Seafood Eat food

I felt like posting something, so here's a short little story I wrote a few years ago for the newsletter at work. I have a couple more involving these same characters, so if you like this, let me know and I'll post more in the future.

SEAFOOD, EAT FOOD
It was a perfect day for a Skipperson family outing. The sun was shining, but a gentle breeze kept it cool. There was even a meadowlark perched atop a downed cottonwood, singing for all the world to hear. Mr. Skipperson brought the minivan to a halt near the edge of Farmer Brown’s pond. A split second later Wally Skipperson bolted out of the rear door and headed for the pond. Mrs. Skipperson got out holding a picnic basket and started whistling a merry tune. It was like a Disney movie come to life!
“Father! Come take a look at this!” yelled Wally.
“Well, gee, sport! It looks like you’ve found yourself a jolly old bullfrog!” commented Mr. Skipperson.
“Please? Can I keep him pop?” pleaded Wally.
“Well…sure! Why not?” said Mr. Skipperson with a twinkle in his eye. “Go put him in the bucket and then let’s catch us a mess of fish for lunch!”
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, they had caught a whole stringer full of sunfish. Mr. Skipperson picked up one of the little sunfish by the tail, tilted his head back, and held the fish right over his mouth.
“Golly, son, I’m so hungry I could eat these fish alive!” he said. Then he winked at Wally and tossed the fish back on the bank. “I’ll go fire up the grill! Be right back!”
As he was setting up the grill, Mrs. Skipperson skipped down the path to talk to him. “Oh, Wardley! You’re such a tease! You need to be a better example to little Wally…you know you’re his hero!”
“Yes, dear…but look, he’s just fine!”
As they turned to look at little Wally, their faces went as pale as death. Wally was lying on his back with his eyes closed…and a suspicious tail fin was protruding from his mouth! They ran over to him and realized he was not breathing…and sure enough a slimy sunfish was obstructing his airway! Mr. Skipperson grabbed the tail and pulled, but his fingers just slipped off the slimy fin! He wrapped his shirtsleeve around the fin to get a better grip and pulled once again. However, he realized that the sunfish’s spiky dorsal fin was just expanding and digging into Wally’s cartilaginous trachea!
“Move it, Wardley!” shouted Mrs. Skipperson. With that, she shoved Mr. Skipperson out of the way and moved in. She then whipped a letter opener and a straw out of her purse. With two quick movements, she performed a tracheotomy below the obstruction and inserted the straw. Seconds later, Wally started breathing through the straw while Mrs. Skipperson called 9-1-1.
And they all lived happily ever after.

The Truck in Front part 4

Yes I'm back. I've been crazy busy. One exciting thing I've been doing is writing articles for a mountain newspaper called The Flume. It's been pretty time consuming. Basically I have to drive 45 minutes (fortunately the drive is in the Rocky Mountains and it's dazzling) to a county commissioner's meeting, sit through a two hour meeting, drive 45 minutes back, write the article, and submit it to my editor. At least I get to use my imagination to turn a boring meeting into an interesting article! But the best part: seeing my name in print!

With no further ado, here's the latest installment of The Truck in Front.

The Truck in Front, part 4

Niyah backed off from the blue truck, trying not to look like she was following it. They went north, blindly driving through what was probably beautiful country, though she couldn’t tell in the dark night. Maybe she would get to see it on the way home.
Around ten o’clock they passed through the town of Moab. Mexican restaurants and steak joints were just flicking off their “OPEN” signs. Patrons heading to their cars or hotels peeked in the dark windows of gift shops and mountain bike-rental places. An entourage of lifted Jeeps, decked out with bright lights, winches and big tires, cruised slowly in the right lane. When the only stoplight in town turned yellow up ahead, the Jeeps went even slower.
The blue flatbed got in the left lane. Niyah, trying to appear innocuous, stayed behind the Jeeps and planned to change lanes and pass when the light turned green.
But then the light turned red and the flatbed went right through the intersection! Several nearby vehicles honked angrily; Niyah panicked. She swerved into the left lane but came to a stop at the solid red.
She impatiently slapped the steering wheel with her palm. She looked left and right, wondering if she should run it. Just as she was about to do it, the light turned green. She gunned her tiny engine and passed the leisurely train of 4x4’s. But the flatbed was out of sight.
She sped up the highway for a few minutes, peering about for any sign of it. Up ahead on the right, a high ridge glowed amber beneath the moonlight. She could faintly see a ribbon of road winding up its side but no headlights ascending. Then she saw it…a pair of taillights!
The taillights were near where the ribbon of road intersected the highway, amidst a cluster of buildings. A sign indicated that this was the main entrance to…Arches National Park! There was a visitor center, a maintenance building, and a guard house all dark. And the entrance gates were up. This must be it!
But the blue truck passed the road. It didn’t even slow down!
Niyah’s heart fell. Her confidence was gone. This was Arches! Why hadn’t the truck turned in? Should she keep following it or should she abandon it and turn into the park? Hadn’t Ollie said the National Park was the key?
All these thoughts flashed through her head in a matter of seconds. At the last instant, she decided to keep following the flatbed. She seemed strangely drawn to it. And besides, she could always turn around and come back to the National Park. So, with the wheel gripped firmly beneath her knuckles, she continued following and wondered if she had made the right decision.
Fifteen minutes later, her gamble proved right. The high ridge quickly became flatlands and into them a dirt road veered off to the right. Beside it, an old sign read, “National Forest Access—Klondike Bluffs. National Parks Pass Required For Entry. High clearance 4x4 vehicles only.”
And the blue truck turned onto it.
Niyah knew she couldn’t be obvious so she drove past it without reducing speed, went over the next hill, and stopped in a gravel pullout. She turned her headlights off and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. When she could make out the center yellow line, she checked for traffic, flipped a u-turn, and slowly drove back to the dirt road.
The blue truck was already a half-mile away. She could see its headlights jouncing and flicking this way and that as it navigated the rough terrain.
She drove twenty yards onto the road, pulled to the side, and turned off her engine. Then she smiled.
This was all meant to be. Sure, her car was too low to drive on the rough road. But her bike wasn’t. And miraculously, her mountain bike just happened to be strapped to the trunk. Quickly she changed from her sandals into tennis shoes. Then she unstrapped the bike and hopped on.
As she pedaled, she guessed she could go nearly as fast as the truck on this narrow, rocky road. The night air was cool and energizing. She pedaled hard and tried not to think about what she would do when she discovered where that flatbed was headed.
Suddenly a spine-tingling sound rent the night. Worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, she heard metal grating against rock. An engine roared and then abruptly stopped. Then silence but for the crunch of her tires on gravel.
Up ahead the road took a sharp left turn then disappeared into a narrow ravine. She could tell that the road went upwards, so she down shifted her bike in preparation to climb. But as she approached the turn, a most out of place odor hit her nose.
Rain.
It smelled like rain.
Then a flash of light briefly illuminated the landscape and the silence was cracked by the sound of thunder. She looked at the starry sky in shock and confirmed there wasn’t a single cloud! What was going on?
She put her fingers on the brake but didn’t squeeze, in order to carry as much speed up the hill as possible. She leaned into the turn, came around, and looked up the hill.
The blue truck had rolled over!
She squeezed the brakes and skidded to a stop. Just ahead, the trail ascended steeply over a garden of pumpkin-sized boulders with a deep rut eroded into the shoulder of the trail. It looked like the heavy truck had slipped off the boulders into the rut, and had rolled on its roof.
The cab was crushed! One of the tires still turned slowly. White steam rose from the chassis.
Niyah jumped off her bike and ran up to the cab. The only occupant was the driver, a rough looking sort with stubbly jaw and sunken eyes. His neck was pinned between the roof and the steering wheel, literally crushed. Dead.
She turned away, and vomited into a thicket of junipers. She stayed doubled over while putrescence drizzled out of the corner of her mouth.
Finally, she spit. Then she spit again. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, stood up, and held her head in her hands. She had to focus. The driver wasn’t important. She was here to find Jeremiah. So…where was that crate?
She saw it, behind her, down the hill a little ways. In her hurry to get to the truck, she had run right past it. It had rolled across a patch of cacti and come to a stop in a stand of barren scrub oak. As she scrambled down to it the scent of rain returned, growing ever stronger. On reflex, she took a deep breath and savored the smell. Exciting. Invigorating. Dangerous.
Yes, dangerous. For now, at the crate, she glanced about nervously. One side of the wood was broken and the inside gaped open. Empty. Whatever had been inside was now out.
And whatever had been inside was alive, evident by the scrape-marks leading away from it.
“Jeremiah?” she called out shakily.
Thunder rolled again. Another flash of light brightened the ravine for a half second. In the spark, she saw something move along the wall of the ravine!
“Jeremiah?” she called again. “It’s Miss Niyah! Honey, if you can hear me, yell or something! So I can find you!”
More thunder and another flash, but no movement.
Niyah looked down at the broken crate again and realized it wasn’t completely empty. Inside was a pile of something soft and downy. What was that?
Kneeling down, she reached a shaky hand into the crate and pulled out a handful of feathers. Feathers? There were several large grayish-brown feathers and one huge auburn wing feather, as broad as her hand! She ran her fingers along its soft spines and contemplated.
OK, it probably hadn’t been Jeremiah inside that crate. Rather, it appeared to have been some kind of bird in there. A big one. She wished she’d paid more attention in her ornithology classes.
Anyway, it wasn’t Jeremiah. But did this bird have something to do with him? With his disappearance? There was only one way to find out. She knew she needed to follow that bird. No matter how scared she was, finding Jeremiah was more important.
Niyah dropped the feathers and looked toward where she’d seen movement along the ravine wall. It looked quite rough. Great sandstone slabs were jumbled all over and in between them the scrub oak and cacti were thick and twisted together. That would be a chore in the dark. Perhaps there was a flashlight in that truck. And some water.
She climbed back up to the truck and went to the passenger side. The door was popped open and she was able to pull it back to crawl inside. Soda bottles, cigarette cartons, and papers were strewn about the ceiling. The ceiling that was now the floor. She shuffled through the trash for a moment looking for a flashlight or a water bottle, careful not to brush against the dead body. She found none of what she was searching for, but something clutched in the driver’s hand caught her eye. Almost dreading to look, she brushed a sheet of paper away and gasped.
It was a golden tube about the size of a straw. It was old and mostly dull, but a few spots had been rubbed clean and glittered brightly in the moonlight. The driver’s fingers were wrapped tightly around it and his arm was fully extended, as though he were saving a puppy from a raging flood.
Timorously she pinched the end of the tube between her thumb and forefinger and slid it from the driver’s grasp. She crawled backwards out of the cab and backpedaled a few steps.
Before she could inspect it further, however, she heard the thunder again. Only this time, it sounded further away. Flashlight or no, she had to go, before the bird or whatever it was got too far away! She shoved the tube into her pocket and ran.
The scramble through the brush turned out to be easier than she expected and she soon found herself cresting the rim of the ravine. As she came out on top of the plateau the smell of rain became overpowering. The thunder cracked louder than ever. The light flashed brighter. Just as she blinked she thought she saw a massive black cloud rise up into the sky. When her eyes re-opened nothing was there. She looked up and for a split second she thought she saw a few stars disappear into a void. But she blinked again and the stars returned.
The smell of rain quickly faded.
A voice boomed through the night.
“Don’t move!”

The Truck in Front, part 3

This tale is feeling like it is going to have six parts. I'm not sure if we can still call it a short story. Maybe it's a novella.
Anyway, make sure to read parts 1 and 2 before tackling this one. Enjoy!


The Truck in Front, Part 3

The road dropped down the backside of the plateau, following broad switchbacks into a ravine. Distant snowy peaks glowed like nightlights.
Down in the ravine, there was no wind and Niyah was able to hold her headlights steadily on the crate. She leaned forward like a near-sighted little old lady, her chin almost touching the wheel as she peered intently at the mysterious box.
After a few miles, her vigil was rewarded. The crate jumped again and this time she knew it had jumped of its own accord; the road had been smooth with no bumps. The crate seemed closer to the edge of the truck bed. Was that thing even tied down?
Then something new caught her attention. Instead of a black hole behind the broken wood she saw something soft and…furry. Or fuzzy. Downy. A surface that rippled in the breeze. Then it went black again, but not before there was a quick golden glint.
Niyah’s heart pounded in her breast. That could be the sign! The signal she was looking for…
Last night, after the day’s whirlwind activity, the solitude of her trailer had been a haven. She remembered stumbling through the front door and flicking on the light, but her fatigue had knocked her out like a hypnotist. And that was why her brain had been so slow to respond when someone pounded on her door in the still hours before daylight.
She’d sat up on her still-made bed, panting. The lamp still glowed on the nightstand. The furnace whirred smoothly. The alarm clock displayed 5:11. She exhaled and told herself it was nothing. But the urgent knocking which rattled her hung pictures told her otherwise.
She reached for the Smith and Wesson 38 special revolver tucked between the mattress and the paneling. Her dad had given it to her. No doubt if he were here now he would be telling her to start shooting. Ask questions later. Fortunately he wasn’t there and Niyah had more sense than that. She calmly checked the gun’s cylinder, confirmed there were six rounds in it, and returned it to its hiding place. Then she answered the door.
It was the teenage boy from Manny’s place.
Silky hairs stood up on the back of Niyah’s neck as she croaked, “Ah...Hi. There.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Hi there. Ollie, right?”
Ollie stared at her, like last time, as he nodded and said, “You haunt my dreams.”
She almost slammed the door in his face. But something in his eyes, a sparkle or a flicker, kept her interested. She asked, “What?”
Ollie began spilling, “I know that sounds creepy but I don’t mean it like that I just had to find you lucky for me I saw the detective’s paperwork so I knew you lived out here on this ranch and now I found you but you’re not going to believe me.”
He paused to draw his breath and Niyah held up her hand to stop him. “Hold it. Please. I’m not awake yet.” She rubbed her forehead and suddenly realized her hair was a mess, so she pulled her dark tresses into a bunch and rolled a rubber band off her wrist and onto the tail
Ollie gulped and ran his hand over his own buzzed hair. “I don’t think you have time. I think…I think you have to leave while it’s still dark. Before dawn.”
Niyah looked the boy up and down. If he were going to hurt her, he would have done so by now. She glanced at the black skies to the east and said, “Well that gives us an hour, at least. Come on in and sit.”
Ollie sat at the tiny kitchen table and bounced his knee up and down rapidly while Niyah made coffee. Then he pounded his fist on his thigh. When she sat down across from him, he blurted, “Believe me. This is hard for me. I’m not…not a dreamer, you know? I don’t even remember my dreams. But there was this girl, and she’s been in my dreams for weeks! Not like fantasies, you know, but like haunting! Like I was possessed or something! I didn’t know who she was but then yesterday, when I saw you—I knew! It was you! And the dreams make sense now and I have to tell you, lady! I think…I think you’re supposed to save that kid! What was his name?”
“Jeremiah.”
“Yeah, Jeremiah. You’re gonna save him.” Ollie, apparently satisfied with himself, poured himself a cup of coffee and relaxed.
Niyah was at a loss. She prompted, “So what did I do? In the dream?”
Ollie smiled. “Oh yeah. I dreamed about this black cloud. Thick, really scary black. Then I dreamed you came in and the cloud got, like, lighter. Then in the cloud, in the middle of it, was that kid Jeremiah. Then you left and the cloud got thicker again! But the cloud wasn’t just black anymore. There was a light flashing in it! I think Jeremiah had like a flashlight or something and he was trying to signal you.”
“Ollie, did you tell the police—”
“I’m not done!” said Ollie. Then softer, “I mean, there’s more. After he signaled you, you came back. But this time you were a kokopelli and you pulled him out of the cloud.”
“A kokopelli?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Yeah, those Indian guys with the feathers in their hair and playing a flute, you know? They put ‘em on hats and stuff at the gift shops, you know?”
“Yes, I know what a kokopelli is. The Hopi god that gives children to their mothers! They—”
“There’s a little more,” Ollie interrupted again. “Sorry, but this might be the most important part. In my dream, Jeremiah was wearing a hat that said ‘Arches National Park’. Was he, you know, wearing that hat when you lost him?”
“I didn’t lose him! He was stolen!”
“Whatever, lady. Was he wearing it?”
Tears filled her eyes but she shook her head and said, “No. He was wearing church clothes. No hat.”
Ollie pounded the table and said, “Then that’s where he is! You have to go to Arches to find him! You’re the kokopelli. You’re the one to help him. Even though you probably don’t believe me.”
Niyah’s entire face was moist as she leaned forward to hug the teenager. She said, “I do believe you. I do.”
Ollie pushed her back and raised one eyebrow. He said, “Really? Uh…why?”
Amidst a teary smile she said, “My daddy used to call me ‘kokopelli’. Me! That doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me. I don’t know…Don’t know what any of this means but I need to do something! Anything. And if that’s just taking a road trip, I’ll do it. I can leave right away.”
So Niyah wasn’t really surprised when she saw the flash from the crate. Rather, she was confused. This had to be the signal. She wasn’t far from the national park, maybe an hour and a half. And now she felt sure that this truck in front of her had something to do with it.
What was she supposed to do, though? Try to get it to stop? Ram it?
She couldn’t do anything until she knew more. Could Jeremiah be in that crate, signaling her? No, it was too big for a little boy. Way too big. It looked more like an animal cage, which would explain how it had jumped.
Still, he could be in the cab. After all, the truck seemed destined to be in front of her. She’d been following it for hours now, ever since it had pulled out of that ranch driveway in New Mexico. The Flying Animikii Ranch. The strange name had stuck in her mind. The truck had rumbled over the cattle guard and eased onto the two lane road amid a billow of red dust. She’d had to slow down to less than thirty miles per hour. She had been angry, especially with her fear of passing, but the many miles helped her get over it.
The best thing would be to keep following and see what would happen.
Everything was starting to make some sense. Everything except that crate on the flatbed. What did that have to do with a missing boy? And if not Jeremiah, what had caused that golden glint?
Right now, following this truck was Niyah’s best hope. If that glint had been the sign and she found the boy, wonderful. If not, at least she would have something to do until the sign showed up.

New Blog Title

My blog title has changed.
For some reason when I set up the blog, I thought "The Repository" was clever. Now it just reminds me of an outhouse.
So the new title matches the picture. Correct, that is Loch Ness.
Why is this the new title?
Well, I'm always fascinated with our perception of intense historical events, especially miracles, cryptozoology, and other phenomena. I think we are afraid of the unknown, so we rationalize the incredible yet sensationalize the mundane.
If only we could see things for what they really are...

The Truck in Front, part 2

OK, to preface this, if you haven't read part 1...go back and do it now! Or you won't understand...

The Truck in Front, part 2

The crosswinds had picked up and the green tarp was blown off like an old lady’s hat. If the driver of the flatbed noticed, he didn’t care. He just kept rolling along at a steady 55 miles per hour.
In the twilight Niyah could see that the tarp had been covering a huge wooden crate, a perfect cube of fresh pine planks with thick sisal rope wrapped around every side. There was writing stamped in bold black letters, but it wasn’t English and she couldn’t recognize a single character. What language was that?
She had been driving with only her parking lights on, but the ever darkening sky suggested headlights. She flicked them on and noticed a bright flash from the crate for a few seconds. Then it was gone! Peering intently, she wondered what could have reflected the beams. There was nothing shiny anywhere, only wood and rope.
Whatever that flash was, it still wasn’t as brilliant as the gleam in sweet Jeremiah’s eyes.
“Monica, just who is this Manny?” the police officer had asked, Detective Pikken his card said. “Did you say he’s the boy’s uncle?”
“No, I didn’t say that! SHE said it!” shouted Jeremiah’s mother. She jabbed her finger in Niyah’s general direction. “He was my ex-husband’s friend. I don’t know how he would have anything to do with this!”
“Jeremiah called him Uncle Manny,” offered Niyah quietly.
“Well if he won’t come here, I’ll have to go to him,” said Pikken. He pressed the button on the mic attached to his collar and told dispatch his intentions. Then he looked kindly at Monica and asked, “Would you like to ride with me?”
Monica nodded and dripped a few tears onto her blouse.
Niyah pulled a clean tissue from her purse and gave it to her. Then she asked, “May I go too?”
Adam said, “Niyah, why don’t you—”
“I have to!” she interrupted.
Detective Pikken cleared his throat and said, “It’s fine. Let’s just get rolling. We’re wasting time.” He gave some general instructions to another detective who was managing the scene and then he, Jeremiah’s mother, and Niyah climbed into his patrol car and sped away, lights flashing.
Manny’s place on the edge of town was small and old, a house forgotten by the decades. Yet it was surprisingly well kept. The crabgrass was mowed short and even. The cracked walkway was swept. Even the maroon Cadillac parked on the lawn, though older, was glossy and gleaming in the sun.
Niyah and the detective followed Monica as she stormed up to the front doorway and rapped loudly on the door. While they waited, they could hear a loud television inside, mixed with voices of laughter. Presently, a teenage boy opened the door and just stared at them through a screen.
“Is Manny here?” demanded Monica.
The teenager looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Manny!” Then he resumed his stare until Manny arrived.
The same smiling dark-skinned man wearing an orange jersey waddled over to the door, holding a bottle in one hand and a remote control in the other. However, it was a far different man who spoke to them.
“Monica! It’s been a while,” said Manny. Sweat glistened on his forehead and amid his spiky black hair, but he kept smiling broadly.
“Not long enough. Where is Jeremiah?” she retorted.
“Wait!” said Niyah. She grasped Detective Pikken’s arm and said, “He didn’t speak English before!”
The detective looked at Manny. He reached into his pocket and produced a notebook and pencil and asked, “Sir, were you at Church of the Spirit today? About twenty minutes ago?”
Manny chuckled deeply as though he had just heard a joke. Then he looked confused. He said, “No. No sir. I have been here, with my cousins. Watching the game. Right, Ollie?”
The teenage boy at the edge of the screen nodded, then turned and disappeared into the dark interior.
“What?!” said Niyah. “That’s him! That’s Manny! He took Jeremiah! Where is the boy?”
She grasped the screen door handle but before she could pull it open, Detective Pikken held her wrist. He said, “Hold on, there.” Then to Manny, “Sir, may we come in and have a look around?”
“Well, we been having a party, you know, so maybe…maybe if you come back later I can clean up first?” said Manny.
Detective Pikken went stiff. He said, “Sir, I have to inform you that this is regarding a missing child. An Amber Alert has been issued and I can have a search warrant here within minutes. If you make me do that, this place will be torn apart. Or you can let us in now. Your choice.”
Manny looked over his shoulder. Then he turned back with his big smile, unlatched the screen, and said, “Sure! Come on in. Don’t mind the mess!”
They entered the house and suddenly realized how loud it was. The TV was blaring play by play commentary. A group of about five or six men, all Hispanic, were gathered around on whatever surface they could find to sit; various crumbs, wrappers, and bottles littered their area like bright leaves around an October aspen. Their laughter or jeers filled in the gaps left by the football announcers.
“Excuse me!” yelled Detective Pikken. They paid him no heed, so he turned to Manny and yelled, “Can you get them to quiet down? I can’t think!”
Manny’s smile faded and he hesitated. He cocked his head ever so slightly, as though he were trying to hear something.
Niyah’d had enough. Enough of these delays! She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. Loudly. Instantly the laughter silenced and a second later the TV was muted. And then she heard it.
An engine starting.
Niyah looked back toward the screen door just as the engine fired to life. A stream of blue exhaust blew out the tail pipe of the Cadillac in the front yard. Its engine raced. Gears ground. Tires spun and threw chunks of lawn. Then it whipped backwards into the street.
Niyah beat the detective back out the screen door, barely. They both ran towards the car as more gears ground but they were too slow. The car sped away.
But not before Niyah saw the shape of a child curled on the back seat.
She turned to the detective and threw her arms up in frustration. That must have been Jeremiah! And no license plates on the car!
Monica came out the door but got no further than the stoop because Manny was clutching at her sleeve. Gone was his trademark smile. Instead his face was the picture of terror as he shouted, “No! No! El Diablo! La Chupacabra! La Chupacabra! No!”
That was yesterday. Today, Niyah felt no closer to redeeming herself. She was supposed to be the great hero. She was supposed to be the key yet here she was, stuck following this stupid, slow truck, all because she was too scared to pass! She made a fist and punched the passenger seat. Then she hit it again and again until her arm was tired. She sighed and looked back at the road.
There it was again—the flash from the crate.
For the next ten minutes Niyah tried to recreate the flash. The truck in front probably thought she was falling asleep as she sped up, slowed down, and swerved left to right. The beams panned over wood, rope, and…what was that? A black hole in the lower right where a board was broken…was that where the flash had come from? Had that been there before?
She couldn’t remember. She tried to keep her lights shining at that hole but the wind continued to gain strength and made it nearly impossible to maintain a steady course. Even though the road remained straight as it traversed this high plateau, both she and the truck were lane wandering. After nearly running onto the shoulder for the second time, Niyah gave up and concentrated on driving.
Settling back into her seat she flipped the radio on, partly for company, partly for a weather report. Static dominated all the FM frequencies, so she flipped over to AM. She scanned the AM band until she found a news report predicting gusty winds in early evening. She rolled her eyes and thought, “Oh, really. I couldn’t tell.”
A creepy feeling unexpectedly came over Niyah. Whether it was the moonlit sagebrush landscape, the deep monotone voice on the radio, or the unknown into which she drove, the night suddenly seemed oppressive. She turned the radio off and cracked her window. She looked once more at the black hole on the crate.
And the crate jumped.
No, the truck must’ve hit a bump. Niyah didn’t remember her car bumping, though. And she was following right behind. She shook her head, thinking maybe she should have stopped for coffee after all.

The Truck in Front, part 1

It's been too long, I know. But I have something good for you to read. At least I hope it'll be good. A few of my friends have commented that they would like to read an entire story and, since I'm not going to post my entire book on here...I've decided to post a short story. The only problem: it's not written yet! This is going to be a work in progress, so feel free to give me feedback. Maybe I'll use the feedback and make changes.
I'm calling this story The Truck in Front.
So here we go with the first installment.

Niyah was lonely. Minutes had turned into hours and county lines into state lines. The horizontal clouds had just begun to bleed after a long, hot day while the two lane highway extended out in front of her like an arrow she drove upon. A crumbling bluff’s wide shadow warned the flatlands of the coming darkness.
She was almost disappointed her car got such good gas mileage. That would have been an excuse to pause at the derelict Gas’n More fifteen miles back. Instead, she’d put out of her mind the twisted craving for stale coffee and kept driving, alone with her thoughts.
Her thoughts were what had kept her awake today, hour after hour in the barrenness. Thoughts of Colorado’s Sangre de Christo Mountain Range and her cozy trailer at its foot. Thoughts of the sleepy town of Alamosa and its citizens going to and fro like honey drones. The wind-blown but friendly Church of the Spirit on the edge of town where she taught the “Tigers” about Jesus for an hour and a half every week. Where she had met Jeremiah last month, the angel who hadn’t quite mastered the “L” sound yet. And where she had lost him yesterday. Tears ran down her cheeks for the umpteenth time as she went over the details yet again, trying to think of what she could have done differently.
Church of the Spirit was one of the largest in town, and the board of elders had just approved moving to two services if the church grew over four hundred. She’d hoped they would because every week she was hard pressed to wrangle fifteen six and seven year olds through worship songs, Heroes of the Bible lessons, semi-nutritious snacks, and the neatest crafts she could invent.
Truly, though, the parents were more difficult than the children, especially at drop-off and pick-up time. At 9:25 there was a mad rush as parents dumped their kids off and scurried to find a seat in the sanctuary. They were supposed to fill out a sticker with their child’s name on it, stick it to the child’s shirt, and pocket the stub with a matching number. Then at 11:05 those same parents came back, anxious to hurry home to watch the Broncos game. The idea was for Niyah, the teacher, to match up their stubs with the ones on the kids’ shirts. More than half the time, however, the tags fell off, the kids slipped past her into the hall, a clueless older sibling came to get them, or the parent couldn’t find their stub. What was she going to do, not let them have their child? Make them take a DNA test? Only once before had it been a problem, when a father came to claim his daughter with the appropriate stub but his wife had already taken her. He stormed off and complained to Adam Keiler, the children’s pastor, but Adam appeased him by saying that Niyah was a responsible girl and would be more careful next time.
Jeremiah and his cute chocolate-haired mom visited their church for the first time on Labor Day weekend and must have liked it because the boy had been in her class for the next three weeks. He always wore pressed khaki slacks, shiny black cowboy boots, and a crisp collared shirt. He always listened carefully to instructions, always sang sweetly, and never interrupted. He brought his own snack in a baggie because he was allergic to wheat.
Yesterday he had been dropped off during the mad rush. She hadn’t even noticed him until craft time when he asked, “Can I have some more gwitter, pwease? King Sowoman’s crown isn’t shiny enough.”
Even before the service officially ended, picker uppers began to arrive because the game started at 11:15, barely enough time to make it home, change into sweats, and microwave some nacho cheese before kickoff. And they were short tempered! Try to explain about the gift certificate for a free kid’s meal at Pancake Hut if their child memorized the Bible verse by next week? Forget it. Get a headcount for who would be coming to family night at the community pool? Sorry. Challenge their right to pick up their child? Fat chance.
A smiling man with dark skin wearing a blue and orange jersey was the second to appear in the doorway. He looked around the room and called, “Jeremiah!”
Jeremiah looked up from his glittery page and smiled back, but didn’t move. Since Niyah didn’t recognize the man, she walked over and asked to see his stub.
“Que? No hablo Ingles…” he said, shaking his head but still smiling.
Niyah knew enough Spanish to understand that but not enough to say anything back. She could only show him one of the blank tags and point to the man’s chest with her eyebrows raised in question.
The man grinned wider and held up one finger. Just a minute. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a crumpled photograph of a toddler. He showed it to Niyah and pointed to Jeremiah who was just returning his glue and glitter to the supply bin.
Niyah studied the photo for a few seconds, decided it did look like the boy, and motioned him over. She asked, “Jeremiah, do you know him?”
Jeremiah nodded and said, “That’s Uncle Manny.”
Uncle Manny bent down and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Then he extended his hand and waited for Jeremiah to take it.
The boy said, “Si!” and placed his little brown hand in the big brown one. Then he was pulled away. Just before they went out the front door he called out, “Thanks Miss Niyah!”
In between seeing the other kids off, she went about sweeping the tile floor, helping kids into their coats, and stacking chairs. She had turned off the space heater and was just about to flick off the lights when a cute young woman with chocolate hair walked briskly to the doorway. She was breathing heavily as she said, “Sorry, Miss Niyah. I was praying with the pastor. I hope Jeremiah was good for you. Where…where is he?”
Niyah’s heart crashed to the floor and shattered like a vase.
Screeech! Niyah’s tires squealed as she stomped the brakes to avoid hitting a small mule deer which had just jumped into the gap between her car and the truck in front of her. Her car fishtailed for a second then straightened out and she blew out the breath she’d been holding.
She pressed down on her accelerator, caught back up to the truck, and re-set her cruise control. Its driver hadn’t even flinched after what just happened…had he even seen that deer?
She was rather glad of the midnight blue flatbed, even if it was going ten under the speed limit. It was keeping her company. She’d never had the guts to pass on these two-lane roads and tonight, she was alright with watching the back of this truck for a while longer.
There was nothing particularly special about the truck, but for some reason she was enthralled by it. It had paper tags and heavily tinted windows. The undercarriage and lower panels were caked with red dust. A green tarp covered whatever cargo the truck was carrying, and one corner was loose and flapping wildly in the wind. Large mud tires hummed loudly on the worn blacktop.
Niyah looked out her side window and took in the gathering darkness. Everything looked upside down. The heavens glowed a gray orange, so the dark buttes and mesas seemed like cut-outs from a grand glowing canvas. It made her imagine that the sky was substantial and everything else, including the road she traveled, was just an infinite void.
When the innocent are wounded for no good reason, everything is definitely upside down.
Poor Jeremiah. Blame Niyah. Blame your useless teacher who gave you over to the wolves.
Unlike so many others who were going to sit in front of their TV for three hours yesterday, Niyah had planned to study. The vet licensing exam was in two weeks and she had barely studied. But when Jeremiah disappeared, her own life didn’t matter any more.
She and Jeremiah’s mother, Monica, had stared at each other for an eternity, each hoping the other would say something to break the curse that had suddenly fallen on them. Niyah spoke first.
“I gave him…I mean, he went with a…Manny. Uncle Manny.” Monica seemed to relax some, so Niyah continued, “You know him?”
“I know him, but I don’t understand,” snapped Monica. She held up the tag with the number 396 on it and said, “He didn’t give you this, so why did you let him take Jeremiah?”
“Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have. But Jeremiah acted like he knew him. Is it OK?”
Monica yelled, “I hope so! Manny is worthless—I don’t know why he would pick up my son! Let me call him!”
She dug a cell phone out of her pocket, punched a few numbers, and let it ring.
Just then the children’s pastor poked his head in the room. He said, “Everything all right?”
Monica had begun shouting into her phone in Spanish, so Niyah stepped into the hall and said, “Adam, I think I screwed up again.” Then she filled him in on what had transpired.
Just as she finished, Monica stormed into the hallway and said, “Manny knows nothing! He is watching the game today. Why are you lying to me? Where is my son?”
Adam said, “I’m calling the police. And we need to see if this Manny can come down here.”

Time Travel

One of my favorite shows is LOST and this season is awesome, reminiscent of season one. The curious thing is that time travel is emerging as the culprit for why the survivors are, well, lost. It's interesting that the creators chose time travel rather than government conspiracies, supernatural forces, aliens, or any of the other elaborate theories circulating the net. Simple time travel.
I wonder why we are so fascinated with time travel?
It never seems to get old, does it? (Pun intended)
The concept of time is really too big for us to fathom. We are powerless to measure, control, or even understand time.
"But we have clocks" you say.
Well, you will never be able to convince me that 15 minutes at the dentist is the same amount of time as 15 minutes on a trout stream.
But we can experience other times.
History is our attempt at legitimate time travel. We funnel history to our imagination, and then our subconscious builds an environment we can experience...apart from our own time.
This is partly why I wrote a historical fiction book, to play with how the past affects the present and in turn how the present can affect the future.
I do have a few sci-fi genes in me though, and I would like to explore time travel more in my writing. I wonder what Lincoln would think of Obama's America. Or how the Spartans would fare alongside modern-day US Marines? What advice could Anne Boleyn give Hillary?
I don't know, I think it would be a fun way to compare and contrast the past and present. I could demonstrate that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

To conclude, I leave you with a quote by Jay Leno I just heard.
"Long before you were born, people used to write really long text messages on paper. These were called books."