. Gambling and losing, and seeking expensive pleasures led to his financial downfall just as much as anything else. Stubbornness when offered help aided in his continued path.
As he staggered and stumbled over tree roots and overgrown plants he imagined finding sacks of gold dropped by wealthy men on errant paths. He knew it was unlikely anyone with any money would be wondering the woods, but he still had his dreams, didn’t he?
He spotted a bush that looked promising, small red berries dotting it’s still green leaves despite the coming autumn. He attempted to pick up his pace to approach the bush when the toe of his leather booties, worn thin from long wear, caught on a particularly high root and he tripped.
He face-planted into the decaying leaves on the forest floor and an audible “Oof” escaped his chest. After taking a moment to despise his lot in life he then rolled over and began to attempt to detangle the threads of his booties from the rough bark of the tree. He tugged his leg and his foot yanked free of the bootie, which was still caught on the root.
He groaned and stood, frustrated his bare foot was now covered in decaying leaves. He’d stepped in worse but misfortune was something that was always frustrating, regardless of the degree.
He hobbled over to the root of the tree and bent to yank the bootie aggressively away. The bootie was somehow stuck more firmly than he realized and he pulled hard to disengage it. Just as he felt it loosen he saw something glowing in a hole under the tree, where the root emerged.
The root released its grip on the bootie just as he was distracted by the glowing light, and he lost his balance, falling backward on his thin backside.
He felt what could only be his tailbone crack, and thought, “that’s me not sitting comfortably for a while.” And realized he hadn’t sat comfortably in a long time. He stood, rubbing his sore backside and remembered the glowing light.
He pulled on his bootie, dirt and leaves and all, now with a hole in the toe, and got down on his hands and knees. He crawled over to the glowing light, not risking another trip and fall. He reached the hole, still glowing, and saw the light had a green tinge. Curious to a fault, he reached inside, and tried to grasp the thing that glowed.
He reached in, nearly elbow deep, until his bony finger just grazed the thing inside. For a moment he thought he felt a tantalizing warmth on the surface. Curiouser, he reached even further keeping the hand outside the unexpectedly deep hole holding right to the root of the tree.
Finally, shoulder deep, tired muscles aching, he reached the thing and grasped it with thin fingers. The moment he made contact he felt a warmth he’d not felt in decades, a warmth that seeped into his bones. And something else, something he’d never felt before. Power.
He quickly became desperate to retrieve the thing that glowed. He tightened his grip and pulled, but there was nothing. No movement save for the aching of his old hungry bones.
So, he did something his head and heart told him not to do. He let go. He released his grip on the thing and rose into his knees. And began to dig. His desperate fingers turned into claws as he raked dirt and rocks away from the hood at the base of the tree. He dug and pulled, tossing rocks over his shoulder, never noticing his fingertips had begun to bleed.
Dusk turned to dark, the only light he has was from the pals moon peaking between the dying leaves of the trees and the green glow of the thing he dug for.
The moon has risen to its peak and finally he’d dig deep enough to crawl inside under the tree and see the thing he so desperately tried to reach. He was in awe of its beauty. His eyes shined with the green glow that washed over him.
It was much larger than he expected, probably quite heavy. A Crystal of some sort, he could only imagine. He knew nothing of things like that, but it looked like a jewel of the highest grade and quality.
“I’ll be rich,” he whispered. He imagined the wealth he’d have, the things he could buy. “But first a hot bath!”
He began to frantically dig around the exposed parts of the thing, trying to release it from its dark prison.
“I’ll sell it,” he mumbled as he worked. “No, piece by piece! I’ll sell a little at a time, until I have everything my heart desires!”
As he dug he noticed not the clouds rolling in to cover the moon. He heard not the howling of wild dogs nor the cries of mountain lions in the night. He only had eyes and ears and hands for the thing he wished to retrieve.
He swept away loosened dirt exposing yet more of the crystalline structure of the stone, and grasped at it to try to wiggle it free. He felt that now familiar surge of warmth and power and shifted the thing side to side, and this time, finally, it moved.
He cackled with his exhausted, raspy voice, the sound echoing under the tree. He shifted it more, and with a final tug, it yanked free from the earth.
And it was heavy. Heavier than that farmer’s prized pumpkin he tried to to steal from the vine a few summers ago. He was chased off that time, with no spoils for her trouble. But he wouldn’t be chased off anymore.
He wrapped an arm around his prize, and shimmied himself backward, out of the hole he’d dug to reach the stone. His thin shirt rode up, exposing his chest to dirt and rocks.
Finally he sat up, cross legged on the ground cradling the glowing green shard like a very heavy baby. “I’ll never scavenge for food again!l he cackled into the dark forest. “I’ll never get disgusted looks from people. I’ll never be laughed at by men in fancy coats and shoes again!” He cackled again.
What the old man did not have a looking glass to see what others might see. If he had he would see the sickly pallor from the green glow upon his face, with sunken eyes and cheeks. And the frighteningly dark look in his eyes themselves, this look came from not the glow of the stone, but somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.
Fiction: somewhere in my notes app is a Randomized Fiction story that needs finished. There’s a post about it somewhere. Maybe it’s in my drafts actually.
Fiction: a PFN lore/side/something story. It might be included in the actual story or may just be a side story.
Finally, a bookcover made with something other than Canva. This one was done with GIMP. Like, five years ago.
In honor of the most popular thing I’ll have ever written (and that’s not saying much) turning TEN FREAKING YEARS OLD, let’s celebrate with an embarrassing story from today, of all days Black Friday.
So, as you aught to know by now, I do, in fact, work retail as my primary job. I will never and shall never name the RETAIL ESTABLISHMENT where I earn my bread. There are things you will never know about me, and that’s not one because it’s not hard to figure out. ANYWAY…
Of course today is what used to be known as the biggest shopping day of the year. To be honest, it was absolutely, ridiculously, insane, three years ago. But the panini press happened and we all know how that went.
So, at RETAIL ESTABLISHMENT Black Friday is a dulled down event spread out over multiple days throughout the month of November. They first started changing aspects of it because people started getting hurt fighting over cheap and cheaply made towels and washcloths. But then the world was hit by, it was struck by The ‘Rona.
Today, the actual Friday in question was a very VERY mild shadow of what it used to be. The Store was busy, but not insanely so, there were not wall to wall people, and honestly the deals weren’t that amazing.
I was myself at one point working on some merchandise maintenance, and had to take a secure item to the registers. As I was doing so, I decided I needed to leave my portable printing device in a secure location so as to protect it from being picked up by co-worker thieves who don’t like to hunt for their own equipment.
So I did something I assumed was going to be a great idea.
Some need to know information: as one often sees in all retail locations, we have many large cardboard displays called “PDQs”. My research tells me those letters stand for “pretty darn quick” or “product displayed quickly” which are both kind of hilarious and accurate.
I have often thought that the people who design these doodads absolutely earn every dime they get because I’ve seen some seriously clever PDQs.
Back to the story, I looked around and saw a perfume giftset PDQ and thought, that’s a PERFECT a place to hide my printer. It had a little top on it that the printer could sit right down in.
So, moving right along, a customer’s perfume in hand, I gently tossed my printer into its tiny hiding place.
Have you ever done something and expected the sound of it happening to occur and it took a split second longer to make the sound? Well, I didn’t immediately hear the printer thump onto what I assumed was a sturdy cardboard platform. I did, however, hear, a split second later, a thump like the sound of a printer that had traveled the length of essentially a cardboard rectangle prism only to thunk onto a hard plastic pallet.
The full height of this PDQ display is roughly four feet. I’m not good with measurements. But it would be entirely too difficult to reach by hand. So, without missing a beat, I continued to the register area of the store, took (what I now remember was) Guess Men’s Body Spray up and placed it behind the register.
Between the happening of the incident, walking up to the front, and back, I contemplated how I would manage to retrieve the printer. Despite knowing at least two very tall co-workers who would help, I knew I’d rather risk death than embarrassment and a friendly joshing from either of them.
Of course the only solution was absolutely fantastic and honestly I’m proud of myself for thinking of it. i kneeled in the floor. And removed items out of my way, a few perfume gift sets (I think it was “Lucky You” ironically). I whipped out my technically “illegal” in the store box cutter, and then proceeded to poorly cut a trap door in what was, in fact, a hollow PDQ. My yeeted printer was sitting comfortably right there. I reached in and rescued it from us cardboard well of despair.
Unless some cheeky TURD happened by and decides to look back at the security cameras to see what the heck happened, I’m clear of any nonsense.
Now, I would have been significantly more embarrassing by my own sheer stupidity in the moment had I not been having stomach issues all day. I also didn’t let myself think of anything but a solution, and not how completely bonkers and probably hilarious it would have looked, had someone been recording me, and witnessed my momentary pause when I realized what had actually happened.
Of course this embarrassment is much healthier for me than the constant feeling of embarrassment that I have when I think I’ve said something that makes me sound dumb. Of course, that’s because I think everyone already thinks I’m dumb anyway.
And now it’s time for something different. No idea why this is the topic I chose for tonight’s post, but something told me it’s a good time.
I just realized that I’m adding this in after I’ve finished writing, and this post is about my mom. And she hated pink lol she woulda thought this was pretty though.
In case you didn’t know, almost five years ago, I lost my mother. I’ve spoken about it before, in multiple occasions, and I don’t ever plan to stop. I have grieved for her every single day since the day we lost her. And I will continue to, just at varying levels.
Grief is both a simple yet complicated thing. Losing someone you love, no matter who they were to you, can hurt. And you can lose someone in different ways, and I don’t mean “how they die”. A life can not even end for you to grieve.
But no matter what you are grieving, your hurt and heartbreak is not less than anyone else’s.
Grief is simple in that you expect to hurt when you lose someone. It comes with the territory. And you know that you are going to hurt.
But everyone grieves in their own way. There are stages of grief. There are different ways of coping with it.
All death is tragic. And my mom did not die in a violent or terrifying way. She was sick, and declined over time, and then rapidly. But we knew it was coming, there was a point at which we knew we could not prolong her life. She wouldn’t have wanted us to, I don’t think.
So I think that’s what helped me to begin the grieving process, even though it had crept upon me days and weeks and months beforehand. Of course there will always be the “what ifs”. But in the end, well, it is what it is. I’ll always ask the rhetorical questions, knowing better than to expect an answer. But I’ve managed to drag myself past the potholes of bargaining and begging and breakdowns. Probably. Mostly.
But it also helped me that I was there with her, in her last hours and moments. I couldn’t leave her and that got me through it, a little better, I think. If she’d been “there” enough she would have made me leave. She’d always said she didn’t want people to watch her die. But I think that was more for everyone else than for her. She’d always, in her roundabout way, said she needed me when she was sick.
My heart is telling me to tell you that grief is splendid. Why? Why is grief splendid? Is it because, if you are grieving, it is because you loved? And love is even more splendid. If I hadn’t loved my mother, and I loved her because she showed me what love was, and how to love as a mother, then I wouldn’t have grieved.
But sometimes I think, she wouldn’t want to look down on me and see me grieving. But then I think, she’d know that she was loved, by pretty much all who knew her, and we grieve because we love her.
But people grieve more than just people they lost. Grief is complicated in that way. You can grieve for something you’ve never had. Mourning the loss of a possibility.
This is embarrassing but I grieved when I didn’t get a job I wanted badly. I went through the stages like it was a living thing ripped from me. Especially anger. But then I was angry then, so.
Grieve. Grieve all you need too. Grieve in whatever safe (and legal) way you need too. Withholding that necessity from yourself can be damaging. You don’t have to scream and cry and wail. You don’t have to break things and become self-destructive. People don’t even have to witness it. You grieve in a way that helps you through.
For a long time I would talk to her. I’d look up at the stars and I’d talk to her. I’d say what I needed to say, and it wasn’t always things I needed to tell her just things I needed to verbalize into the void. I’ve prayed to her too. I still talk to her sometimes, not as much now. I still need her just not in the way I used too.
It’s good to grieve, within reason. People can grieve themselves to death, and we don’t need more death. If you are grieving and you’re struggling, talk to someone. You don’t have to grieve alone.
I try to remember when I am grieving it’s because I’ve loved someone fiercely enough for their disappearance from my life has turned it upside down.
Losing my mom, who I love dearly (I don’t like the past tense because she might not be here but I can still love her) was like flipping a boat in a turbulent ocean. I was capsized. I began to take on water like sieve. I was full of holes that only she could fill. Because I loved her so, not having her over took me.
But, while there will always be a scar, broken hearts can heal. It’ll still hurt and there will always be an ache in that scar that just won’t fade. It got easier. Mostly because I knew she wouldn’t want me to be sad, but also because I knew that despite hers being over, I still had a life to live. One she gave me. And there was a life I made that needed me too.
It’s a hard pill to swallow but grief is something we will all have to deal with and knowing that grief is because love, grieving is splendid. I’ll carry my momma’s love around and try to give it out like wildflower seeds on the wind in spring. I may or may not have my own little breakdown in the privacy of my own home or cab of my truck. And that’s ok too.
I’ll think of her every single day, I just don’t cry every single day anymore. I smile sometimes too.
Crash Landing 