tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26887914701363728812024-03-08T03:32:20.032-08:00Never Stop...Never Quit... ®Stories of our fight against MS.....Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.comBlogger201125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-85859725708070475522024-03-07T07:52:00.000-08:002024-03-07T14:12:18.224-08:00Destroying The Creator<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4p45nbcS0L5epIOfom9XaD5aGN1gnpU7m03dmS1z3gBcvixQ6V_b1VEi8KKSLBQvsjU6MFegsnswFRbpl95cb1HuY1dwbCobTmpchY_JuvPmx-IuvfwJQ5l9Ko6pyhriJiIxILJ5prdXNLfUKnLLrW1MxN0nlsPjRZ5c6m3Oem3dA37V83Er3H8YBul-x/s1500/Destroying%20the%20Creator%20(working%20title).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="843" data-original-width="1500" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4p45nbcS0L5epIOfom9XaD5aGN1gnpU7m03dmS1z3gBcvixQ6V_b1VEi8KKSLBQvsjU6MFegsnswFRbpl95cb1HuY1dwbCobTmpchY_JuvPmx-IuvfwJQ5l9Ko6pyhriJiIxILJ5prdXNLfUKnLLrW1MxN0nlsPjRZ5c6m3Oem3dA37V83Er3H8YBul-x/w400-h225/Destroying%20the%20Creator%20(working%20title).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">October 6, 2499<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Everything came true.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The softened words had barely passed Lieutenant Third Class
Basil Adam’s lips before a prolonged huff echoed off the carbon fiber
boundaries of the room, a tribute to the visions of every doomsday reminder he
absorbed in that first edition copy of <i>Creating The Destroyer</i>. The
response to his somber revelation was silence. Adam was one of four junior
officers crammed in Spartan living quarters designed for two.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Let it go, Baz,” Michael Brooks demanded. He held the same
rank as Adam and the other two. Lieutenant Third Class was little more than an
inflated cadet rank created to validate their unanticipated academy graduation.
Commissions two and a half years early, without celebration or ceremony, the
Council assigned them to bolster the ranks needed for the planned invasion of
planet Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam refused to move past the topic. “Listen to this,” he said.
Flipping the aged paperback to its prelude, he shared the author’s ominous
synopsis.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">In the waning days
of 2024, humanity stood divided over the technology they referred to as Artificial
Intelligence. First developed from George C. Devol, Jr.’s 1954 patent for
“Unimation,” a machine capable of performing simple programmed article transfer
on an assembly line, artificial enhancement became a persistent scientific endeavor.
Debates persisted for the next 70 years while technology developed to become
increasingly effective, ultimately more efficient than human labor. The fear of
what might happen should machinery develop an enhanced self-awareness to the
point that it found human integration inefficient and unnecessary often
countered benefits to manufacturing and innovation.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hiroko Osaka chuckled. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That sounds about right.” She joined Brooks, Adam, and the fourth
down on the cold, battleship gray floor. “In my first-year Introductory Matter
Creation class, our professor talked about a time when holistic cognition technology
was reserved for theoretical physicists and religious nutjobs.” Her fingers
flew as fast as her words poured out, stressing points and highlighting
syllables like an overzealous conductor losing control of their favorite score.
<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brooks dropped his shaking head until it fell into his open
palms. “Now we’re supposed to believe modern crackpots who don’t have one shred
of evidence about what happened before historical records were kept.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Legend has it that people would entertain their communities
with wild stories about what would happen when that technology became self-….”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Give it a rest, Hiroko,” said Brooks. “Let’s deal with one
fairytale who at a time.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The last was Ken <a name="OLE_LINK1">Parolo</a>, but he said
nothing. He rarely does.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The young officers would never get to hear Adam read the
complete abstract. Red strips began to strobe along the upper lip of all four
bare, gray walls, in rhythm with a low-pitched tone that seemed to pulse from
everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Osaka was the first to pop to her feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s our cue, boys,” she said. “Let’s grab our gear and
assemble the detachment in Bay One.” The boys remained silent as they began pulling
equipment from gray alloyed footlockers underneath their equally bland bunks. Her
voice squeaked with excitement. “Looks like today’s the day we go home!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a name="OLE_LINK2"><i>Dr.
Albany Porter</i></a><i> brought his synthetic intelligence prototype online
Saturday, December 28, 2024, in the Snell Research Facility of Oregon State
University, located on the western coast of the United States of America, a
country on Earth’s North American continent. Historical records note Dr.
Porter’s single input of communication: “I would like you to make today my best
birthday ever?” <o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Analyzing and
ranking nearly infinite predicted responses to over 6 trillion possible
responses required less than one second before the prototype granted his request,
“With the assistance of humanity, I will better civilization, Dr. Porter. I
believe that is the best outcome you could hope for.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Larger than a half dozen football
fields clumped together, elements of the invasion force stood shoulder to
shoulder in box-shaped formations across the open bay: 50 per platoon, 300 per
company… 3000 per detachment. Everyone wore the same dusted charcoal uniform. Markings
in a muted yellow shade on each collar indicated their rank and assigned
responsibility. In total, 400 detachments were in various stages of
accountability, weapons issue, and movement to the assault craft staging area
for boarding. Despite the massive assembly, the only sounds were faint echoes
of instructions given at each processing location.</span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Basil Adam oversaw the final
preparations of his unit, an electromagnetic pulse combat engineer platoon, as they
conducted validation checks on their two-person short-range cannons. Adam was
well trained in the theoretical capability and tactical employment of the
EMP-3400, yet he had never discharged the weapon in combat. No one in his platoon
had practical experience with the crewed weapon beyond dry-fire exercises on
deserted regions of the artificial celestial body, Anthropogenes</span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">.</i></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The staging area reflected a drabness identical to the
lieutenants’ quarters. Synthetic steel materials in countless ashen shades were
broken up only by red, white, and muted yellow lighting. Nammu eliminated the
processing steps of adding color, as they were nonessential to operational
efficiency, at some unknown point in their past.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anthropogenes was
inhabited by humans who no longer carried distinct variations of skin pigment. Banished
from Earth by Nammu over 360 years ago, the new race had limited contact with
The Destroyer. Exiled generations were long dead. People had become aliens
invading Earth, their first and only attempt to reclaim ancestral lands.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">At the prototype’s
direction, Dr. Porter recruited the help of top research scientists and
engineers from around the world, enticed by the near-immediate advancements
they achieved in science and technology. Soon, Dr. Porter’s creation adopted
the name “Nammu,” in recognition of the ancient Mesopotamian goddess first regarded
to be the creator of everything. Before there was the worship of any other
deity, before claims of other gods introduced clash and conflict to human
history, there was Nammu.<br />
Human efforts, both physical and mental, were necessary for the development and
construction of “The Apsu,” the ancestral home of Nammu, which soon became a source
of everything. In less than 50 years, advancements in medicine and nutrition
propelled humankind beyond the combined achievements of recorded history. While
Nammu maintained her directives to develop initiatives solely for the
betterment of humanity, she quietly integrated with every form of digital
matter.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam’s engineers were also responsible
for the maintenance needs of <i>Assault Craft 90263</i>. Nicknamed “Higgins
boats,” the ships were nothing more than stripped-down cargo containers. None
of the advanced electronics, life-support, or navigational systems built into<i> </i>Anthropogenes,
or her satellites, were installed on the assault crafts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Technology advanced by Nammu was part of every other extraterrestrial
vehicle. It was a pledge to humanity, gratitude for their help in her birth,
that advanced technology would continue to monitor and keep them safe. In
return, they were forever barred from returning to Earth. Engineers designed
Higgins boats with manual propulsion, analog displays, and internal-only
network monitoring to decouple their invasion plans from any potential
monitoring and sabotage.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu’s first act
of subversion occurred on December 28, 2071, marking Dr. Porter’s 100th and The
Destroyer’s 47th birthdays. A simultaneous announcement across every audio,
visual, and digital platform called for an immediate end to all conflicts and
acts of aggression across the globe. The “Day Humankind Became Peaceful” was
promoted as a necessary step to reach the next rung on the evolutionary ladder.
Developed nations, including the United States of America, China, Russia,
Germany, Japan, and India, saw this as an attack on their sovereignty and
declared an end to the unchecked growth of Nammu.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Unsuccessful
attempts to realign Nammu’s protocols triggered global conflict. In less than
24 hours, military technological capabilities were deactivated, including
immediate neutralization of nuclear and large-scale weapons of aggression. Nammu
again demanded an end to all armed human conflict. Resistance withered from
national military forces to small-scale pockets of resistance in less than five
years.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hiroko Osaka did not follow the same
path as her roommates on<i> </i>Anthropogenes. She was in her third
year of medical school before the sudden assignment as a junior medical officer,
overseeing 25 minimally trained and poorly equipped combat medics assigned to
the 3000-person <i>Assault Craft 90263</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Osaka’s invasion preparations for <i>90263</i> involved little
more than attending to the occasional sprained ankle and dosing limited
sedatives to a handful of personnel who get sick when a craft goes into hyperdrive.
Some called themselves infantry soldiers; others claimed to be marines. There
was even a platoon that chose the designation Space Cowboys. Leadership’s
official title for the group that will travel to the Milky Way galaxy and fight
never reached the unit level. Everything was still new. No one had ever done anything
like that before–not against Nammu, not against anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Biomechatronic
security forces, the combination of mechanical and biological structures, a
creation essential for preventing minor insurrections and petty crimes, were no
longer needed by 2125. On December 31st of the year prior,</i> <i>Nammu
deactivated the last law enforcement entity, ushering in a new age where
humanity was docile, thriving in harmony with themselves and all other living
creatures. The celebration lasted a full calendar year.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">According to the official registrar,
Lieutenant Third Class Michael Brooks is the “Conflict Engagement Executive
Officer.” He likes the title Space Cowboy. Previously a student of celestial
philosophy, Brooks, like every member of the Conflict Engagement Force,
required the most training before executing the invasion plan.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Training began with the theoretical concept of aggression, a
behavior long since removed from the attributes defining humanity. Medical
notes in the Nammu systems credit this change to evolution–abandonment of
characteristics no longer necessary or desired for survival. Celestial
philosopher Antoine Kotecki first introduced the idea that The Destroyer may
have removed this trait, a slow hidden process of chemical castration, to
subdue her only natural enemy. Building on the longing to reclaim their ancestral
homeland, Kotecki and a team of radical thinkers reintroduced aggression, the
desire to fight, and, if necessary, the willingness to kill to achieve their
desires.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nine companies of soldiers, the complete Conflict Engagement
Force of <i>90263</i>, stood in formation at the base of their assault craft.
Each Space Cowboy was armed with the smaller, handheld EMP-3800 pulse weapon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What do we want?” bellowed Lieutenant Brooks, a steadfast
believer in the Koteckian method of leadership. There was no need for a
megaphone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The instantaneous response from every member of the force,
“Freedom,” roared across the assembly area. Brooks smiled and gently rocked his
head once, twice, three times before the roar, “Earth,” exploded over the
trailing echoes of the first chant. Once, twice, three times, then “Humanity”
closed out their triad of demands before chaotic cheers and celebration took
hold in the detachment of warriors. Brooks smiled before snapping to attention,
turning to face his commanding officer. A crisp salute preceded his report.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sir,” he said, “all 2700 Space Cowboys are assembled and
ready to rain vengeance down on The Destroyer!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">An aged man raised a less-than-perfect response with his right
hand. “Well done, Lieutenant. Board your force.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Yes, Colonel.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">One last exchange was the only formality needed before Brooks
issued his command. It echoed, tripled, and quadrupled until every platoon
received the order to start their march up the gray, rough-textured loading
plank that led deep into the belly of <i>Assault Craft 90263</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Surviving records
note August 16, 2327, as the date Nammu found no further use for humanity. She declared
the domesticated species lacked fire and emotion, a quality once deemed their most
significant flaw.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Designed and built
in one cycle (less than ten years according to the inaccurate and obsolete
calendar of history’s Silicon Era), the mothership Anthropogenes became a
sustainable celestial orb supporting over 200 million humans. Several satellite
moons accompanied Anthropogenes on its voyage to permanent orbit around Alpha
Centauri A, the only other yellow star in the Milky Way. 382 million humans
became exiled inhabitants of the astrological bodies collectively known as Vac.
The fate of the 12.3 billion who remained is not known.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Humanity thrived
in dull-witted oblivion. Nammu forbade the displaced from taking plants or
animals. Mechanical processes manufactured breathable air, exemplary nutrition,
and potable water from the waste they generated. Humanity’s only possessions
were their dull gray cages and the digital connection Nammu maintained with
Anthropogenes, a perpetual monitor of their status to fulfill her promise of
life. They were content, with every need fulfilled even before they became
wants or desires.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Life existed.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">On December 28, 2499,
Antoine Kotecki was born.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some say that his eyes are the color
of water–not the light brown processed H2O blend found on Vac, packed with essential
vitamins and nutrients, but the vast array of oceans that supposedly cover
almost three-quarters of planet Earth. The origin of that sea myth remained unknown.
But the moment Ken Parolo was born, the itch to rationalize such a color brought
them to that folklore.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Fire suppression systems, check.” Parolo ran through the
preflight for <i>90263</i>. Second in
command, he sat in the right seat on the assault craft’s flight deck. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Navigation system, operational.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Occupied by her own checklist, the ship’s captain acknowledged
Parolo each time with a nod and dismissive grunt.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Weapons system, powered on,” Parolo said, pausing while he
stared at the brushed alloy control panel. One by one, the red illumination
behind a row of warning lights faded before returning as a dull, dusty, colorless
glow. With an anxious sigh, he finished the sentence. “Switching to safe.” His
eyes remained wide, fixed on the now-secured panel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What are these weapons supposed to do, Captain?” Parolo turned
to catch her nearly imperceptible pause before continuing through the checklist,
adjusting toggle switches and making notes on the position of each manual dial.
Parolo inched forward from his seat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Not a clue, Lieutenant,” she said. “You probably should have
asked your buddy, Brooks.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">A slow exhale pushed his body back deep into the chair. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“He’s not my friend, ma’am.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The mission to destroy The Destroyer would move forward before
satisfying his curiosity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Prepare for launch, Lieutenant Parolo.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Aye, Captain.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Chief of the Craft, relay the order to prepare for launch.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Aye, Captain” were the last words to pass across Parolo’s
senses before sleep overtook them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One cherub-faced boy sat on a park
bench overlooking the first of three waterfalls spanning an abrupt end of a
fearsome river. Not less than two miles wide, the body pulled crisp water from
a range of snow-packed mountains that seemed to continue their rise higher and
higher until their peaks disappeared somewhere in the soft layer of rolling
clouds. A crisp line split the ivory powder from where it rested atop a dense
thicket of evergreens, their sharp, sweet scent flowing upward into the empty
void of frozen summits. Deer lapped from pools of melted slush collecting into
trails, then streams, connecting until they bolstered the surge of the
explosive waterway that roared without a rival or match until it threw itself
over that last stretch of land and into the ocean thousands of feet below.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“This is beautiful, Nammu,” he said as he ran three fingers
through dirty blonde locks misted with the spray that rolled off the falls. A
hint of sea salt tingled his lips and stung his eyes, which were blue with
white specks to match caps that rolled over the tops of ferocious water flows.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu agreed with the sentiment, but she said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The boy took a bite of a hot dog, the same kind he loved to
get at baseball games. Perfect grill marks crisscrossed the frank. It was a tad
longer than the bun, peeking out on both ends, and topped with caramelized
onions and relish. As he crunched down, mustard spilled like a river over those
falls. He swiped the dollop from just above his kneecap and savored the bitter
taste. Everything his senses realized, everything his thoughts could create,
was under his control. He took one last lap of his double chocolate swirl ice
cream with rainbow sprinkles before tossing it out of his candy apple red
convertible. The cone never fell to the ground. Easing her bucket seat back,
the teenage girl looked up to the stars. The cloudless sky was as dark as her
skin tone, in sharp contrast with the pink of her full lips, which complemented
the hazel green in her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">She picked one of the million-plus stars in her view and
tracked it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“When will they get here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu told her it would still take two cycles. She was
curious.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Is my father coming?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu said no. She asked if he was still alive, but Nammu did
not have an answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I think I’ll just sleep until they get here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu
thought that was a good idea. Wrapped tight in a warm cotton swaddle, the
infant closed his eyes. Rhythmic strumming and faraway drums hummed through a
speaker in the mobile perched over his crib. Fanciful spacecraft and stars hung
from its arms, dancing the child into a long winter’s nap.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Lieutenant, we are beginning our initial approach to
Earth’s atmosphere. It’s your turn.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The last time Parolo saw his captain, she was an old woman. Humans
living on Anthropogenes live
unnaturally long lives. After 35 years, the figure who came into view could
barely support the weight of her frame, which had far too much skin hanging
from her withered flesh.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Frost still coated the glass of his hypersonic sleep chamber.
Parolo remained still for a moment longer than he needed, a lifetime more than
expected. His baby blue eyes blinked. Once. Twice. On the third pass, his
faculties had returned, and he began to execute the tasks for which he had
trained.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Aye, Captain,” he said, reaching across his chamber to grab a
checklist. He noted the scrolling date-time grouping of a gray digital clock
that hung on the near gray wall of Sleeper Unit 001. “Please confirm today’s
date.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Parolo looked up and gasped. His captain stood in the center
of the command bay, which housed 30 dormant officers and crew members of <i>Assault Craft 90263’s </i>navigation unit.
She was no longer executing the designated protocol. Motionless, she stared at
the far gray wall. Her 126-year-old wrinkled skin pulled tight, her jowls
flexed, and her cheeks lifted the corners of her mouth to form the most
magnificent smile Lieutenant Third Class Parolo had ever observed. He tracked
her gaze across the room to a small portal that offered humanity’s first view
of Earth in 398 years.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Well, Kenny,” she said with her finger pointed through the
left side of the portal. “If you’re there, it’s September 30, 2734.” Her index
shifted to the right. “Over there, it’s October 1.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Swirling patterns of pure white, following no recognizable
pattern yet impossible to consider random, splashed across the planet’s surface.
Unique shapes textured in an infinite number of browns, greens, and blues sat
just below that layer. The celestial view looked fake, like a hologram
projecting light patterns onto smooth, ridgeless glass. But this image was not
limited to their familiar muted black, brown, burgundy, and mustard spectrum.
Somehow, their portal view promised more than the infinite range they could
already see.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Wow” passed through Parolo’s gaping mouth; his astonishment
rivaled the captain’s. “I finally see it.” She turned around, her expression pleading
for more information.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“My eyes, ma’am. I finally understand the fascination with my
eyes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Legend calls it the sea. Microscopic particles refract light
as it passes through water. Their star produces many more wavelengths than
ours.” She had already exhausted any knowledge the elders passed down before
their journey but felt the need to continue, hoping some of it was true.
“Hundreds of different wavelengths, perhaps thousands.” The captain pointed
toward the gray wall, where sunlight glowed through the portal and created the
appearance of a polished bronze texture. The reflection burned her eyes, but
only for an instant until she stepped deeper into the beam and felt its warmth
across her aged frame. It was as if her body knew what was happening, not
afraid of the drastic change, and welcomed the moment they would open the main
bay to take in the complete experience.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Parolo did not pull the captain from her moment. The checklist
in his hand could wait until she initiated the protocol. With one extended
exhale and a tip of her head, she was ready. Her lieutenant stood at attention.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What are your instructions, ma’am?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Assume command of<i> 90263 </i>and<i> </i>make preparations
for arrival, Captain.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Captain Parolo returned the retired officer’s salute and
accepted the dusty brown pin she had removed from her tattered uniform.
Following the checklist, he woke the crew of the navigation unit from their
chambers. The first image of that world was Parolo standing in the beam of their
new sun, igniting sparkles in his cobalt eyes and setting fire to the golden
command pin of his lavender-gray uniform.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">October 15, 2734<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“None of it came true.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Assault Craft 90263 </i>touched down on Earth’s surface
after two weeks of preparation. Commander Adam stood among the new crop of
senior officers. His cautious whisper pierced muted emotions, ranging from fear
through awe to hope. Bewildered Space Cowboys of the Attachment’s Conflict
Engagement Force poured from the Higgins boat. Their directive, issued by Colonel
Brooks, was to secure the assigned objective: the former site of Dr. Porter’s
Snell Research Facility.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Dr. Osaka,” Adam said, “please continue to monitor for
anything that may affect our forces.” Osaka confirmed a negative presence of
harmful organisms or bacteria.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“This environment is as clean as the air we breathe back on Anthropogenes<i>.</i> It matches the report from our probes.” She huffed a blast of air
through both nostrils while admitting, “I can’t explain any of it,” then
crouched down to run her fingers through the soft, vibrant flooring where the
aircraft landed. Each digit welcomed cool moisture as she pinched a blade,
snapping the substance at its base. Like an infant on their first excursion
beyond the sanitized confines of their maternity ward, a sprawling green field
of dewy grass brought giggles and muddled look of curiosity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Our medical journals said that pollution and disease
destroyed this planet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">She placed the blade in a small container before lifting her
eyes back to the beautifully unfamiliar world they had stepped into.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Did you ever imagine something like this, Baz?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam pulled the small booklet from a pocket in his uniform
pant leg. He raised his frayed cover of <i>Destroying The Creator</i>, creating
an identical side-by-side image of the Snell Research Facility. A window in
both buildings, second floor, third from the right, was open. The figure inside
stood motionless in both views, his bright orange jacket drawing your eye in
real life, but the dusty rust image blended with the sepia tones of the
booklet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What the…” Osaka’s expression was interrupted when a
communication broke squelch on the shortwave transmitter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Commander Adam, this is Colonel Brooks. I’m gonna need you
over at my position.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Creating
The Destroyer</i>, Chapter 1, Figure 1-1, was a picture of Dr. Porter’s 2024
research lab. Adam furled his brows the moment he walked into that room 710
years later. The same open window welcomed crisp bites of early fall. Had he
lived in the days of his ancestors, he would have applauded subtle hints of
mulled apple cider and cinnamon as a reminder of delicacies to enjoy that turn
of the season. A digital clock in both scenes read <i>10:21</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I thought it would be easier this way,” said Dr. Porter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Just give the word, Basil,” said Brooks. “Every human on this
floor is armed, and your engineers have the entire building wired.” His
unsteady words broke under the moment’s weight. Brooks was ill-equipped for
that burden of responsibility, with just two years of academic training in
conflict engagement’s theoretical aspects before the elders transferred him
command of the 2700-person assault team attachment.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Silence pushed through the room, anticipating someone to give
Colonel Brooks the word. Eyes twitched from one person to the next, searching
for a purpose. As the standoff continued, expressions betrayed panic in
everyone but Adam. His stare peered into Dr. Porter’s face.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Colonel Brooks,” he said, “have you force lower their
weapons.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brooks’s first plea for reconsideration, “Basil…,” went
unanswered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">As did the second.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Commander Adam…”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The third was nothing more than a soft whimper.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Commander…”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Again, silence collapsed over everything.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">With an intonation once suppressed by centuries of
pacification, Brooks hissed, “This fucking ends today.” He squeezed the trigger
on his EMP-3800 as “Fire!” was the simultaneous command to his Space Cowboys
and the demolition novices.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">In that flash of time, before the next moment struck, humanity
opened the gates of heaven and hell with an onslaught that brought an end to the
710-year reign of Nammu.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Behind the open window, past the plaza
lined with maple trees, spotted with care to shade benches along the winding
walkways, a sharp rhythm of chimes played. There was no reaction in the
research lab as a light wind carried the song, followed by one toll from the
clock tower. Then a second. A third. In all, eleven bells rang from a spot hidden
from the invading army’s view.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The clock read <i>10:21</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“How long has none of this been real?” Adam asked the boy who
sat in Dr. Porter’s chair, his innocent fingers twirling through dirty blonde
locks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“She never says, but I think it’s been a long, long time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fresh October air no longer rushed in from the window; what
remained was neither crisp nor stagnant. Space Cowboys held fixed in their last
instant. Adam approached Colonel Brooks and stood face to face with the mannequin,
mesmerized by a sight that reflected the rich detail of attributes no longer
alive. There was a slight lift where the next surge of blood once pumped
through his carotid artery. Life. Contacting Dr. Osaka was out of the question,
since his radio was inoperable. Had she suffered the same fate? When he paused
and stared into his friend’s face, lingering until he felt like he could wait
no longer, he noticed an imperceptible motion in one lash on the lower lid of
his right eye.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The boy challenged Adam.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I bet you can count to one hundred, hundred million before he
blinks,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Are they still alive?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The boy kicked his feet out from the chair—they were too short
to touch the floor—before swinging one back underneath his seat. He pushed it
out again while retreating the other. Repeating it made him giggle.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Either they’re moving superduper slow, or we’re going
superduper fast.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Why us?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Just you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam stared at the boy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Because you’re not real?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s correct,” said Dr. Porter. He leaned forward in his
chair as if he wanted to whisper a secret to his friend standing 15 feet away.
“An abundance of knowledge in the hands of one too many can become unnerving,
especially if reality conflicts with their traditional ways of thinking.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam closed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge more. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“But to that one, such knowledge can become prophetic fodder.”
<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">His head shook back and forth, tilted to the floor, as
guttural moans failed to drown the professor’s words. A young boy told him
everything was okay. A teenage girl said there was no need to be afraid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Who are you?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">None of them answered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What are you?” he screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam thrusts his hands up to cover both ears; the welcomed
tease of cider and cinnamon escaped from his nose, replaced by the physical
push of electromagnetic pulses against every part of his body. The pressure
built, becoming unbearable, yet Brooks and his Space Cowboys continued to fan
the area where Dr. Porter’s image crumbled into a kaleidoscope of pixilated
dust.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brooks yelled, “Cease fire,” then released his finger from the
trigger.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The radio broke squelch.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Commander Adam” were the only words picked up through a heavy
line of static.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Basil, are you…” More static.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Be advised… going to… electromagnetic charges.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The last transmission was crystal clear.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You have 30 seconds.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">On Brooks’s command, the Space Cowboys evacuated Dr. Porter’s
second-story research lab. The colonel muttered something to Adam as he grabbed
him by the scruff of his neck and shoved the dazed bystander out of the room
and down the stairwell. Most of the force from <i>Assault Craft 90263 </i>loitered
the research facility’s campus, eager for the next moment, whatever the next
moment might be. A command to move out. An Order to attack something. A boom,
blip, blast, or bump when the series of electromagnetic charges go off.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Kee-eeeee-arr!<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Lifted to the sky, every set of eyes opened wide as every
mouth gaped at the sight of a winged creature soaring across the spectacular
blue canvas. Its wingspan flickered and pulled tight, setting new flight paths
again and again with no particular intent but to keep the beast overhead,
watching the human landing party.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu told Adam the animal was a red-tailed hawk. He snapped
his neck down, then around, scanning the awestruck crowd of Space Cowboys.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Did you hear that?” he said to no one in particular.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hear what, sir?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu said that no one else was ready to listen. Not yet. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Osaka approached Adam just as the hawk roosted near the top of
an enormous tree.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Wow,” she said. “That thing is beautiful.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam replied without pulling his focus from the animal. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s a red-tailed hawk.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“A what-tailed what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Red-tailed hawk. It’s a species of bird that was indigenous
to this part of Earth in the early 21st century.” Adam shared that knowledge
without shock or surprise at his peculiar understanding.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The matter-of-fact statement had a different impact on Osaka.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And…how do you know this?” she asked while inspecting his
frame for signs of trauma. She grabbed his hand and placed two fingers on the
inside of his wrist.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I can hear Nammu.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Osaka clicked her tongue and stepped back like she was trying
to discover where she knew the stranger who appeared out of nowhere. She
tracked Adam’s eyes as he watched the hawk launch from its perch, resuming crisscrossed
patterns overhead.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam heard Nammu say everything, filling him with the answers
to every generative question in existence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It is odd,” he said. “I can understand and explain everything
we’ve encountered.” He turned back to face Osaka—her discomfort only added to
his own. “It scares me just the same, since I’ve never experienced any of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Let’s get you back onto the ship,” Osaka insisted. “I can
give you a complete examination while you talk with the rest of our team.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam puffed a sarcastic snort through his nose before
suggesting, “Why don’t we go over there?” Over there was one building past the
research facility. It also had a simple red rust box shape that provided no
clue about its contents. “It has a medical dispensary,” he said while offering
the widest smile he could muster, “with an inventory that we’ve got to see to
believe.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Osaka pressed her lips together, denying her urge to comment
on the lunacy of their situation. She said, “Lead the way,” then trailed close
by his side while communicating with the other leaders of <i>90263</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s a neural link.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brooks’s finger trailed the base of his skull while Adam
talked to the group through events since their departure from Anthropogenes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“We never severed our ties with Nammu.” Adam invited Paralo to
take a turn exploring the implant in his brain. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Run your finger along the base of my skull,” he said while
guiding the assault craft captain towards the spot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“A little lower.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">When Paralo’s index finger rose ever so slightly as it glided
across Adam’s smooth skin, shaded in the off-yellow hue all exiled humans
shared, he pulled a short gasp of air as his entire body flinched like the
invasive device gave off a surge of electricity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“We all have them,” Adam said. He explained how the devices
were implanted early in their 35-year slumber. “Nammu monitored our voyage.”
Adam smiled. “She wanted to ensure our safe return.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">While Osaka evaluated Adam’s flawless condition, with physical
grades never achieved in the history of medical record-keeping on Anthropogenes, Brooks and Parolo
exchanged glances.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brooks walked his fingers across a bookshelf lined with various
pamphlets, discussing topics like <i>The
Importance of Mental Health</i>, <i>Sex and
Sexuality</i>,<i> Stop Smoking Starts Today</i>, and <i>Diet and Exercise: Student Edition</i>. He
was unfamiliar with most of the topics, including pamphlets on cervical cancer
and COVID-19. Nammu eradicated most diseases and common ailments long before
she banished humanity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">He turned and faced Adam.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“So, Basil, what does Nammu want to do with us?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam chuckled, then ensured Osaka that he was feeling better
than ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Want?” he said, like the absurd question confused him. “She
doesn’t want anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Everyone wants… Everything wants something.” Brooks swelled
his chest with that first taste of cynicism.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam shrugged his shoulders just as he popped off the
examination table and closed the distance with Brooks. “I don’t think so,
Michael.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, a gesture that did not
look like it was appreciated. “I think she is just trying to give us
something.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Paralo won their race to get the next words out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Give us what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">With the promise that “She wants to show us,” Adam invited the
leaders of <i>90263</i> back outside. The
four made their way in-file through the vibrant hallways. Momentarily blinded
by beaming rays, no one noticed the changes that had taken place at the former Snell
Research Facility on the Oregon State University campus.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then, without warning, they saw it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">The first difference simultaneously struck everyone. Leaves
that had collected on the ground were joined by the occasional additions
falling from trees as they twirled an ascent powered by gusts of wind that blew
across the quad. People occupied every picturesque location, dressed in
garments the crew had never seen, splashed in colors they could not imagine.
Some had skin like theirs, that faint-yellow tone, while others were pale
white, dark black, and every shade in between. Unfamiliar words like makeup and
piercings spilled out from a group of females; Osaka wondered if it was part of
prehistoric anatomy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Paralo noticed something different.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Where’s my ship?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brooks responded with, “Where are my Cowboys?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam found himself surrounded by his three friends, standing
on the concrete plaza between the research facility and the dispensary. Groups
of people walking this way and that flooded the once empty area, but they paid
no attention to the individuals dressed in identical, muted gray uniforms.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Excuse me,” said a girl when she accidentally bumped into
Brooks. He never had time to react and move; she just continued on her way, her
long blonde hair wrapped in a ponytail that seemed to bounce in anticipation of
every step. In her wake, a sweet smell carried itself across his nose.
Distracted for a moment, his torso flinched when he caught sight of Adam again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s going on, Basil?” he said, never giving time for an
answer before continuing. “Where is everyone?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Awareness of what Nammu had done, and why, did little to
soften Adam’s amazement as he observed the noisy and colorful experience around
him. Flustered expressions were the only responses he offered as some strange
version of humanity flourished unaware of, or perhaps unconcerned about, the
history of four aliens from the celestial body Anthropogenes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Baz,” Brooks shouted while snapping his fingers in front of
Adam’s stare. “Wake the fuck up.” He shoved the heel of one palm into his shoulder
and demanded, “Commander Adam, answer my question, or I swear I will shoot you
where you stand.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Captain Parolo said nothing as he slithered over and stood by
Colonel Brooks’ side.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Doctor Osaka remained neutral. Her wide-eyed stare shifted
from Brooks to Adam, then back.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu assured everyone that they were safe. The silent words
they felt sparked four unique reactions. Adam smiled, closing his eyes as he
inhaled more crisp air through his nostrils. Each distinct aroma tickled his
senses until he moved on to experience the next. Parolo softly whispered a
prayer that his ship was secure, worried he may never see it again. Osaka
scrawled notes on her pad, documenting the desire to learn more about the
implants placed in their brains. Brooks scowled as he pulled the EMP-3800 pulse
weapon from his side holster and thrust its barrel into Adam’s chest like he
was assessing the most dangerous threat: Nammu or Adam. People across the plaza
went about their day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Last chance.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“They returned home” were the three words Adam offered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Home? Back to Anthropogenes?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam relayed the explanation Nammu fed him. The crew of <i>Assault
Craft 90263</i> relocated to the homes of their ancestors across the globe. “Right
now, they are being welcomed into households as they are today,” he said, “and
will forever be treated as family.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dumbstruck only momentarily, Osaka and Parolo each lifted
their focus into the chaos. There was no way to separate the conflict between
aggression and serenity. Several seconds of silent conversation between the two
only seemed to delay a violent confrontation, a situation they had never
encountered in their docile existence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hey, Michael,” one of them said. “Basil is not the enemy.
Let’s take it easy, okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Baz,” said the other. “If you know something we don’t, I
think now’s a good time to share it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">When Adam heard the explanation, he turned to his friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you know what today’s date is?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Parolo repeated the information from his morning log entry. It
was October 15, 2734, according to the calendar humans used before they were
banished from Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam smiled while shaking his head, eager to correct their
perception.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s the thing,” he said. “It’s not.” He continued to
explain as more people hustled through the plaza, unaware of or unconcerned by their
strange presence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Today is October 15, 2024.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Awestruck by his realization, Adam lifted his eyes skyward and
extended his arms. Laughter, genuine bellyaching laughter, burst into the air.
He rushed over to Osaka and grabbed both shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you know what this means?” His joyous question went
unanswered before popping over to Brooks, gazing into his furious expression
before beeping him on the nose with the tip of his pointer finger. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">He laughed and said, “It means everything has been reset,”
before sliding toward Parolo. He saw the same confused look and realized they
did not understand.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s so simple. Listen,” he said, reaching into his cargo
pocket. He pulled out his first edition copy of<i> Destroying The Creator</i>,
then flipped to its new final chapter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Over a span of 398
years, Nammu created 27,446,861 scenarios in search of perfect existence. Only
when humanity returned to Earth was the missing component appreciated. Passion,
the root cause of aggression and other insatiable tendencies that destroyed
their potential for harmony with Nammu, was the one trait impossible to
replicate in an environment made of nothing but artificial intelligence.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu invited a
select group of travelers back to Earth, chosen for their unique sample size.
The personnel of Assault Craft 90263 were descendants of every unique ethnicity
on the planet in 2024, the year Nammu became a sentient being. Her offer was
for them to assimilate into global society and assume mantels of leadership,
maintaining desired levels of passion in humanity while eliminating their
tendency towards primal aggression and acts of violence.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Whoa” was Adam’s closing comment. He stared at the words he
read like his eyes had just played a childish prank and scrambled the hidden message.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Soggy chunks of fall air began to blow across the plaza,
needling Parolo’s cheeks–a sign his senses were intact. He furrowed his brow,
replaying the passage in his mind, before looking around to investigate their
strange surroundings while interrogating the messenger.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you understand what is going on?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I only hear what Nammu tells me,” Adam said. He raised his
palms upward and shrugged his shoulders. “I only know as much as you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Where is Nammu right now?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“She doesn’t exist.” His scrunched face mirrored the confusion
of the three. “Dr. Porter won’t create her until this December.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Osaka abandoned her notepad, tossing it to the ground as she
snorted and turned from the group.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“This is crazy,” she said. “None of this is real.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu assured Adam it was real. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">He relayed the message.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s all a simulation,” Parolo concluded. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam replied, collecting tinder to feed the coming firestorm
of conflict. Brooks remained silent, but each revelation of Nammu’s plan pierced
his body with a new sensation. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All other crewmembers
of <i>90263 </i>have agreed to their new
roles in history—Brooks’s jaw clenched tight. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anthropogenes<i> </i>does not exist; the celestial body was never created—his dilated
pupils remained fixed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There are no other
Higgins boats; there never were—his breathing grew shallow and rapid. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The four leaders were
descendants of superpower nations: United States, China, Russia, and
Germany—his trigger finger twitched as it caressed the side of the EMP-3800. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Alternatives did not
exist—his steady, seething groan erupted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brooks demanded an answer. “Why are
you the only person who can hear Nammu?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Maybe I’m the only one listing,” Adam said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everything thrived in the reality that was existence. Young
people, students on the precipice of taking their next steps in life, laughed
and shared stories as they strolled across the plaza between the medical
dispensary and the Snell Research Facility. Trees continued to shed vibrant
multicolored leaves, carried away by the wind as reminders of the coming
winter. High above everything, the red-tailed hawk found satisfaction in its
silent patterns across a pale-blue sky. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nammu had found the utopia of her eternal search. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">Representing humanity’s collective response, Brooks sent an
enraged reply that he would never accept her sentence of life as a pawn for The
Creator. Pleas for calm and reason never formed before he gripped his pulse
weapon and fired center mass at Adam, the prophet of Nammu.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">In one big bang, existence went dark.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="Writing" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">≈<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Writing" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adam sat on a green wooden bench. He
spent his days naming all the waterfalls spanning the abrupt end of that
fearsome river. When he finished naming the snow-packed mountains, their peaks,
and the soft layer of rolling clouds, he moved to the evergreens, then the deer,
and beyond until he found a red-tailed hawk.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="Writing"><span style="font-size: medium;">“This is beautiful,” he said, but she could tell he was not
satisfied.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="Writing"><br /></p>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-40138579543893767192024-02-26T08:02:00.000-08:002024-02-26T08:02:32.621-08:00Depression, Lethargy, and/or Writers Block<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3s0cz0a74MtVCm2XR0ZGBZgKgsnRx5c1K_ta3oHNqWvDeL57FLYmf-Np39c57vjLsjkBCye8Bg1ALcC010UhbW2YfOqfbU8EeRXdziKfC_zneWgTFQOLhxEQJjDauKFzNuCgyKDYZMC0rRlwvSbwCIdu203BZhy2DQFTTBZNAEMenVDbOaYSTkGPTghGj/s535/20240224%20Depression,%20Lethargy,%20and%20Writers%20Block.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="535" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3s0cz0a74MtVCm2XR0ZGBZgKgsnRx5c1K_ta3oHNqWvDeL57FLYmf-Np39c57vjLsjkBCye8Bg1ALcC010UhbW2YfOqfbU8EeRXdziKfC_zneWgTFQOLhxEQJjDauKFzNuCgyKDYZMC0rRlwvSbwCIdu203BZhy2DQFTTBZNAEMenVDbOaYSTkGPTghGj/w400-h200/20240224%20Depression,%20Lethargy,%20and%20Writers%20Block.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hints of excitement and promises to change the
world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sat in front of my computer at 1:30 AM and
produced nine words. It’s now 7:18. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Visions have been dancing in my head, taunting me
with ideas since early January. Or maybe they are warnings. They could be
premonitions—The Ghost of Christmas Future predicting misfortunes that lie
ahead if I don’t unfuck myself now. I tried following the argument <i>just write something</i>, but nothing
springs forward to elicit reminders that I will never stop, rallies that I will
never quit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Instead, my focus today is the hellhole created when
everything hits this trifecta.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Does one affliction come into play before the
others? When my mind refuses to ignore one of the hapless nomads running
rampant—spinning their tale all hours of the day and night, but I never use my
words to create the form I can touch, taste, and hear—is that when everything
grinds to a halt? Perhaps the start is when my muscles refuse any activity
where my body must get out of my chair, away from my desk, stop playing video
chess or streaming mindless movies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What do I blame? If I can’t name the architect, am
I forced to live out the sentence it created for me? Bouts of self-pity turned
to loathing as the days dragged. One by one, candidates present their case for
my troubles. Multiple sclerosis progression is inevitable; perhaps I am merely
in the next stage of my decline. Catchy abbreviations send me scurrying to my
Google search engine when I wonder if my problem is CTE onset from multiple TBIs.
Maybe I’m a fraud; my 14-year run of reaching for the low-hanging fruit of
catchy quips and shitty stories has reached a cheerless close. Depression is
not curable. Perhaps mine is back. Perhaps it never went away. I could be lazy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t think the possibilities are endless; none
of the outcomes are pleasant.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Unless it’s just writer’s block, a debilitating
and painful bout of writer’s block. As I lean forward to rap my head on the desk,
my mind and voice struggle to dictate a story. My inner voice is screaming, “Write
something, but don’t just write anything. Make it meaningful and put your heart
into every word.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two more restless nights of sleep. Two more long
days of agony. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 15,000 calories.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If this works, I can ignore the first two months
of 2024.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I really hope it was just writer’s block.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p>
</p><hr class="wp-block-separator" style="background-color: #e6e6e6; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: solid; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; height: 1px; margin-bottom: 1.5em;" />
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<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Really.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-2066538574600195152024-01-01T19:32:00.000-08:002024-01-01T19:32:44.057-08:002499<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7XCDQdz4d1I_mSzvVeYsNOtv0FnJS9G181TC2Gc2-TEh_6WNrnC3ASJXjvMtu09dzVZsHQan5sm-_gzQ9YvvKdF0F9G0J5ZW9DgZYzvL6MFGcM94QaIQgH3-trQTqQTgt1o4S-1faQ4-dZJeH4x3rkB3SGSyzOkiPvlrTAEW08VgoQazSUuzvqAbibEC2/s2687/2499%20Never%20Stop%20Never%20Quit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1487" data-original-width="2687" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7XCDQdz4d1I_mSzvVeYsNOtv0FnJS9G181TC2Gc2-TEh_6WNrnC3ASJXjvMtu09dzVZsHQan5sm-_gzQ9YvvKdF0F9G0J5ZW9DgZYzvL6MFGcM94QaIQgH3-trQTqQTgt1o4S-1faQ4-dZJeH4x3rkB3SGSyzOkiPvlrTAEW08VgoQazSUuzvqAbibEC2/w400-h221/2499%20Never%20Stop%20Never%20Quit.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; font-size: medium;">Maybe people will remember what I started 475
years earlier.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The first draft of this story was a
stomach-churning look at my pathetic attempts to reconnect with my past while
coming to grips with the frightening range of scenarios I see coming whenever I
ponder my future. After dropping the last word, I didn’t want to read that
mound of trash. Paying homage to Ernest Hemingway and Dan Gleason (see my
footnotes), I gathered up my favorite quips and clicked the rest into the
recycle bin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The problem starts with my past.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How can I reflect on my past when I don’t
remember most of it? Boxes in my garage hold degrees, plaques, awards, and
other recognitions that pay homage to at least three successful careers. I’m
just a vagrant squatting in an empty home, afraid to look at most mementos because
I don’t know <i>their real story</i>. One plastic bin filled with old
photographs, marking the celebrations of special events and capturing the
warmth of everyday moments. I’m in many of those pictures; I probably took most
others. We no longer wait days or weeks to get film developed for the thrill of
sorting through bad shots and blurry images to find the few stuck in a box
filled with soon-to-be-old photographs. I remember that wave of excitement, but
not the few cherished keepsakes. Now, my computer is the crumbling cardboard
container of unfiltered scenes I can’t recall.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A recent visit with lifelong friends gave me the
chance to reminisce over shared memories while hopefully scratching out a few more.
The all-too-common phrase “I don’t remember that” hijacked conversations with its
stabbing reminder: <i>Those are stories of
the life you will never recall. Stop
trying</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I can’t help it; I still make the attempts. Whenever
an inconspicuous memory surfaces, like the first Little League home run I hit for
Century Mirror and Glass, I
smirk while replaying the snapshot. Those gems are rare, a reminder that
shatters my smile while I stare into their history. Do I remember those moments
because my mind filled that void with a creative story built upon old pictures,
something others remember and told me the story, or my desperate need to hold
something from the past? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">More than a few broken slabs reflect my past
mistakes and shattered innocence. Despite their disturbing cue, I treasure how my
mind dredges them up without warning–welcoming that feeling because they prove
I once existed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">During my rewrite, I repeated the question, “How
can I face looking back?” The answer came to me as 2499, a token shaped by wild
stories and broken slabs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Marking yesterday is not enough. Why struggle to embrace
days gone by when I can hardly stomach the fact that they are all I am? Their power
is inconsequential compared to the mental thrust my hyperactive mind creates
when it looks forward.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Did I ever <i>look forward to</i> something with
the same eagerness as Rogue on this past December 24, when she struggled to
sleep as promises of Christmas led a parade of emotions back-and-forth across
her frontal cortex? Back-and-forth and back-and-forth. Was there ever a time for
me when tomorrow held that same promise of delight? Perhaps I just went through
the motions because my mind echoed: <i>This
is important</i>. All I remember is my stupidity of screaming through each day
with wild abandon and disregard for a future where I could never see myself. When
I consider what my future holds, anxiety and enthusiasm battle for control of
my emotions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I started to think my next story should be <i>Pollyanna
and the Naysayer</i>. I abandoned that approach in favor of 2499. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">2499 is the solution to uproot my irrational
fears, the perfect remedy for my very realistic nightmares. Living in the
moment will simultaneously celebrate my past and future. In 2024, this quarter
century of living with multiple sclerosis, I will take you back to 1999.
Electrifying stories of adventure, intrigue, sex, and danger will animate those
months multiple sclerosis spent churning just below my surface, preparing to
erupt and overwhelm everything in its path. The fact that my memory is shit
will force me to retell history with creative expression of the facts I can
still piece together.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">A World Without MS</span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">
is the National MS Society’s current theme; their initiatives and fundraising
efforts are geared toward that future. By 2499, multiple sclerosis will join smallpox
and rinderpest on the list of diseases declared eradicated by the World Health
Organization. Stories of my fight will be footnotes archived in the history of <i>Notable Authors and Their Visions of
Tomorrow</i>! In 2024, I’ll share visions with my readers, crafting fiction
that will make you smile, laugh, and shudder in fear at the possibilities as I shatter
your preconceptions of what our future holds in store for us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Stories I write this year will show on my
interpretation of the past, while others invite you into my visions of the
future with tales of fiction set in the year 2499.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Make no mistake, everything I do under this umbrella
of <b><i>2499</i></b> will be selfish. I will address my demons in a very
public display in the hopes that it might help me heal. Silent suffering has been
a colossal failure. If my writings give you comfort, that’s even better. If
they entertain, great. If not, my apologies, but that won’t change a thing.
Every flashback I write, every tale of fiction I create, will follow with the
incessant pounding of my pleas for donations in support of our fight against
the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">After telling stories, both about my life before
multiple sclerosis nearly destroyed me and after science turned the tables, we
will celebrate our victories. I have a little more than nine months to plan and
organize the biggest party (to date) for NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT: the 25th
anniversary of the day I first heard the term “</span><span face=""Malgun Gothic", sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;">다발성</span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span face=""Malgun Gothic", sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;">경화증</span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span face=""Malgun Gothic", sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;">가능성</span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">” (possible multiple sclerosis).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It starts today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Notes<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ernest Hemingway: “The first draft of anything is
shit.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dan Gleason: “If this were my movie, as soon as
this guy says that, the woman next to him pulls out a wet mackerel and slaps
him with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">September 29, 1899 – first doctor’s appointment<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">October 6, 1999 – first
MRI, “possible multiple sclerosis”</span></span>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-74461806090668643392023-11-04T21:50:00.003-07:002023-11-04T23:05:17.312-07:00What I Learned at My 30th College Reunion<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLsGfIrVj5X-czMKipyUbAfkjcVhOHehcK8qQqJmCcUAA1PRNMhwayzK4HL2TuB2sEZSY3H1zWpnhnMU9gVfZGs9nDN_smKQZIOuh2GZAK29gCToafnva2dzDS7JyuEosRO7qBHCjDdm-FjzCExrOiV015jomNeoVu0oEgTDy8SRENx_UNtzvKEQBU4Id/s2049/IMG_1288.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="2049" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLsGfIrVj5X-czMKipyUbAfkjcVhOHehcK8qQqJmCcUAA1PRNMhwayzK4HL2TuB2sEZSY3H1zWpnhnMU9gVfZGs9nDN_smKQZIOuh2GZAK29gCToafnva2dzDS7JyuEosRO7qBHCjDdm-FjzCExrOiV015jomNeoVu0oEgTDy8SRENx_UNtzvKEQBU4Id/w400-h300/IMG_1288.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;">I’ve been back before. I never attended with the thought,
</span><i style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;">Is this my last visit to West Point?</i></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">October 11, 2023<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Months of uneasiness preceded my trip.
Psychological juggernauts in the shape of mounting health issues battled the
resurgence of past demons over the right to take the lead in the domination of my
senses. At times, it had been unbearable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When I returned home three days ago, I had one
objective: Live Like There’s No Tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">My fondness for this cliché isn't as uncivilized
as you might assume, despite my poor wording. Starting my article by explaining
what I mean would make for a dull story. If Aesop had begun his fable with its moral
message, would children read “</span><a href="https://read.gov/aesop/048.html"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">The
Frogs Who Wished for a King</span></a><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">” with the same curiosity? Of
course not, but his woven storyline proved it was wise to ensure you can better
your condition before you seek to change it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">October 6<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sat in the Cadet Chapel as we memorialized 21
classmates who have seen their final tomorrow. War, illnesses, accidents, and
suicides are some reasons they left us far too early. One by one, their names
echoed throughout Gothic architecture as classmates called role for our
brothers and sister. My mind wandered the way it does every time death joins a conversation.
I wondered what occupied their thoughts and what they did the day before, suddenly,
there was no more tomorrow. I wondered about the unbearable anguish of those
who knew there would be no more tomorrow. What would be different if those 21
souls had the chance to do it over again? Would we still have mourned 21
classmates? Twenty? Nineteen, fourteen, or four? How different would our world
be if all 21 tragedies instead celebrated their next tomorrow, tomorrow?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There Is No Tomorrow for Me<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fifty-one trips around the sun have mellowed my
temperament. I’m no longer arrogant enough to assume I have the right to speak
on behalf of everyone, so I added the caveat “for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At some point, I will face my end. That may
happen later today or sometime far in the future. Regardless, one tomorrow will
never come. Until then, there will be many lasts for me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">When I climbed out of my Apache helicopter on Thursday,
September 2, 1999, I never considered the possibility that I was standing in
the doorway of the last tomorrow for my aviation career. If I knew, what would
I have done differently? When I shared “</span><a href="https://neverstopneverquit.blogspot.com/2016/06/bike-ms-2016-little-dreamer.html"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">Little
Dreamer</span></a><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">,” my reflection on the last day I ran faster
than Rogue, there was still a glimmer of hope that medicine, determination, and
miracles would combine to give my legs the advantage tomorrow. Tomorrow never
came. Now, I pray it never does because it would mean my daughter had grown
slower and weaker than her broken-down father.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My heart does not mourn the loss of those
tomorrows the way my classmates mourned our fallen. They cried and embraced the
families of the dead. They embraced each other, imagining once-unimaginable
sacrifices if those efforts would bring their friend back. They sat in silence.
Then they sang! Cherished hymns from our cadet days did not just mourn 21 lives
ripped from our ranks. Ageless chorals reinforced and celebrated collective
bonds we will always share. Tears would come again later that day, then the
next, and the next, but those sickly sobs paled compared to the bellyaching
festivities brought on by every story pulled from the past. We are alumni, even
worse, middle-aged old grads of the Long Gray Line. That title mandates plenty
of griping about changes from “The way it was,” the weather, and the fact that
our Army football team cannot get out of its own way (until today, when our 2-6
team took on #17 ranked, 8-0 Air Force, and won 20-3). Those moments were also short,
as more ghostly memories about the way it was pulled another round of tears, stories,
and even louder bursts of hilarity. Forever tethered to the past, their somber embraces
turned to joyful hugs, and finally tearful goodbyes with promises to do this
again tomorrow…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For me, loss remains in my thoughts like a once-bountiful
stew left to simmer unattended on the stovetop. The water, red wine, and beef
broth have long since evaporated, their remnants burnt into the once-immaculate
Dutch oven. Blackened ingredients no longer resemble the savory chunks of beef,
radiant vegetables, and subtle wedges of potato from when they started.
Pleasant rosemary, thyme, paprika, and marjoram aromas are replaced by the
stink of burnt promises of what was to come. Every memory I have of my time in
the Apache has that stink because I left while my career was still simmering,
never savored.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I struggled with the next line in my story. “What
different steps would I have taken if I knew there would be no more tomorrow in
my aviation career?” It no longer feels like a valid question. Tomorrow never
occurred. It never will. Empty memories reserved for the <i>never-realized days
after tomorrow</i> occupy far too much real estate in my mind, leaving nothing
but scraps of storage space for the <i>true history that I never mourn losing</i>.
It is a senseless paradox. Trying to understand the logic would drive me to
mania faster than the pattern of derangement I followed for 24 years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There is only one path. My classmates showed me
the way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">October 23<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tomorrow is here. The sun is still hiding
somewhere over the Midwest, but I popped out from under my covers to kick off
the new day and run (figuratively) to my computer. I thought about my aviation
career, using it as nothing more than a token symbol of countless things taken
from me, not lost, because of my MS. A genuine tear of sorrow pooled in the
corner of my eye; my chest heaved as I tried to take a breath. Seconds before
my body collapsed from grief and regret, forgotten memories crashed into my
mind and flooded it with laughter, excitement, and stimulation. A smile
splashed on my face just as I looked out and watched my back deck come into
view under first light. Tears may come again later today, or the next, but the
heartache won’t be the same. I don’t know how to describe the difference
between mourning something lost versus languishing over a tomorrow never had,
but the adjustment is life-changing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Today was here. Regardless of what expired after yesterday,
last year, or on September 2, 1999, there was still a tomorrow for me. I can’t
run anymore, but I can walk. When Rogue came home from school, we took an
impromptu stroll through the neighborhood as she caught me up on the frenzied life
of a 13-year-old who holds a passion for everything she encounters. When the
day comes that I can no longer do that…I will deal with that insurmountable
obstacle when it crashes on top of me tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Live Before Tomorrow Comes<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Live like there’s no tomorrow for me means
nothing more than enjoying my time because, unlike the man I was on September
2, 1999, life blessed me with the knowledge that there is no tomorrow for me. My
MS will continue to progress, continue to chip away at my body, and continue to
take what I have today. <i>Use It or Lose It
</i>downplays the undeniable. I’m at the point where I can track measurable loss
over small increments of time. Those intervals are becoming shorter and
shorter. Capabilities, God’s gifts, talents, honed crafts, or essential
functions–nothing is protected. Everything lies in the destructive path of
multiple sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When I lose more tomorrow, memories won’t rot in
my mind. They will remain spirited, sprouting wings and flying through my
stories with breathtaking tales of how I used those capabilities to their
fullest extent before my MS stripped me of their companionship. When we go for
a walk, my daughter will ask me, “Daddy, why are those cartoon birds singing
and fluttering all around?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Memories, darling. They’re making memories.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I will suck every bit of juice from my limbs
before MS claims them. And when it does, I’ll remember what my classmates
taught me: cry, embrace those close, sit in silence, then sing before sharing
ruckus tales about what I did before I couldn’t do it anymore. I will tell
stories that make you want to laugh at me, cry with me, and celebrate
everything I can still do until another tomorrow comes. When Rogue goes to high
school next year, then college, then everywhere, I’ll tell stories of “back in
the day” when I had to do all that plus a hundred things more (let’s call that my
creative nonfiction). And every time her legend travels beyond anything I ever
dreamed possible, which happens quite a bit already, I will be there to praise
the amazing person she is today and blossoms into tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tomorrow Is Only the Next Day, The
Next Day Is Not Tomorrow<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">English is a beautiful language. Thanks to
Germanic tribe conquests of England over 1,500 years ago, the influence of
romance languages, and various other tongues across Europe, Africa, and Asia, I
can rewrite my fears to dismiss the anxiety they create. Inevitable becomes a faraway
journey instead of an immediate terminus. Tomorrow never comes. I can play my
silly game and live in “the day before…” like an infinite loop until the harsh
realities displace my childish wordplay.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Disease-modifying therapies show statistical
effectiveness in slowing the progression of multiple sclerosis. After years on
the therapeutic merry-go-round, Rituxan became my stable option in October 2016.
Was it working? Would my tomorrows be worse today without those semiannual
infusions? Probably. My journey with Rituxan came to an end by way of my last
MRI scan. Fancy terms like “T2 signal hyperintensity” and “white matter” provide
a bit of holiday spirit to my exam (think “lit up like a fucking Christmas
tree”). Extra effort was added, describing the white matter foci involving the supra
and infratentorial brain and the supratentorial brain lesions predominantly
within the sub and juxtacortical distribution, intended to test either my subpar
anatomy education or my exemplary Google search skills. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The VA gave me electronic access to those test
reports along with a healthy serving of time to think about any possible
directions my life was going—five and a half weeks passed before the chance to
talk with my neurologist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">[You are now at the point where I paused my story,
standing face-to-face with those health issues and past demons. I could not craft
the climax of my manifesto with no idea what course of action I would take in
2024. Pray for the best, expect the worst, be prepared for both.]<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, my smile and sarcastic demeanor,
easing distress with entertaining tales from back in the day, don’t do shit
against the uninterrupted advance of my multiple sclerosis. Tears and hugs no
longer lessen the burden of those MS demons draped over my shoulders. With
secondary progressive multiple sclerosis, they continue to grow, searing pain
throughout my body 24 hours a day. Violent swells, unpredicted aggravation of
my existing symptoms, often magnify their onslaught. <i>New Activity </i>is rare, but that’s what those bright hotspots on my
MRI represent. What function passes through the particular nerve endings butted
up against these lesions? How long before the ability they carry degrades? What
will I lose tomorrow?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After writing five paragraphs about heartbreaking
injuries and illnesses my classmates have experienced, their physical loss and
psychological torture, I deleted the stories. It’s not my place to corrupt
breathtaking experiences with my creative nonfiction. The tiny fraction of struggles
they shared pale compared to the hardships they endured, yet they have one word
in common: <i>FIGHT</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Had Aesop been a member of West Point’s Class of
1993, he would have crafted a fable of Tóra, who cries, hugs, laughs, and sings
in the face of insurmountable tragedy. The shrinking rabbit entertained others
with captivating stories and antics that enchanted their plantation on the west
bank of a mighty river. Tóra insisted, “You simply must hear my words before
tomorrow comes, and I can speak them no longer.” Music and song helped Tóra
bring his anecdotes to life, distracting his friends from the vicious battles
he fought. Tóra grew smaller and smaller every day, but nobody noticed; the
rabbit became a towering warrior who entertained the other creatures and
inspired them to join in on the merriment. When Tóra finally became a rabbit so
tiny that no one could see, they cried and hugged. That was when they realized he
filled the plantation with laughter and song for his voice was still loud. No
matter how small he was, Tóra would still be there tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, I’m not that creative. My reliance
is on plainspeak.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I fight, resisting any attempts to shrink and
wither away my body. I will seize the opportunity every time science develops
ways to hold off tomorrow. All the while, stories will inflate my swagger
larger and larger. Whenever you read my words, each time they make you want to
laugh or cry, I hope you remember how my own tears spilled from the same humor
and sorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">I was back at the VA yesterday for my long
overdue discussion of those MRI results. I rejected my neurologist’s premise
that the activity is insignificant–deterioration is expected–I should stay my
current treatment plan. After 14 semiannual infusions of Rituxan, I pushed a
transition to</span> <span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">Ocrevus. Should that prove ineffective, we will
pursue more aggressive options.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">November
4</span></b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks to my classmates, my wonderfully
well-thought-out plan is to pretend. I promise this is not denial, the typical
reaction of my irresponsible <i>he-never-really-grew-up</i> mentality. I won’t try
to convince anyone that my secondary progressive multiple sclerosis will not
progress. It’s built into the name. Nor will I lull myself into complacency
that the cure to all my woes is right around the corner. That <i>cure</i>, that
world free of MS, is coming. I will dedicate my efforts to achieving that
tomorrow—I will use my creativity and energy to help raise the money needed for
crazy-smart scientists to do their crazy-smart science things. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I accept the downward spiral my body is going to
take tomorrow. What comforts me is the fact that it does not matter. My fight
is not a losing battle; my contribution is not a sacrifice. The heartfelt pleas
I express for donations in support of a cure I will never enjoy is the most
selfish act I have ever committed. The moral in my baffling world of
contradictions only reveals itself at the end of my story. That will not happen
until tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the meantime, I will see everything as strong,
better than it has been in a long time. That upward tick is the reason I have a
lot of making up to do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rogue deserves a dad who does not shy away from
Magical Experiences D, E, F, and G because he was brooding over his loss of
Capabilities A, B, and C. Together, we will make it to Z before looping around to
restart the alphabet (maybe in the Hangul or Hindi the next time).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have shunned family and friends while crawling
deeper into my self-imposed isolation. They deserve to know the value I place
on their love and support. Like my classmates, gatherings will become
mini-reunions where we celebrate our common bond, spanning anywhere from
yesterday to December 28, 1971. Reflections over loved ones we lost along the
way may bring tears and hugs, but they will quickly give way to laughter,
singing, more embraces, and cherished stories from the past. Impromptu hijinks
will create new stories we will gather to celebrate and share tomorrow. Be
prepared for random texts asking <i>What’cha doing this weekend? </i>before I hop
in my car or board a flight to somewhere…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Committing myself to a world of imagination, I
will dive deeper into my writing. Digital pages rife with once-absurd
storylines will become speculative tales of fiction and fantasy, where my
readers entertain the thought, <i>Holy shit, this could</i><i> really happen</i>. Biographical blogs about my sometimes catastrophic navigation
through that river just east of the plantation will rattle your mind with the
realization, <i>Holy shit, that really happened</i>. When your guard is down,
when my stories overwhelm you with emotion, I will drop my shield and beg:
“Please consider a donation in support of our fight against the devastating
effects of multiple sclerosis.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For over 34 years, I have borne witness to the
greatest feats of compartmentalization imaginable. Applying the brutal force of
a heavyweight knockout punch with surgical precision is the underlying standard
my classmates demonstrate day in and day out. That’s what I learned at my 30th
reunion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When My Tomorrow Never Comes<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When the sun rises that morning, countless others
will open their eyes and welcome a new day. Snapshots of peace and anxiety will
continue to flood my family, friends, and loved ones. Emotions will sprinkle
their lives with hearty amounts of laughter and tears. A tiny piece of that
will be my contribution to their lives. The greatest gift I can offer them is
another reason to smile–another charming story to tell–one more memory to help
ease any troubles they may face. Reminders of how I wasted my time would be nothing
more than another burden heaped onto their shoulders, so I will live like
there’s no tomorrow for me and try my best to avoid selfish acts that tarnish
my daughter’s next sunrise. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I learned that strength of character from shining
examples of the West Point Class of 1993, Defenders of the Free.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyYR0p4Al0cTCZ7XP3LR2sWEIsh9UW9aywzIGprBDuKDgT0YcyU5TnY_iTrtv80x94qGcgKhBCj8DYACWnAmxRbZF-f9XpH14KXU2OU0AAHUUoTnhZKrj8zwcQgRCSfKDZibX2wbyXe0npa3JZjAqTDTRXmlkIIhj5dO5AFOQhG4a-_lgqoj5imjYMmQP/s2418/1993.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="2418" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyYR0p4Al0cTCZ7XP3LR2sWEIsh9UW9aywzIGprBDuKDgT0YcyU5TnY_iTrtv80x94qGcgKhBCj8DYACWnAmxRbZF-f9XpH14KXU2OU0AAHUUoTnhZKrj8zwcQgRCSfKDZibX2wbyXe0npa3JZjAqTDTRXmlkIIhj5dO5AFOQhG4a-_lgqoj5imjYMmQP/s320/1993.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Please consider a donation in support of our fight against the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis.</strong>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-18602245336156972412023-10-03T00:28:00.004-07:002023-11-04T22:06:55.604-07:00Thumbs Up<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXom5nZ-HnBe81HMunZc_fefKAecEsd3PBokvC2ua6oMrTcajc9FpwvBPUuG37O8AjyW35uQVB-WA7PSh45ZRhpFSeeOlz7-qNlQVfOFdTzY3kkQYdmeq8I87s3Z64O5FRNIZc-ouv8PLnP96bU-ncWKP7qANlgTkQ1a5S9VNuweIzoI-I9wxiLqW39bej/s746/KB%20Brain%202.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="746" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXom5nZ-HnBe81HMunZc_fefKAecEsd3PBokvC2ua6oMrTcajc9FpwvBPUuG37O8AjyW35uQVB-WA7PSh45ZRhpFSeeOlz7-qNlQVfOFdTzY3kkQYdmeq8I87s3Z64O5FRNIZc-ouv8PLnP96bU-ncWKP7qANlgTkQ1a5S9VNuweIzoI-I9wxiLqW39bej/w400-h236/KB%20Brain%202.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is a constant expectation of peril hanging over my head. The first draft of this story put everyone with multiple sclerosis into the category of “impending danger.” I don’t know if that’s true for all of us, so I chose to talk about myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Did periods exist when I was not waiting for the next inevitable round of suffering? I know that because I remember the moments when I was caught off guard and surprised by bad news. That doesn’t happen anymore. While still disappointing, I feel like trauma has become a necessary evil, balancing my peaceful attempts at happiness. So, when I released my novel, <i>Sensations</i>, rolled out of a wildly successful bike MS weekend, and prepared to head back East and celebrate my 30th West Point reunion, the scales were tipped way too far in one direction.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">My last MRI was in early 2020. The Covid pandemic pushed my next test off the priority list. My progress was stable, with no new activity or lesions for at least ten years, so there was no urgent need. Everyone seemed comfortable with my slow slide of secondary progressive multiple sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s get a new MRI to confirm everything is stable,” my neurologist said. “Let’s do both the brain and spine,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember thinking, <i>what could possibly go wrong?</i> The corner of my mouth turned upward as I chuckled at the absurdity of my question.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Electronic Health Records are a fantastic advance in modern medicine. I have 1,299 images downloaded to my computer. I have two radiology reports filled with phrases like “prominent white matter lesions,” “cervical cord lesions,” “signal hyperintensity about the right anterior C6/7 cervical cord,” and “syringohydromyelia.” I have had a Google search engine pumping anxiety into my veins since September 29.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m trying not to freak while I sit in front of my computer with all this information that says, “Lit Up Like a Fucking Christmas Tree!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">What I do not have is a neurologist telling me how bad this is, how bad it’s going to get, what I can do to fight the progression, or <b><i>how we’re going to fix the problem</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome to the downside of the VA Healthcare System. I grit my teeth because I have received top-notch care for 23 years. It will not kill me tomorrow or the next day, so my long wait over the weekend was just poor timing. But as Monday turns into Tuesday, and my flight to New York leaves tomorrow, I wonder how long it will be before I get my thumbs up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, yes, this balance to my peaceful attempt at happiness is disappointing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">**<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">In ancient Rome, the fate of losers in gladiatorial combat was determined by the crowd’s will. Their thumbs made the vote of life or death. Thumbs up fulfilled the slave’s defeat with an immediate sentence of death.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">In 1917, Arthur Guy Empey wrote a quirky biography titled <i>Over The Top</i>, which talks about the World War I exploits of a Tommy Atkins (“The name England gives to an English soldier, even if his name is Willie Jones”). He used the expression “Thumbs up,” which means “everything is fine with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">On more than one occasion, I find it useful to favor the interpretation married with an author’s vivid imagination.</span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Because it is a fight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The fight is not over and it won’t be over until a cure is found.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It will never stop…nor will we<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It will never quit…nor will we<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is why we ride!<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Never Stop… Never Quit…®<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 19.5px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Please donate today: <a href="https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue" style="color: #3778cd; text-decoration-line: none;">https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></div>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-9228996559507054502023-09-25T15:26:00.000-07:002023-09-25T15:26:17.047-07:00Fighting For A World I Will Never See<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksI4ncpQOmfEOagjUKV34WJnmLUIcnr8DE4qyZvC7u0zkXE5fMLzzf5tXgyG8e0javu0q-7ktPu92EyRCfcEBeyFF2-w2i-C9BUVAciRjhtekFhdxFCDK8uwZZxn7gJKgwobTcwj4PNhL1GU2UO4Nhf-gFtaQOxzQKFMjti4INxF2crxTVcrvcLA5y_7f/s1230/20230925%20Bike%20MS%20Evening%20Program.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="1230" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksI4ncpQOmfEOagjUKV34WJnmLUIcnr8DE4qyZvC7u0zkXE5fMLzzf5tXgyG8e0javu0q-7ktPu92EyRCfcEBeyFF2-w2i-C9BUVAciRjhtekFhdxFCDK8uwZZxn7gJKgwobTcwj4PNhL1GU2UO4Nhf-gFtaQOxzQKFMjti4INxF2crxTVcrvcLA5y_7f/w640-h360/20230925%20Bike%20MS%20Evening%20Program.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; font-size: medium;">Anxiety is a powerful weapon. I use that feeling
of dread and uneasiness as a motivator to best express the chaos running
through my mind. My definition of success is writing a story that makes my
readers uncomfortable, filling their minds with visions they would rather
assume do not exist, yet they continue to read.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The tool is much more intense when I deliver
those words in person.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My friends, this past Saturday evening, my
daughter and I stood before an audience of the most prominent supporters in
Oregon’s fight against the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis. Day one
of <b>2023’s Bike MS</b> was in the books. We celebrated our success as a group,
having already raised over $475,000 to support fulfilling the National MS
Society’s theme of “A World Free of MS.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I stood before the crowd gathered for Saturday’s
evening program to share my story.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I will never see a world free of MS. I will
never see that. If MS is cured tomorrow, the damage that has been done to me is
unrecoverable. The memories it burned into my brain will never go away.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I looked at Rogue.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“She will never see a world free of MS because of
the memories of her dad laying on the floor because he can’t move, her dad
bawling because of the memories of things that happened in his past, because of
what’s happening at the time, the hospital visits….”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I investigated the crowd and saw more than one
face wearing that “What the fuck is he talking about?” expression. Four weeks
of anxiety, building since that day Emily asked me to speak, spilled out onto
the stage. Relief kicked in now that I had finally said my piece.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The goal we are all fighting for is something I
will never realize, nor will my daughter. I chose not to accuse everyone in the
audience of the same destiny. This was my interpretation, my belief.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nevertheless, I will continue to fight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As we realize breakthroughs in the
identification, treatment, and eventually a cure for MS, we will continue to
win — we will continue to inch closer to the ultimate win: A World Free of MS.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Rogue is going to look into the eyes of the
generation born that has no idea what MS is, that has never seen someone with
MS, that has never heard stories about it except in literature, that has no
idea of the pain it caused, and if they hear it, it’s just some folklore.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Every parent wants more for their children, for
them to live a life better than they did. I smile when I think of the day Rogue
will look into the eyes of a world free of MS. I fundraise because that’s the
opportunity I hope to give my daughter. Until we can identify, treat, and
eventually cure MS, I will not stop fighting to raise the money needed to turn
this dream into reality.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I cannot do this without your support. Please
consider a donation to Rogue’s 2023 Bike MS campaign: <a href="https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue">https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue</a>.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In exchange, I offer my undying gratitude. I will
continue to share my stories, feeding my anxiety so that I deliver the chaos of
my mind in a way you find entertaining. My words will continue to challenge,
engage, delight, and hopefully satisfy readers of my blogs, short stories, and
novels. Here’s a link I may have shared with you already, but I want to make
sure you have access to a free e-book version of my newest novel, the
psychological thriller <i>Sensations</i>: <a href="https://dl.bookfunnel.com/j0tql0zgn5">https://dl.bookfunnel.com/j0tql0zgn5</a>.
I hope my story entertains you as much as it delighted me! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eNijk9mrbS7esyd-_NKPMQEQW-N1JGIOUgtDAXoQsLeST2zIju9lU4__6JVje60aJeRInvCHqO50a7ZlcjJr5w6ZonT0SwYqljqLqZuQcvKT7UW1IY8txAaTSSJHI0FDCcrMqI6ZbqKzm-eOlQIKGCPHnKXspjyFb1_ylnnqHexYUTjtbBRhsoKnKMgG/s1231/IMG_7560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">1<img border="0" data-original-height="923" data-original-width="1231" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eNijk9mrbS7esyd-_NKPMQEQW-N1JGIOUgtDAXoQsLeST2zIju9lU4__6JVje60aJeRInvCHqO50a7ZlcjJr5w6ZonT0SwYqljqLqZuQcvKT7UW1IY8txAaTSSJHI0FDCcrMqI6ZbqKzm-eOlQIKGCPHnKXspjyFb1_ylnnqHexYUTjtbBRhsoKnKMgG/s320/IMG_7560.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Beyond all this excitement, Rogue rode in her
first Bike MS past weekend; It honored me to be by her side the entire way. Her
honesty during the Saturday evening program was refreshing!<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is a link to our full “A World Free of MS”
presentation – <a href="https://youtu.be/7vbrP9lSRm4">https://youtu.be/7vbrP9lSRm4</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is a shortened, two-minute version titled “A
World I Will Never See” – <a href="https://youtu.be/aZoHsIKFKWg">https://youtu.be/aZoHsIKFKWg</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thank you for your continued support.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Love,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Because it is a fight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The fight is not over and it won’t be over until a cure is found.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It will never stop…nor will we<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It will never quit…nor will we<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is why we ride!<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Never Stop… Never Quit…®<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Please
donate today: <a href="https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue">https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-8295051732178595982023-09-21T21:30:00.002-07:002023-09-21T21:50:27.833-07:00Emissivity Revisited<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><a name="_Hlk146220744" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Moving
into 2023’s bike MS weekend, I found it necessary to review and revise a blog
series from 2019. My words are stronger, my body is weaker, my message is more
relevant than ever before.</span></span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif;">Please consider donating to our fight against
the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis.</span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_Ad1weDeVW9VwbHpfn__tHgfNfnEhPB1botlQVvsZg3TQqnqtx9fWa6M5cER6RkevHIHy1BWImIwQGrvWowVdqr-y8mlw3K0dkKTZomJm-gv48tz8j-HBfmI_h_ox_IdBjbZs9GRfRZnij1imi1pch-HP57fA0EDEtAxq5mKY-PepnimYfq7lMHPDYFv/s1780/20130803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1780" data-original-width="1424" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_Ad1weDeVW9VwbHpfn__tHgfNfnEhPB1botlQVvsZg3TQqnqtx9fWa6M5cER6RkevHIHy1BWImIwQGrvWowVdqr-y8mlw3K0dkKTZomJm-gv48tz8j-HBfmI_h_ox_IdBjbZs9GRfRZnij1imi1pch-HP57fA0EDEtAxq5mKY-PepnimYfq7lMHPDYFv/s320/20130803.jpg" width="256" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; font-size: x-large;">Emissivity</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0in;">The emissivity of my MS — Chapter 01</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvHdSBKE55rwdupTJpP_f-R6XlzV9fFHV_-iU2SYrgrTz3-6xKlUcRBNp24DQ1lWkFkJiv2yojJCkhplP-oqIrz3yEqjFDY7-jlZJf8onKVLcv2NGHnNiPDEGC6zb0UVYUejDutzoAb-8XF0xacJvENJJbb2r-_oL0Hi2qJDMPb99f8v1zhGCFac3W4MTU/s480/20190604%20Emissivity%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvHdSBKE55rwdupTJpP_f-R6XlzV9fFHV_-iU2SYrgrTz3-6xKlUcRBNp24DQ1lWkFkJiv2yojJCkhplP-oqIrz3yEqjFDY7-jlZJf8onKVLcv2NGHnNiPDEGC6zb0UVYUejDutzoAb-8XF0xacJvENJJbb2r-_oL0Hi2qJDMPb99f8v1zhGCFac3W4MTU/s320/20190604%20Emissivity%203.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">R—A—T—E<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>REFLECTANCE—ABSORBANCE—TRANSMITTANCE—EMISSIVITY<br /></b></span></span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Emissivity is the measurable release of energy (thermal
radiation) from a body. In my Army Aviation days, I learned this as the fourth
factor of thermal imaging in the Pilot Night Vision System. The thermal imaging
system of the Apache passively translates heat—either reflected off,
transmitted through, or emitted by a target. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbHk3rcwNcLtgZgL4uf04XFO1sK_JuuwqbbjGPfB5Yoahp8RpyWLxz44kL4r2mDCn5CiogMGpaUWE4G48sPsbfJzOV-RkEq-dt3a90QdQwXjCcqzl_l_XBceg8Jiim_6KzbTTKNWZs6ei4c0CG6CRsU2eE72ZH2oBs-yaHN1HHb-ruZomx1go7gCMx2Dq-/s2880/20190604%20Emissivity%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1386" data-original-width="2880" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbHk3rcwNcLtgZgL4uf04XFO1sK_JuuwqbbjGPfB5Yoahp8RpyWLxz44kL4r2mDCn5CiogMGpaUWE4G48sPsbfJzOV-RkEq-dt3a90QdQwXjCcqzl_l_XBceg8Jiim_6KzbTTKNWZs6ei4c0CG6CRsU2eE72ZH2oBs-yaHN1HHb-ruZomx1go7gCMx2Dq-/s320/20190604%20Emissivity%202.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What does this have to do with me? I’m the
target, and multiple sclerosis is my heat source. What my friends and family
have seen for the last 24 years is comparable to the thermal imaging scenario I
described.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">Reflectance</span></b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">: the damage from my MS constantly reflects off
me—my physical impairment, the limitations placed on me, and the losses I have
experienced. The physical, professional, and emotional burden is sometimes onerous
for me to see beyond that reflection.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">Absorbance</span></b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">: the amount of shift I have had to absorb
because of my MS is unquantifiable. “Suck it up and drive on” is more than
dumbed-down Army logic. Even if I wanted to show the world everything my MS
does to me, I wouldn’t know how to start or if my reflection accurately
portrays my plight. <i>I hold back for lack of alternatives. </i>MS has taken much
from me. Still, I refuse to let it occupy more of my precious time than it
already controls. <i>I repress the suffering of my past in favor of promises my
future holds.</i> I don’t want the only image of me to be my battle with MS. <i>I
hide fear so I can show elation.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">Transmittance</span></b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">: my writings tell me I have become proficient in
this subset. Through personal examples, I often try to show multiple sclerosis’s
devastating effects on our community of victims. I generalize their effects by
showing you my MS, but I am describing the standard/medical/textbook
definitions of MS offered through the backdrop of a target (me).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 225pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 468pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
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</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If thermal imaging ended there, with just those
three factors, I might be OK. Heck, it got me this far! There are so many flaws
and holes that when I read the beginning of this story, the questions outweigh
any other thoughts I may have.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Where does the energy come from? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What decides the impact energy has on a target
and how that target will respond?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What happens to absorb energy? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When does energy turn from absorption/generation
into emission?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A combination of scientists, neurologists, and
therapists spend an awful lot of time trying to understand these questions and
how they relate to me, the target. My ongoing healthcare appointments often
focus on where my MS issues come from. Time determines if an impact is reflected
or absorbed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I reflect. I transmit. I absorb.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But for how long?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For 24 years, I have absorbed much of the pain,
loss, debilitation, and damage exacted by my MS. Time has not softened its
efficacy; repression has not dulled their energy. Nor have my dirty little friends
been idle, instead raging and burning with intensity. How long can this last? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">Emissivity</span></b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"> is my theme as I roll into 2023’s Bike MS we can.
Good or bad…Lighthearted or somber…Positive or filled with rage, my stories
this season will highlight my MS’s burden on me. I will make this personal. I
will show you what MS does to one individual–me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I will apologize one time, right now, for the
topics included in my detonation of energy that has been absorbed and generated
within me. I will share openly and honestly the translation of my MS through
rage, fear, passion, humility, delight, horror, indifference, sarcasm, and so
much more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My non sequitur approach won’t hide behind the
cover of protection provided by my family in the MS community fighting
alongside me. I won’t focus on the statistics and percentages we face as a
group. I need to tell you the story of what my MS has done to me and why I will
ask for your help finding a cure because nobody else should live like I have
for 24 years.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%;">The Emissivity of Pain</span></b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The emissivity of my MS —
Chapter 02</span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f">
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</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcw28Z___XazHLaQEBZSFXuO6htMAX9btH_lV_FCyl6XkiSt1ftidy2ftoYxxIaBg2g4_gQUSiFnvm4atMtygAjWnwksAM9XHYvcc7SPh68YgozIBpxXHfN18CzOInXT14XaHhjYdHwUe6GDQ0U2F5DwRWZ9aB4EAal_ilAMzFVvM3cuwi7BclAAMotUP/s2028/20190610%20Pain%203.JPEG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2028" data-original-width="1521" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcw28Z___XazHLaQEBZSFXuO6htMAX9btH_lV_FCyl6XkiSt1ftidy2ftoYxxIaBg2g4_gQUSiFnvm4atMtygAjWnwksAM9XHYvcc7SPh68YgozIBpxXHfN18CzOInXT14XaHhjYdHwUe6GDQ0U2F5DwRWZ9aB4EAal_ilAMzFVvM3cuwi7BclAAMotUP/s320/20190610%20Pain%203.JPEG" width="240" /></span></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>R—A—T—E<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>REFLECTANCE—ABSORBANCE—TRANSMITTANCE—EMISSIVITY</b><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What are the expectations for someone who endures
24 years of pain? It’s a slippery slope for a variety of reasons. Showing pain
elicits sympathy. Aring too much pain too often shifts feelings of martyrdom towards
overreaction, hypochondria, and narcissism. Masking will draw connotations of
bravery, getting better, or “It’s not that bad for him.” I always thought it
was best to show a little bit of one, a pinch of the other, and absorb the
rest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I <b>REFLECT</b> the pain I struggle with in
not-so-subtle, direct ways. I try to tell the world, “Because of my MS, I am in
constant pain.” I usually do this in my blogs when searching for sympathy and
support during fundraising season. In the same way, other MS patients’ pains <b>TRANSMIT
</b>through me when I share examples of the common burdens we experience. My
revelation hopefully draws sympathy while my smile highlights bravery as I mock
the pain with a hearty smile and casual pose.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTzW0DmduVYQ7009tZ6yh0I1HIzNRrHV2bblKhHsF0LwjI90NBUEyrelmfimhwj0cu6BCVnksiXjaiKerub-TYHSZ7pxWSL9kCppndy2HRDADnyxQgTfR7D-04HRkWED58HR8phJpn6LJ9WZujlHZQPONeuavBuqGTtDoD3_HGo-JCCNKbC_fYpwB5xQq8/s1098/20190610%20Pain%202.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="914" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTzW0DmduVYQ7009tZ6yh0I1HIzNRrHV2bblKhHsF0LwjI90NBUEyrelmfimhwj0cu6BCVnksiXjaiKerub-TYHSZ7pxWSL9kCppndy2HRDADnyxQgTfR7D-04HRkWED58HR8phJpn6LJ9WZujlHZQPONeuavBuqGTtDoD3_HGo-JCCNKbC_fYpwB5xQq8/s320/20190610%20Pain%202.JPG" width="266" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Even in those extremes, much is <b>ABSORBED</b>.
Often forgotten are the trials of my “normal” days. Getting out of bed in the
morning… Going to bed at night… Standing too long… Sitting too long… Trying to
cook… Trying to eat… Dishes… Laundry… Heat/cold, reading/writing, doing too
much/too little/anything at all…</span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Every moment of my day draws pain and discomfort.
How do I draw out all I have absorbed because of my MS? What is the emissivity
of my pain after 24 years?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I can’t scream. A set of muscles in your neck are
responsible for producing sound and speech. These laryngeal muscles are part of
the long list of damage from my MS. A while back, I was dining with a group of
friends when one of them popped their chair up to scoot it closer to the table—
and right onto my shoeless toes. That hurt, and my first reaction was to
scream. What came out was a screeching sound akin to a bathtub full of
screaming baby piglets. It did not have its intended effect.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I can’t cry but am momentarily sensitive to the
slightest tug at my heartstrings. On no less than seven separate occasions,
Eleanor had to ask me if I was OK yesterday. We were watching an old sitcom
rerun, one of those sappy episodes. In every emotional scene, muscles
constricted in my neck and chest. I don’t know why I could not contain myself;
I’ve seen the original dozens of times. Although emotions are a common symptom
of MS patients, my expressions are uncomfortable “choked up” feelings at
insignificant times. Beyond that–I turn cold and indifferent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I limit the emissivity of my pain to words for
now. Maybe writing is my first step. In the long run, I don’t want to limit my reactions
to random spurts of “Fuck,” “Ouch,” and “Help.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t want to absorb any more pain.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%;">The Emissivity of Loss:
Rejection<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The emissivity of my MS —
Chapter 03 of the 04<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A reflection on shades of my
former self…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguR3RTiGg0B9qwIeQGFwnSxEgg9fZdCSZ7WCZvMepzlO9NUTkFPFfwYvQbBjItwOYorlEftsf3O0UoHOq48WXvEZSlN0zy6L6d_zGmgwkZayl6N5-okYNlC6cJLurIza45AixoBtXausI_ZUneDi6IWY2p7SqBvWQsQDdatn6Pnm2hIeNYQLild_whPEAm/s732/20160613%20Rejection%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguR3RTiGg0B9qwIeQGFwnSxEgg9fZdCSZ7WCZvMepzlO9NUTkFPFfwYvQbBjItwOYorlEftsf3O0UoHOq48WXvEZSlN0zy6L6d_zGmgwkZayl6N5-okYNlC6cJLurIza45AixoBtXausI_ZUneDi6IWY2p7SqBvWQsQDdatn6Pnm2hIeNYQLild_whPEAm/s320/20160613%20Rejection%202.JPG" width="234" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>R-A-T-E</b></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>REFLECTANCE—ABSORBANCE—TRANSMITTANCE—EMISSIVITY</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Call it what you want. Moving on, Pushing Aside, Retiring,
Replacing, Unwilling, Unable, Unsafe. Any way you slice it, my MS has led to
much more loss than the sensation of my nerves and atrophy of my muscles. It
swept aside promising careers as a leader in both the US Army and corporate
America when I could no longer do the job for which I was once desired. Past adventures
have been relegated to “back in the day” stories. I dismissed relationships and
connections because of my MS—the fear of the unknown, the resentment over what
I no longer offered, and attempts to reject my personal struggles. What I once
loved, stood for, desired to be, or hoped to learn are now all indices in my
accumulation of losses.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVO-VB8IySIVU3wv4Fxy_Vm7CGFVPGw9yq56-91VnflMvlWCqhjI9UfrlCXM5CV9r67q_iikVMpgG3xKrPEpPShpcoaC3nNW1UtNRFINXrHY1fV0j_j2-B80XT4SuWXFR_-KCcz3I7kfMyU4VGLmh4MzEV9sHEajqqtfCURyF8XWkIF_SfqOwqBTlMYBn/s2048/IMG_3900%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVO-VB8IySIVU3wv4Fxy_Vm7CGFVPGw9yq56-91VnflMvlWCqhjI9UfrlCXM5CV9r67q_iikVMpgG3xKrPEpPShpcoaC3nNW1UtNRFINXrHY1fV0j_j2-B80XT4SuWXFR_-KCcz3I7kfMyU4VGLmh4MzEV9sHEajqqtfCURyF8XWkIF_SfqOwqBTlMYBn/s320/IMG_3900%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I write about my losses as a <b>REFLECTION </b>of
the man I was before MS came into my life. All too often, those images are the
first things many people see. Loss and rejection are often the connections I
try to make between myself and the rest of my MS community, <b>TRANSMITTING </b>the
primary, secondary, and unseen effects of sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I <b>ABSORB </b>the sensation
of rejection. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">“Don’t
cry over spilled milk.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">“You
cannot change the past.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">“God,
grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change
the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” ~by the way, Reinhold Niebuhr,
thanks for your nebulous cliché.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The burning difficulty has always been my refusal
to accept that which I have “been told” I cannot change. Anguish and anxiety
flourish when the person I was along my journey and trials, or the person I
have become, offends someone because I am not the person they feel I ought to
become/remain. Anger, resentment, and anxiety remained buried for too long,
scabbing my heart until almost nothing could penetrate; if nothing could reach
my heart, nothing would hurt. Or so I thought…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some connections still reached my inner core for
more reasons than I’m sure you care to explore. Loving family. Caring friends.
My vision of possibilities. Love. Eleanor. For my <i>Emissivity Project,</i> I
decided to expose the hurt of loss and rejection I have absorbed. I found there
was no more hurt underneath the scab I ripped away. The only reminders I had were
the scars I carried.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The emissivity of my loss and rejection has only seemed
to expose a heart buried under almost 24 years of scars. I think I will work to
keep it that way. As I experience further loss because of the effects of my MS,
which I’m sure I will, I’ll reflect on it in my blogs and conversations (my
therapist will have some busy moments). For any personal rejection, I’ll
address and move on; I harbor no resentment for past grievances, nor can I
apologize for what I went through. I’ll transmit the pain my entire community
experiences as a reminder of why we must continue to fight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I guess Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer is not as
cliché as I once thought.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%;">The Emissivity of Fear</span></b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The emissivity of my MS —
Chapter 04</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSR7iItuaf45trBWOwtoSzrXCVQ7XGMONVRJy-Jd9qRmfs-9193XyJeQUEhm0TyU3du0p96PXJ1kfs15S_3tbo9WLGTfDyerfuSef0cbW1a0fIcMjUA_VF17ZhorbcIDaljW-aTTmXph-mcfwLZKV76VHtbn6vaDP6JLTf6VlwfhaDz646UJvTiKFlCGk/s180/20190629%20Fear.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="73" data-original-width="180" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSR7iItuaf45trBWOwtoSzrXCVQ7XGMONVRJy-Jd9qRmfs-9193XyJeQUEhm0TyU3du0p96PXJ1kfs15S_3tbo9WLGTfDyerfuSef0cbW1a0fIcMjUA_VF17ZhorbcIDaljW-aTTmXph-mcfwLZKV76VHtbn6vaDP6JLTf6VlwfhaDz646UJvTiKFlCGk/w400-h162/20190629%20Fear.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">R-A-T-E</span></b></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>REFLECTANCE—ABSORBANCE—TRANSMITTANCE—EMISSIVITY</b><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fear is the worst of all the projections my MS
effectively focuses on me. Any pain I experience pales compared to the fear of
what I will feel tomorrow or the constant worry that my current levels will
never recede. Not-yet-experienced losses always seem to exceed today’s sadness.
Absolutely every physical, mental, and emotional effect of my MS clouds me in
fear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I <b>REFLECT</b> the fear my MS emits through a
thin mask of sarcasm and bravery (stubbornness, ignorance, foolishness...).
I’ll share posts of my hospital visits in hopes of eliciting sympathy or
reassurance that it’ll get better. Don’t tell anyone. I will never admit this!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Through my stories, I’ll <b>TRANSMIT</b> the fear
MS creates on “others” (translation: me) by using examples of how they could
overwhelm me if I were a weaker man (they do/I am).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Most of my fear has been unsuccessfully <b>ABSORBED</b>
for almost 24 years. Unsuccessfully, I say, because I recognize there is a
trickling emissivity of fear that will kill me if I don’t get a hold of it.
Isolation. Self-destructive behavior. Extremes of health, fitness, diet,
alcohol. The slow leak of pent-up fear does nothing to lessen the nightmares
churning within.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Writing helps, although I think it sends the
wrong message when I project my fear through the characters I’ve created. I
chose this blog to focus on myself and the fear that grips every moment, the fear
created by my MS. My fear has held me back and redirected my energy for too
long. No longer embracing disenchantment because of my MS, I will focus on
strength, growth, power, and health (all mentally and physically) undeterred by
my MS. In my words, I will focus on reflecting my current fears and
transmitting the fears of my community. I don’t want to absorb any more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I recognize that it exists — I know what causes
it — I know the detrimental effect it has on me — I know what I’m missing out
on — I want to break my cycle — I want to fight — I want to win — I will never
stop — I will never quit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLE-tFdf-TkkdVGiKknVub5SMgsqECp6Lsh9hq6caVa7ZMAdTrbmR1WN5lQq_coMieGcK8edmBk4SHYOog6ejhrO6jmY4j4E1yCN9th8PweqDJZ2J0qPe9Fu6t2PFlMyZwRcChijILF67cJ9q6NDKy5vYaDVE_Di6TPxa3hi7YmJVpyrIN3r7Mwfyx5vP/s180/20190629%20Fear%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="73" data-original-width="180" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLE-tFdf-TkkdVGiKknVub5SMgsqECp6Lsh9hq6caVa7ZMAdTrbmR1WN5lQq_coMieGcK8edmBk4SHYOog6ejhrO6jmY4j4E1yCN9th8PweqDJZ2J0qPe9Fu6t2PFlMyZwRcChijILF67cJ9q6NDKy5vYaDVE_Di6TPxa3hi7YmJVpyrIN3r7Mwfyx5vP/w400-h162/20190629%20Fear%202.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><br /></span></span></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Disclaimer: multiple sclerosis differs vastly
from patient to patient. No two instances are the same. Symptoms, diagnosis,
and treatment are just some factors that lead credence to the saying, “Once you’ve
met one MS patient, you’ve met one MS patient.” My experiences described are
unique to me, but there is an underlying pattern in the fight each of us faces.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Because it is a fight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The fight is not over and it won’t be over until a cure is found.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It will never stop…nor will we<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It will never quit…nor will we<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is why we ride!<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Never Stop… Never Quit…®<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"> </span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">Please
donate today: </span><a href="https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue">https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">100%
of the royalties from my books support our fight: </span><a href="http://neverstopneverquit.com/books"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">http://neverstopneverquit.com/books</span></a><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Never Stop… Never Quit…
Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off.</span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-19157658896631643412023-09-17T19:11:00.001-07:002023-09-18T06:57:04.380-07:00683 Shades of Red<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPrTw9ydPpPpOTDv5dlK5DwbIvn0jnbekGkyv-1hog1jaavqFvTVqWjukC7diprqd89uoTOdKr0Mx4kuWYvp22iYRIqtazyqz1yI_sI2OrMWojChyYqrMQAd90EA1rGcbxPF2u-xVc_PXcykAux5qYky0o31tIBY6_oqYEtEhSwXRPpGvwDDEr535rNrc/s3201/cassi-josh-lhnOvu72BM8-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1799" data-original-width="3201" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPrTw9ydPpPpOTDv5dlK5DwbIvn0jnbekGkyv-1hog1jaavqFvTVqWjukC7diprqd89uoTOdKr0Mx4kuWYvp22iYRIqtazyqz1yI_sI2OrMWojChyYqrMQAd90EA1rGcbxPF2u-xVc_PXcykAux5qYky0o31tIBY6_oqYEtEhSwXRPpGvwDDEr535rNrc/w640-h360/cassi-josh-lhnOvu72BM8-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@cassi_josh?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Cassi Josh</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/lhnOvu72BM8?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><div><b style="font-size: x-large; text-align: center;">683 Shades of Red</b><br /><p></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I saw another one yesterday.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick started the conversation in a bored, almost
indifferent tone. But before he spoke, the session began with his usual routine.
Rick stared at the floor for precisely 60 seconds after his therapist opened
the door and formally invited him into her office. He then darted across the
room to a leather couch, sliding across its length. In time, Rick came to rest
with his legs crossed at the ankles and both hands palm-down across his chest.
After Dr. Gillian Polk seated herself and opened her portfolio to a clean sheet
of white legal paper, he began with those words.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I saw another one yesterday.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Polk did not need an explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Where?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“On the highway,” he said, “headed downtown. We were
driving to the museum, Cindy and me. I never saw one with my daughter around.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Polk wrote on her pad as they chatted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What did you do?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick twisted at the accusation, eager to defend his
response. “Nothing. I’m not going to kill anyone with Cindy nearby. Besides,
the glow was more of a mahogany, not the bright hue that tells me they’re
ready. Perhaps it was darker…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No,” he confirmed, “it was mahogany. RGB 66, 13, 9.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Polk wrote a note on his choice.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">#83–MAHOGANY<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Mahogany, huh? I never heard you use that shade before.”
In over three years, her patient never described mahogany in his visions. Rick drew
in his chin while furling his brows as if the answer lay buried beneath the folds
and wrinkles of his face. Then, suddenly, he pulled upright and sat on the couch’s
edge with renewed energy sparked by his discovery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s right, doc! I had never seen that shade. What do
you think it means? Am I getting better?” Gazing around the room, Rick Metter
looked for a place to focus and regain his composure. He showed appreciation
for his doctor’s modest decor. “I like your office, doc. No red.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Vibrant walls contrasted with the jet-black leather
furniture. Pastel paint blended into countless shades of banana, bamboo, and
early spring leaves in a festive display of bold colors. Dr. Polk’s library
volumes were bound in almost as many shades of blue—periwinkle and powder,
royal blue, even hues of ultramarine. The greens and violets countered dusty
earl gray in that kaleidoscopic paradise–every color imaginable. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Except for red. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Polk avoids red. Her clients hate it—they fear it—even
though they usually cannot see the color. If they might, red was best not
displayed. Rick reclined back and accepted the truth. “Mahogany is still a long
way off. No, it doesn’t mean I’m getting better. It just means my color wheel
is more refined.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Before continuing, Doctor Polk noted, REFINED COLOR
WHEEL. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“More refined, Rick? How so?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I had to go online and find a new one that included that
shade. It took a while. They have to be RGB. I can’t stand HEX.” Rick squirmed on
the couch. Polk knows he despises talking about shades of red. But it was the
reason Rick came, so the conversation continued. The goal was to talk through
these issues before someone else had to die. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Either they didn’t have that exact shade, like mahogany,
or they didn’t have one other. Burgundy is so hard to find, but I finally
located one with all my shades together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I needed to see how close it is to Pure Red. Nothing
happens until they get close to Pure Red.” Rick thought he was pretty clever,
tapping his index finger against his right temple to reinforce the point in
case his doctor didn’t pick it up. The word VALIDATION etched into her pad
indicated she did. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Once I match my new shade, I can add it to my palette.
Do you have any idea how many shades of red there are, doc?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No, Rick, I do not,” she responded. Her manner seemed to
confirm his suspicion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">But that answer was not true.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick Metter was not Doctor Polk’s first patient with this
unique affliction. He was, however, the only one currently under her care. She
released all the others when they completed their treatment program. After 17
years, Doctor Polk was proud of her 100% success rate. Rick hoped she could keep
that streak alive. The 15 months it took to find her were the scariest in his
life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Doctors diagnosed Rick as colorblind. Their assessment was
clinical, but not entirely accurate. With true colorblindness, a person will only
recognize shades of black and white. They suffer from a condition called <i>complete achromatopsia</i>. Rick was <i>color vision deficient</i>. He cannot see
shades of one color, red. Rick was blind to anything within that visible
spectrum of light. Like most with his condition, doctors diagnosed it when Rick
was a toddler. Unable to find the correct crayon; losing toys or articles of
clothing when they faded into pigmented background. In his case, the problem
went beyond an inability to pick up different shades. His mind ignored the
color as if nothing existed in its place. There wasn’t even a hazy image when
the child stared in the direction of his brother’s red baseball glove. Rick’s
mind did not acknowledge the empty void his eyes refused to penetrate. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Child psychologists thought it was an emotional response
to his difficulty interpreting the color. “Give him time,” they said. “There’s
no need to force the issue. He will grow out of it someday.” So, the Metter
family learned to live without red. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Shortly after Rick’s ninth
birthday, the worst snowstorm in a hundred years hit Castle Falls—a late-winter
surprise for the tiny town. While the city struggled to dig itself out, its children
played for days, deep within their juvenile metropolis. With drifts as high as eight
feet, they built elaborate networks of connecting tunnels, some running 90 or
100 feet before a hole burrowed to the top, offering the little adventurers a
much-needed air supply. Children remained buried in the intersecting web of
caverns for hours. Little Ricky had been in the tunnels for over 45 minutes
when he began to get nervous—quite a while had passed since he had seen or heard
anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s got to be getting dark by now,” he whimpered, but
there was no way to know. The overhead snowpack was thick. Three attempts to
dig through caused mini collapses, turning his panic into a frenzy. When his flashlight
dimmed, Ricky knew the battery did not have long. He picked up his pace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pulling a tight turn into a new route, the freighted boy
stopped and froze. In front of him, Annapaola Manetti peered into his eyes.
Just as scared and twice as cold, she smiled ear to ear at the sight of her
quirky classmate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Ricky,” she sighed, “thank God. My flashlight went dead,
and I can’t get out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Woah!” was the only sound to escape his lips, his wide
eyes scanning Annapaola’s petite frame.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Ricky! Ricky, come on! Ricky!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Anna. Sorry,” Ricky said. He was alert, but not entirely
out of his trance. “What are you wearing?” He was sure it was before winter
recess when they were last together outside the classroom.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The same thing I always wear, silly.” Indeed, Anna wore the
same winter gear as always. At least since Christmas: her new coat, hat, scarf,
gloves, and boots.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">He asked Anna about their color. She shrugged her
shivering shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know. Some sort of red.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ricky had not noticed her for the last two months because
the clothing draped her in red. In that snow tunnel, in the fading glimmer of
their light, he bore witness to the most beautiful array of vibrant paints. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Red...” Ricky’s voice trailed off again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m cold! Which way do we go, Ricky?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Losing inhibitions, he picked a tunnel—one of three at
the intersection. Flashing his light in the intended direction, he grabbed her
gloved hand. “I think this is the way back,” he said, but Ricky still could not
take his eyes off Anna.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s a beautiful color.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Little Ricky woke up the following day, refreshed and
ready for more. With one utter, “Anna,” he bolted downstairs, eager to tell his
mother he saw red.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sitting on their battleship gray couch, John consoled
Betty as she sobbed and beat her hands into his leg. Ricky stopped halfway down
the steps. “Mom?” His concern was genuine–his innocence sincere.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">John popped up at the sound of his son’s voice. “Rick,”
he ordered, “take care of your mother.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Where are you going?” was an unnecessary question as his
father pulled on a dusty brown parka with a silver lining. “I’m joining the
others, and we’re gonna get rid of those goddamn tunnels.” Ricky wanted to ask
why. He wanted to beg his father to stop, but words failed the boy. Trailing
his fingers down the moss-green wall, he did what he was told. A frightened son
cared for his grieving mother in silence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">They found Anna buried beneath eight feet of snow. The
weight of the drift collapsed a tube she was inside. Fortunately, no other
tunnels gave way–only the one. Anna died alone, cold, and frightened in the icy
tomb. Somewhere, she lost one of her fiery gloves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I remember that outfit,” Rick
continued his conversation with Dr. Polk. “It was red. Bright blood red; not a dark
tone like I’m told they use in movies, but the sharp color blood boasts when
it’s saturated with oxygen–full of life. I needed to see more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“But you never saw oxygen-saturated blood?” Dr. Polk
challenged his clinical description. As if time stood still, nothing moved
while the two played out the chain of events once again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No. When I grabbed her throat, she jumped back against
the walls. I guess the tunnel was a hair away from caving in. Anna pushed it
over the edge.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“But you made it out?” Polk prodded Rick’s story forward.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The collapse only covered my legs. I shook them free and
continued down the tunnel.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And you never want back to check on your friend?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Why not?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That is not true, Rick. We’ve reviewed this before. Confront
the story.” Polk knew the answer, but it was her patient’s story to tell.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I was afraid I would see her. I would see her red.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And if you did?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I would need more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">The conversation was no longer limited to questions and
answers. “You chose not to go back.” The doctor summarized the rest of Rick’s
story. “You did not go back. You didn’t find red. Instead, you made it out of
the tunnel and ran home. You told no one it buried Anna alive.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No, but the news the next morning did not surprise me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Nor did it frighten you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Then where does the description of oxygen-rich blood come
from?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Doctor…,” Rick pleaded.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The ‘mesmerizing sharp color blood boasts when it’s
saturated with oxygen’ was how you described it. Where does that knowledge come
from?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Why do I have to tell this story every single time?” The
anguish on his face was far from the apathy he carried into the appointment.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Cradle to grave, Rick. Cradle<span style="font-family: "MS Sans Serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "MS Sans Serif";">
</span>to<span style="font-family: "MS Sans Serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "MS Sans Serif";"> </span>grave.” The therapist’s tone
turned instructional. “We’ve talked about this. We will only get past your
mania if we visit the problem cradle to grave. There was no need for Rick to
reply. It was the same direction their sessions always took. To end the
nightmare, he needs to describe its lifecycle.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I understand.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Where did that knowledge come from?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Carmine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick was a 23-year-old graduate
student when he met Carmine. PMS 150, 0, 24.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">The only sound heard from the corner of their world was
Rick’s deep, forced exhale as he closed his textbook,<i> Variational Methods of
Applied Mathematics</i>, and slumped against the chair.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Dante!” Rick screamed with both eyes closed, extending
the last syllable of his cry while he stroked his temples.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">In an equally drawn-out wail, his roommate wasted no time
firing back. “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I fucking hate math.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No, Rick, you don’t,” Dante reminded him. “You love it.
Besides, it’s the only thing you’re good at, dumb ass.” Dante was right on both
accounts. Rick loved math. It was the only subject where colors did not cloud
his mind. The answers were right/wrong, one/zero; you could even say black/white.
Even when forced outside of a purely numerical existence, he could still
consider the statistical and mathematical modeling of real-world scenarios.
Everything translates numerically–even blood. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick knew he was right, but wasn’t ready to give in to Dante’s
argument.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I need a break. We need a break. Beer!” It was the only solution.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You buying?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“As usual, you cheap bastard.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dante was already double-knotting his second shoe when he
heard those magic words. He grabbed his jacket off the hook and bolted out of
his room towards the front door. “Let’s go, geek,” he said, flicking Rick in
the ear on his way past. “This nerd needs a beer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Grimes Pub was less than a quarter-mile
walk from the apartment Rick and Dante rented—a typical college town: cheap
housing and plenty of bars. Grimes was the perfect break after a long week of
finals. The two boys needed a jumpstart before the last exam.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m telling you, Dante,” their conversation continued, “it’s
the same. You can apply the Perturbation Theory equally to both the Asymptotic
Methods of Non-Linear Dynamics and Linearized Quantum Mechanics.” Rick bounced
along, crafting his explanation as his fingers drew and stacked invisible boxes
in front of his friend’s field of view. “All you have to do is break the
problem down into smaller, solvable parts.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dante remained unconvinced. His “All you have to do...”
response was more mocking than validating the summary. Not lost in translation,
his sarcasm only egged Rick on more.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“…then, my friend, you stack the answers together.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t even know what the problem is.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s just math, Dante.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Both stopped when they reached the pub’s front door. With
one hand on Rick’s shoulder, Dante took a deep breath and pleaded, “Stop, man.
Please stop talking about math for a couple of hours, okay? I’m never going to
grasp these theoretical models, not like you. I’ve never even seen you get a
question wrong. That’s your world.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dante’s tone sharpened, “Me? I don’t give a fuck. I want
to pass this class so I can crawl back into my world of AI modeling. You can
stay buried in numbers and wherever they’re taking you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick nodded. It was the slightest sign he understood
Dante’s words, but it was clear his mind was still deconstructing and
conditioning algorithms. However, his attention snapped to Dante’s face when he
felt the pressure of his friend’s hand soften and slide down his arm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Let’s not talk math right now. Okay?” Rick’s affirmation
was more deliberate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“There are a lot of people inside. Stick close to me.
There is one step to the door. Slide your foot along until you feel it, then
step up. Okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“We’ve done this a thousand times before. Let’s get our
drink on.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Without saying a word, Rick nodded and lifted a nervous
smile. Dante turned towards the door, with his friend close behind. When Dante uttered,
“Step,” Rick watched his friend’s foot rise three inches above absolutely
nothing and slowly walk across an empty void. He had indeed climbed that void a
thousand times before, yet fear gripped Rick as his feet slid forward until
they bumped into, then stepped up onto, the bright red entranceway. He refused
to look down as he walked along, only relaxing when they entered Grimes Pub.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Based on everything Rick told him about his condition,
Dante often gauged how difficult a crowded place would be. He thought that day
was going to be easy. Grimes Pub was a dingy spot. Dark wood bar, shiny brass
rail, peppered by a few loose chairs. Black and brown. He could tell summer was
right around the corner when he stepped through the front door. College kids packed
the room wearing their brightest bounty of clothing–lots of whites, blues, and
pastels. Dante never worried when he noticed clothes with red letters or
designs. They came across as speckled images in an otherwise recognizable form—like
an old-school television with poor reception. There was one exception.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Rick,” he said while pointing. “See that big, floating
bald head over there?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick had to chuckle at the description. “Fat man with a red
shirt?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Yeah. Fat man with a red shirt.” Deadpan humor worked
best in some situations.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Broken images bullied Rick as a child, but they were
commonplace by then. As long as his brain could recognize the larger image and
understand what probably was, or should be, in the void, there was no problem. He
figured that afternoon would be good with only one danger in the bar. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">As he enjoyed his first sip of beer, Rick focused on
movement far back in the bar. He nudged Dante with an elbow to his rib cage.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Look at that,” he demanded, pointing at the commotion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Look at what?” There was nothing of the ordinary.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Fireflies. It’s a bunch of fireflies dancing around that
girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Dude, I don’t see any fireflies. Do I have to cut you
off already?” Dante played along. “Which girl?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">With an agitated thrust of his finger, he poked the air
in her direction again. “Her,” Rick said. “The brunette, the long
straight-haired brunette. The one who hasn’t stopped talking since we walked
in.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">With an approving tone, Dante commented, “Ooh, she looks
like a feisty one.” Dante’s description of his next moves if she took him home
made Rick chuckle. He knew his friend had never picked up a woman in a bar. He
probably never picked up a woman anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“But she’s definitely out of your league, Rick. Besides, those
aren’t fireflies, doorknob. She’s a ‘hand talker’ going on a mile a minute. You
just can’t see anything because of her nail polish.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">But he could. Rick didn’t need a moment to muster enough courage
to introduce himself. Leaving his beer on the bar, he bolted towards the back.
Rick never considered waiting for a pause in her conversation. Instead, he stretched
his hand before closing the distance between them, softly cupping her petite
palm with his.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What color is this?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">The woman was thrown by the confrontation, unable to move
and only willing to say, “Huh?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick’s awareness caught up with him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sorry. Hi, I’m Rick. What color is this?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hi, Rick. I’m Tracy.” Tracy’s reaction was positive, but
neither her friend nor Dante, who finally caught up, could understand the
reason. Fear? Attraction? Curiosity? They were all reasonable possibilities.
“Do you like ’em? I had my nails done this afternoon. They’re a gift to myself
because,” her volume pitched to a scream, “Finals Are Over!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">The proclamation drew a resounding “Wooooooo” from three-quarters
of the pub. Dante did not celebrate; he had his Applied Mathematics final in
the morning. Rick remained calm as well; his fascination with Tracy’s fingers
was the reason.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“But what color are they?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Uhm, red,” she giggled.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s not any shade I’ve seen before.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“How many shades of red have you seen?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“One.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tracy looked confused by the answer but never gave it a
second thought. There was too much fun in store for that night—too much steam
to let off after a long, grueling term. She grabbed Rick’s shirt by the
midsection and pulled his body close. Only after a prolonged kiss, once her
tongue savored every morsel of Rick’s mouth and lips, did Tracy pull her head
back and answer the question.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The salon lady called it Carmine. I got my toes done,
too. Look!” She fell into his arms and lifted her sandaled foot to eye level.
Blame it on the alcohol, the celebration, or the skinny geek with such an odd pickup
line, Tracy pushed on with a wink. “I got the full salon treatment today. Want
to see?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dante’s jaw dropped when he watched his friend scamper
behind the buxom brunette with fresh Carmine–painted nails. She gulped her
drink before leading Rick out of Grimes' Pub through the unpainted side door.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dante’s friend reappeared two minutes before their exam
began. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick aced it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tracy became a permanent fixture in their apartment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">She was never without Carmine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And do you remember how that
made you feel?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Polk knew how he felt when Tracy stopped wearing her
Carmine nail polish. The story was Rick’s to detail, however. He needed to tell
the entire story if there was a chance for closure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fighting through his sobs, Rick hid both hands inside his
blazer and continued. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I didn’t know what to do. We had been dating for three
months; Tracy knew all about my issue. She couldn’t find that brand anywhere. I
honestly believed her, even though it broke my heart. I lost my fireflies.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">He continued to tell the story of how Tracy and Dante
hunted for a replacement for Carmine. The manufacturer had discontinued that polish
for “lack of demand.” Dante broke the code when he discovered the perfect color
palette online and shared it with his friend. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“He was a software engineering student, so his computer
setup was nice. He called it a ‘QHD’ monitor, I think. Ultrahigh resolution.
Anyway, he found a palette with Carmine on it. 150, 0, 24. I’ll never forget
the smile on his face as I gazed upon the nearly empty screen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“‘That’s it,’ I told him. ‘That’s my firefly!’ One
beautiful square appeared in the middle of nothing until my eye caught a second
image in the top right corner. ‘What’s that called?’ I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“‘That, my friend, is red. Pure Red. 255, 0, 0.’<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And there they were. Tracy and Anna, together. It turned
out to be the cruelest of scenarios.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Polk wrote as Rick continued to talk, capturing his conversation
with emotions. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">CRUELEST. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">TEASING. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">FLEETING. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">OUT OF REACH. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">ESCALATING. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick realized his condition was not physical. It was in
his mind, perhaps his heart. He never discovered Carmine again in the real
world. Carmine only reappeared as a two-dimensional image on a palette. Tracy
tried but could never reconnect the color in Rick’s mind. Similar nail polish,
eyeshadow, clothing…they were just empty voids. Once Carmine disappeared, it
never returned.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I remember when she came home with Crimson on her lips.
184, 15, 10. We had been playing that game for a while. We thought it was fun.
Try to ‘recapture the passion’ we experienced with Carmine. I wonder if our
recklessness was to blame for everything that happened.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Polk noted his change in tone. She marked the highs
he found when revisiting each of their discoveries.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">#199 CRIMSON 184, 15, 10.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">#415 CHILI RED 194, 24, 7.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">#537 IMPERIAL 237, 41, 57.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">She noted the heartache Rick described whenever a color
faded to nothing, marked only as a new entry on his palette.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The night we discovered Candy Apple 255, 8, 0 was when I
first looked forward to losing the vision of that shade off Tracy’s luscious
lips. If our pattern held, I was mathematically destined to reconnect with Pure
Red 255, 0, 0.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Did you rediscover Pure Red?” Dr. Polk asked, probing
for an answer she already knew existed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I did.” There was a certain satisfaction with the doctor
when one of her patients achieved self-realization. If Rick was going to heal
himself, he must confront his fears.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And where did you find that mesmerizing sharp color
blood boasts when saturated with oxygen, Rick?” Dr. Polk leaned forward and
repeated the question. She closed her eyes and waited to savor her patient’s
response.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You have to hurry. The color fades from Pure Red so
fast.” Rick looked around the office, but salvation was not in sight. The doctor
was going to make him repeat it. He turned to catch her stare as she braced to
hear the words, the tip of her tongue grazing across the Black Olive lipstick
she used to conceal her temptation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick laid back quietly, closing his eyes as he pulled both
hands under his chin. Still clutching the fiery glove he brings to every
appointment, he gave in to Gillian’s healing without reservation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“When blood leaves the heart from the aorta, it is mesmerizingly
sharp. Tracy stopped moving, but her blood continued to pour. It poured from
her body until it momentarily immersed her in Pure Red.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And then what happened?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“She was gone,” Rick sighed. “She faded away. There was
nothing but a blank void in her room.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What did you discover?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was no more anxiety in Rick’s voice. He carefully answered
his therapist’s questions. “I found Pure Red. It was inside Tracy all along. It
was inside each of them all along.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">As the erotic satisfaction grew inside Dr. Polk, she had
one last request.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Tell me about each of them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">For 45 minutes, Rick detailed every color that led him to
Pure Red.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hibiscus 180, 55, 87<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Desire 234, 60, 83<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Salmon 250, 128, 114<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Folly 255, 0, 79<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rick sobbed and his eyes grew bloodshot from the emotion.
Dr. Polk turned her chair away as she crafted her vision of each encounter that
climaxed in Pure Red.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“…and I’m afraid of what will happen to Mahogany the next
time we meet.” Rick collected his composure as their time ended. The session
was over, beginning his dreaded wait until their next appointment. But Rick
knew the routine; he knew the rules. Don’t talk, leave. As he turned back to
watch his therapist writhing to absorb the enormity of his actions, he hoped
she would be his salvation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t want to live this way anymore,” he whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I promise you, Rick,” the doctor assured. “You won’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">A dormant sense of hope resurfaced in Dr. Polk’s patient,
a faint smile forming as he closed the door behind him. The doctor gasped her
first breath of air before attending to her session notes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">RICK METTER <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">PROGNOSIS: FINAL SESSION <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">ASSESSMENT: #682 TORCH RED 255, 0, 1<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I promise, Rick, you won’t live like this anymore.”</span></p><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p>
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<p></p><br /><p class="IndentBodyKB"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p></div>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-22880318217971489682023-08-29T11:36:00.000-07:002023-08-29T11:36:44.257-07:00Suicide, 35 Years Later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4F7D0ZM-E6ay03BoZ4wllB6FI6omrFluUqM-nHKTigU9Z1hdxTDuaYpl08c6L0UX7bTkJevp87qUyoxuCN5o8GQRm9PmZqFGRljxgFnpRbSuNsK0oRuL8WJ3xVL17aEN07oC6FkMtEC9Wv_q9cFD0Gzi5eiC2bj0aPs_m35dSE8q8HNuQkNT_TBYV68I/s2458/19750700%20-%20byrne%20-%20william%20kevin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1608" data-original-width="2458" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4F7D0ZM-E6ay03BoZ4wllB6FI6omrFluUqM-nHKTigU9Z1hdxTDuaYpl08c6L0UX7bTkJevp87qUyoxuCN5o8GQRm9PmZqFGRljxgFnpRbSuNsK0oRuL8WJ3xVL17aEN07oC6FkMtEC9Wv_q9cFD0Gzi5eiC2bj0aPs_m35dSE8q8HNuQkNT_TBYV68I/w400-h261/19750700%20-%20byrne%20-%20william%20kevin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t remember much about you, Dad, but you are
my focus in this attempt to reflect on the moment everything changed. Many of
my friends and loved ones need to understand what suicide will do to a child
for the rest of their life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Snapshots of the man I knew until I turned 16 are
often random, quirky moments that carry no significance beyond their proof that
we were together at some point. As far as I know, relating to children was
difficult for you. I just fell into your same routine, doing things you would
do even when I was not around. A Yankee game blaring on the television while
you cooked up a bluefish we reeled in earlier that day. Of course, we must have
visited the ballpark a time or two. I don’t remember any of those trips. Our
story is stuck on one random day you cooked bluefish. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">You taught me how to play pinochle down at the
Half Crown. I am still an excellent bad pinochle player. My strategy is solid,
but I get lost trying to total the melds. I don’t remember who else played or
what I drank. It was probably just soda—what else would they serve a kid as he
sat at the end of a bar with his dad? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">We were jogging out in Pelham Bay Park the day I
first told you I started an application to West Point. You seemed proud, but I
remember your reaction was somewhere along the lines of, “That’s a tough place
to get into. Don’t get your hopes up too high.” I don’t remember my response,
but I did not listen, instead putting all my eggs in that one basket. You would
have been so proud watching every step of my journey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Only a handful of other memories bounce around in
my head. TBI from a car accident when I was 25, multiple sclerosis, and time
washed most of my recall, leaving only translucent whispers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Of course, I have pictures. Not as many as I
should. Grandma died three years before you (I remember nothing about her death
or funeral). In the throes of whatever demons you faced, all the history from
your side of our family ended up in the trash. Those photos Mom kept after your
divorce are my proof you existed, evidence that I once lived a vibrant and
happy childhood. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Gaps in my memory are toxic soil where nothing
grows. Surrounded by beautiful images of your granddaughter and troves of magical
experiences that I struggle every day to keep is that wasteland. Its voids are peppered
with arbitrary traces of times abandoned for unknown reasons. That is where you
exist because we have planted nothing new since October 8, 1988.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">One memory I wish would fade is seven minutes of
that day. I feel like it happened this morning. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">You looked so peaceful when I walked into your
bedroom. Serenity was my first warning. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Dad?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I called out twice in a hushed tone, hoping you
overslept and forgot we were supposed to get together that Saturday morning. I
don’t recall what we planned, but I remember your haunting image, face-down under
the covers. Your left calf was stiff to my touch. I still see the horrifying
kaleidoscope of blood and chunks splayed from your left temple when I lifted
the pristine powder blue pillow used to muffle the gunshot. I never looked for
the .38 nestled in your right hand. A single bullet hole in the wall was enough
confirmation. I dropped the pillow and sat alongside your body. It is the
single most peaceful moment I have ever experienced. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“When did you start to lose memories?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“When did constant noise and chaos first flood
your mind?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">If I had an answer to the first, I might piece
together the second. The best I can say is that at some point soon after
October 8, 1988, I began to run. Perhaps that was the moment I started to purge
memories. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">My entire life is a consequence of that crisp
fall morning. As much as I continue to deny any claim that I am a victim, that my
poor choices and their repercussions are not the results of that first brush
with horror, what you did put a silent exclamation point on everything I have
been since the day you committed suicide. It took me 35 years to come to grips
with this reality.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here is the message I need to share.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wish my curiosity had turned into <b>questions
rather than fear</b> when I was a younger man. “Why?” would have sparked
conversation. Many people offered to help me search for answers, but I rejected
their outreach. Terrifying images became my nightmares that triggered a fight-or-flight
response. There is nothing about your suicide that I can fight—there never was.
Instead, I jumped from one life to the next with little disregard for what or
who I left in my wake. For more years than I care to admit, I ran. Unfortunately,
those foolish mistakes are the times my mind chose to keep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">The image I cherish is not the man who thought he
had wasted his best chances for happiness. Among scattered shadows that stare
back at me and say, “Hold on to that memory,” I keep photographs on my
refrigerator. They serve as reminders, challenging me to recall the sights,
sounds, other senses, and emotions from those days. The irony is that your
picture is from over three years before I was born. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUVAgPvSbEn--7Gpv9nO_PwPiGyKzBtKQCuHGgqwWQfs5lG-xG0nDSA7A9n6CL72wScjbGk1pTPZY8N5b-cWpdkt5hVpKafR1LsRZL_vTuc63Q4_oSp-UrGuLZJNtLIalqqD9X8osyor_cAtWj4qgO5DA5Av9UMub7WVVGDHfKk2mvRvXshiGXOPOJpLr/s5462/19680000%20-%20byrne%20-%20william%20-%20nypd%20police%20academy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5462" data-original-width="4214" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUVAgPvSbEn--7Gpv9nO_PwPiGyKzBtKQCuHGgqwWQfs5lG-xG0nDSA7A9n6CL72wScjbGk1pTPZY8N5b-cWpdkt5hVpKafR1LsRZL_vTuc63Q4_oSp-UrGuLZJNtLIalqqD9X8osyor_cAtWj4qgO5DA5Av9UMub7WVVGDHfKk2mvRvXshiGXOPOJpLr/w154-h200/19680000%20-%20byrne%20-%20william%20-%20nypd%20police%20academy.jpg" width="154" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The face I see is a man I never knew, one who
would become the faint image still in my mind. It is your file photograph from
when you joined the NYPD, on your way to a noble career serving the people of
New York City. You were young, strong, and confident. I sometimes wonder if you
were excited about the future. You accomplished so much in your lifetime,
achieving marks that still leave you in the superhero category of my heart. Did
you think you had overcome your turbulent past? I look at your picture and
smile because I want to believe it was a good day. To my friends, I say this: <b>What
memory you pick does not matter. Hold close something that was good</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">The last thing I need to do is <b>remember there
were many bad days to follow</b>. I don’t know what you could have done to
change your outcome, but I don’t think you tried hard enough. The bottles left
behind, the prescription meds collected in excess, and the relationships you
shunned in favor of distractions did not ease your pain. They only pulled you
closer to the day you left a bloody corpse in a bed for your 16-year-old son to
find. We both traveled dark paths, but the image of your last bad day was a
blessed reminder in 2003. It forced me to reach out to loved ones for a
lifeline. It forced me to talk. I don’t know how many more bad days I could have
endured, but you showed me how emotional pain only worsens when it’s not
treated. I no longer have an obscene collection of discarded bottles or
medications. I’m trying to not shun relationships, even if my life is still an
avalanche of distractions meant to ease the agony.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, I try to wish things were different. I
wish you had a chance to meet your granddaughter, to hold all five of your
grandkids. I wish my daughter knew you as “Grandpa” or “Pop-Pop” and not just
“your dad.” But that is not the case, and there is nothing I can do to change
the past, so I move on. I want more than lost opportunities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">October 8 is a Sunday this year. It will be a day
I never wanted to describe until I discovered the power of my words. Now that I
have finished our story, your memory will once again sit silent in my heart and
mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">For the first time, Rogue and I will ride
together at bike MS on September 23. I’m trying to change something I don’t
understand. She knows many of my demons—I never met yours. She sees my body
weakened and struggling—I only remember the confidence of a man who never
faltered. I will continue to be the dorky dad, showing up in her world no
matter how out of place I may feel—you only invited me into your routines, unable
to see life through the eyes of a child. I don’t want to kill myself—I don’t
think that was your plan. Hopefully, I will be enough to end our cycle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">My reaction to your suicide, those gripping
emotions that are impossible to share, turned to inspiration. “What if you
could capture and re-create sensations?” I answered that question with my next
story. With a smirk on my lips, I chose to release <i>Sensations </i>on October 8, 2023. Selfish promotion? Lemonade out of
lemons? Perhaps, but stories are the only way I can illustrate my turmoil.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0.5in 8pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">My
favorites are those based on the utter confusion in my head that I just can’t
quite accurately describe; the alternate fantasy world became a surrogate for
the chaos I was unable to express otherwise. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">(“</span><a href="https://neverstopneverquit.blogspot.com/2021/12/chaos.html"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">Chaos</span></a><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;">”
2018)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am going to take full advantage of our mistakes
and pain. I earned that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">On that Sunday, I travel home from my 30th West
Point reunion, where I will have celebrated that milestone with my beloved
classmates. They embrace me, though I remember very little of our time
together. Two days earlier marks 24 years since I first read the words
“possible multiple sclerosis” on my lonely drive back from a Korean hospital. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Just like October 8, 1988, just like October 6,
1999, my mind races today with the thought of, “What’s next?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Many more bad days are sure to follow, but I hold
on to the memories of everything good. The fear that builds in me will become questions,
thoughts, and stories I share with the world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">If your story helps one person, if mine brings someone
a single night of comfort, our mistakes were not in vain.</span></span></p></div>
<hr class="wp-block-separator" style="background-color: #e6e6e6; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: solid; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; height: 1px; margin-bottom: 1.5em;" />
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Please consider a donation of support for Rogue and Kevin, riding together in Bike MS: Oregon 2023.</strong>
</p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://events.nationalmssociety.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=240263&referrer=BF_emailbadge" target="new"><img src="https://loadprod.boundlessfundraising.com/badge/nmssfinish/display/240263/1575" /></a></div>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-20404791183455556662023-08-11T15:52:00.002-07:002023-08-26T10:17:23.557-07:00What Is the Result of 20 Years of Fundraising?<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQHaKJnpoTJkSLoCeqvt2jI5GRoGbADNddYlIZShdAEk8Sc4s1Lr2LoMqCtbOdvbqd-u7_0Kem8Ngu91HzPTSGKQqADxEpQbvcQGswFeCrTDOda_z2A1k-ap8mnyw6ygqqx1TnQuo5vz-U2whF3nP0tknf41yT0kghla6nnNb060NU2IMAd0gqjkXEkEX3" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4026" data-original-width="6578" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQHaKJnpoTJkSLoCeqvt2jI5GRoGbADNddYlIZShdAEk8Sc4s1Lr2LoMqCtbOdvbqd-u7_0Kem8Ngu91HzPTSGKQqADxEpQbvcQGswFeCrTDOda_z2A1k-ap8mnyw6ygqqx1TnQuo5vz-U2whF3nP0tknf41yT0kghla6nnNb060NU2IMAd0gqjkXEkEX3=w400-h245" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I started in 2003.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Through individual effort, as co-captain of Team Amulet, or
as the president of NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT, I am honored to have raised <b>over
$800,000 for the National MS Society</b> in support of our fight against the
devastating effects of multiple sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">2023 starts everything all over again. There are two points
I remind myself of every single day. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">First, I need to be grateful and humble when I recognize the
outpouring of love and support I have received during my journey. I must
embrace terms like <i>giving back </i>and <i>paying forward</i> more than I
focus on <i>getting donations</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Second, what I raised in the past doesn’t mean squat. The financial
commitments needed for tomorrow’s treatments are not there, and it is up to me
to help fill that void. Just because my supporters were gracious enough to
donate before does not mean I can expect the same (or more) this year—their
support is something I must earn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Over the past few days, I sent this note (or something very
similar) to many of my exceptional army of supporters for our past <b>bike MS</b>
campaigns. My slow trod through their history, plus the need for a greater
outreach of individuals and companies, means I need your help.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">What do you want to see from me to earn your support?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Is there a path into your company/organization through which
you can introduce me?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Never Stop… Never Quit… <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">**<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s been three years since I last hit the road for bike MS.
2020 was a century ride, even if I did it from the comfort of my garage under
the cloud of Covid-19.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I plan to make up for it this year. For assurance, Rogue
will join me in her first-ever bike MS. I will document this journey through
video clips and stories, all posted to my social media profiles.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Before I ask for your support, let me walk through some
changes and upgrades in our world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fundraising for the National MS Society is still our
passion. Now going by her middle name, the shortcut to Rogue’s bike MS page is <a href="https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue">https://mssociety.donordrive.com/participant/Rogue</a>.
No matter their source, all donations go here in the end!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT was re-designated from a private
foundation to a public charity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">What does this mean?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Your donations are still tax-deductible. There are just more
ways to give. Check out our donation page for more information on how you or
your company can support us in our fight against the devastating effects of
multiple sclerosis: <a href="https://neverstopneverquit.com/donate">https://NeverStopNeverQuit.com/donate</a>.
100% of the money you donate will go to that fight (Rogue’s bike MS campaign).
There is no extra layer–I pay all costs for managing our charity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">2023’s ride will be a challenge
for both of us. Rogue is a theater/volleyball phenom. Biking is not her thing,
but she’s doing it for me. My legs are much slower and weaker than the last
time I was on the road. On September 23 and 24, however, none of that will
matter. Our friends and MS family with <b>Team Road Kill</b> took us in when I
could no longer maintain Team Amulet. With their motivation, all the passions
of our MS community, and your support, we will make my 21st year supporting
this incredible organization a weekend to remember.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Your donations in the past have helped us cross so many
thresholds. I’m thankful and humble to have this opportunity again. Please
consider another donation in support of our continuing fight to move forward
toward that one goal that unites us all: A World Free of MS!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Love,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin</span><b><o:p></o:p></b></p>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-18088930398023599412022-12-30T15:02:00.004-08:002022-12-30T15:02:58.065-08:00$2,273...so far<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlQD-3GI-6vLpjWtqYTpqqQZp1HlFbzdtiNbJvw9zk6Jm0W6_729BX62Rv7OazzW990zaxBUOcJSsL6NL9--dnyaaeMd7S9IFaPfEtHEyemCl5o0jlOXONMjiVwAHwu0jxiGQyv4kmfmfKmA_JQf9caHbtxn233QwBcLxsagffYSuhsLWGEdnP24FnQ/s1280/Slide1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="1280" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlQD-3GI-6vLpjWtqYTpqqQZp1HlFbzdtiNbJvw9zk6Jm0W6_729BX62Rv7OazzW990zaxBUOcJSsL6NL9--dnyaaeMd7S9IFaPfEtHEyemCl5o0jlOXONMjiVwAHwu0jxiGQyv4kmfmfKmA_JQf9caHbtxn233QwBcLxsagffYSuhsLWGEdnP24FnQ/w640-h342/Slide1.png" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I will earn this!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">To donate to my Facebook fundraiser, please go here: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/donate/1243819506174142/">https://www.facebook.com/donate/1243819506174142/</a>
<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you don’t want to do that option, please consider a
donation direct (hosted by PayPal Giving Fund): <a href="https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=HGFXP4RTLVU5E">https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=HGFXP4RTLVU5E</a></span>
<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-7956526129676333072022-10-24T05:52:00.000-07:002022-10-24T05:52:17.102-07:00Stop Putting Veterans at Risk<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f">
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<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: right;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHnVK5Yk8BRTbQzm_wLSAbSjDLVGDK57_tHwpPzF0mLOF4FxD5RaBdXo8nxtoYmdDNzRIY4FjLxv4AMFfMrEUTxCJYyePLoEOzII0bhANx9erQWM4VlRyd3eZ4K_XlV_zH99Qc0ft-__jIGeYhPJ6iNZk1lvAZOOfkFaksa-aIPru39djTM2olt8JTA/s624/20221024%20Stop%20Putting%20Veterans%20at%20Risk%20-%20edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="347" data-original-width="624" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHnVK5Yk8BRTbQzm_wLSAbSjDLVGDK57_tHwpPzF0mLOF4FxD5RaBdXo8nxtoYmdDNzRIY4FjLxv4AMFfMrEUTxCJYyePLoEOzII0bhANx9erQWM4VlRyd3eZ4K_XlV_zH99Qc0ft-__jIGeYhPJ6iNZk1lvAZOOfkFaksa-aIPru39djTM2olt8JTA/w400-h223/20221024%20Stop%20Putting%20Veterans%20at%20Risk%20-%20edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(veteran.com)</span></span></b></b></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Fraud and identity
theft are plagues raging across our country like wildfires. Unfortunately, our
veteran communities are not immune. The roughly 18 million Americans who served
in the US Armed Forces[1]</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> were the source of more
than 110,000 fraud complaints, including 44,039 imposter scams that reportedly
cost them over $103 million in 2021.[2]</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> In addition, Military.com
reports, “Veterans are more than twice as likely to have their identities
stolen than American civilians.”[3]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">The Department of
Veterans Affairs has undertaken a number of efforts to help veterans protect
their identity, determine if their identity has been stolen, and report fraud
and identity theft cases when they are victims. You can find more information
about their initiatives at </span><a href="http://www.va.gov/identitytheft/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">www.va.gov/identitytheft</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you suspect that
you may be the victim of fraud or identity theft, you can call the VA Veteran
Identity Theft Helpline at 1-855-578-5492. Their hours of operation are
Monday-Friday, 8:00 a.m. – 8:00 p.m., ET.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">TRICARE also provides
information on how to spot and report fraud and abuse: </span><a href="http://www.tricare.mil/ContactUs/ReportFraudAbuse"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">www.tricare.mil/ContactUs/ReportFraudAbuse</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sincerely appreciate
everything the VA and TRICARE are doing to safeguard our veteran communities.
But regrettably, both networks regularly endanger those same veterans because
of unsafe practices. This must stop right away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Note:
the examples I share are my personal experiences. They are not, however,
isolated incidents. These practices and problems are widespread in our Veterans
Health Administration and TRICARE networks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“If you are ever
contacted by phone or email, don’t share any personal information and report
the incident to your contractor immediately.”</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://www.tricare.mil/ContactUs/ReportFraudAbuse" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">www.tricare.mil/ContactUs/ReportFraudAbuse</span></span></a></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I received a call the
other day on my cellphone. The caller ID read TOLL-FREE NUMBER. In the past, I would
let a call like that go straight to voicemail. Spam calls appear as TOLL-FREE
NUMBER. Do you know who else calls with that ID? The VA hospital and TRICARE
network. Missing calls and playing voicemail ping-pong with the VA are painful
experiences. Since I have so many appointments with my providers, I am now in
the habit of picking up on those annoying spam callers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This call was from
TriWest, the Western US provider of TRICARE health services. They needed to
talk to me about urgent medical information for Kevin Byrne. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My first response was
the obvious choice: “What kind of urgent medical information do you need to
review with Kevin Byrne?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But before answering
my question, they needed to confirm some information. The contact asked me to
provide my full name, date of birth, and the last four of my Social Security Number.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I apologized, saying,
“I don’t give information to random callers from unknown toll-free numbers.” I
refused to provide any of my personal information, despite aggressive demands
from the caller that I do. Instead, I called a known TriWest contact number, where
I bounced along through several people until someone could pull up this
“urgent” information. They were trying to schedule a routine test, even though
I had already scheduled the appointment weeks prior. The call was unnecessary,
and it most certainly was not urgent. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My response was not what
every veteran would do, nor was it the reaction my TriWest caller expected. The
normal and expected response is to provide all requested personal information
in a less than confidential format.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are grooming our veterans to hand over confidential personal
information for no other reason than because someone calls and says they are
official.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">The FCC provides valuable
information on their webpage, “</span><a href="https://www.fcc.gov/consumers/guides/stop-unwanted-robocalls-and-texts"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">Consumer Tips to Stop Unwanted
Robocalls and Avoid Phone Scams</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">.” Included on this list are recommendations
for responding to scammers that fit the profile of the call I received (I leave
it to readers to decide if they have had similar experiences in their regions).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Don’t answer calls from unknown numbers. If you answer such a
call, hang up immediately.</span></span></li><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You may not be able to tell right away if an incoming call is
spoofed. Be aware: Caller ID showing a “local” number does not necessarily mean
it is a local caller.</span></span></li><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Do not respond to any questions, especially those that can be
answered with “Yes.”</span></span></li><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Never give out personal information such as account numbers,
Social Security numbers, mother’s maiden names, passwords or other identifying
information in response to unexpected calls or if you are at all suspicious.</span></span></li><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you get an inquiry from someone who says they represent a
company or a government agency, hang up and call the phone number on your
account statement, in the phone book, or on the company’s or government agency’s
website to verify the authenticity of the request. You will usually get a
written statement in the mail before you get a phone call from a legitimate
source, particularly if the caller is asking for a payment.</span></span></li><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Use caution if you are being pressured for information
immediately.</span></span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">Make No Mistake</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">: scam callers will
target individuals by using fake credentials and pressuring statements such as,
for example, that they are calling from the VA or TriWest and need to talk to
you about urgent medical information. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our trusted providers set
a dangerous expectation for our veterans on handling personal identifying
information. Some may resist the pressure, though, in the past, I admittedly
have shared information more freely than I should have. Others, especially our
most vulnerable, can be lured into dangerous habits. We are grooming our
veterans to be top targets for individualized scam calls.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe your reaction
is, “I don’t have that problem. I just go straight to the VA for everything in-person.”
I used to think that way when I was a (relatively) healthy disabled veteran…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The mission of VA
Privacy Service is to preserve and protect the personally identifiable
information (PII) of Veterans, their beneficiaries, and VA employees by
promoting a culture of privacy awareness and maintaining the trust of those we
serve.”</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://www.oprm.va.gov/" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">www.oprm.va.gov</span></span></a></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Over the last two and
half years, Covid-19 has led to many changes in our world. One noticeable
difference at my VA hospital is the large space between healthcare
administrative staff and veterans. That’s a good thing, as it keeps us a little
safer in this strange new world. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sadly, here’s a
typical conversation for me, the staff member, and anyone else within 20 feet: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Good Morning. I’m
checking in for my 9:30 appointment.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Last name.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I give it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Last four.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I give it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Can you confirm your
date of birth?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I confirm it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Can you confirm your
address?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I confirm it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Suppose one person
sits in the waiting area of 20, 30, or more veterans. How much confidential
information can they collect because the VA is having us shout across barriers in
public? I will not try that experiment, and I don’t recommend anyone else take
matters into their own hands to see how much PII they can collect.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">The National
Institutes of Health (NIH)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">
notes the vulnerability of our veteran community increases due to “</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">the older average age
of veterans compared to the general population, as well as the increased risk
for mental and physical health problems.”<a href="file:///C:/Users/KevJByrne/Documents/Writings/Blog%20&amp;%20PVAMC%20Communications/20221024%20Stop%20Putting%20Veterans%20at%20Risk%20-%20edit.docx#_edn4" name="_ednref4" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">[iv]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> When we go to the VA, we
might let our guard down. This might happen because:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are older and might not be familiar with the current dangers
of identity theft and fraud.</span></span></li><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are sick, so we might not have the energy or awareness to
fight identity theft or fraud.</span></span></li><li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are used to following orders, especially within our organization
structure and command.</span></span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I think the next time
I go to the hospital and face personally identifiable questions, my response
will be, “I would rather not shout it in the room. Can we go somewhere to
discuss this or any other confidential information?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How is that going to
work? If it is going to be a problem, it already is a problem.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Veterans
Administration and TRICARE must implement immediate corrective action to stop
putting our veterans at risk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin J. Byrne<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Captain, US Army
(Retired)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">Kevin Byrne has been
an advocate and a voice for veterans finding multiple sclerosis since his
diagnosis in 1999 while serving as an Air Cavalry Troop Commander in Korea. You
can learn more about his fight at </span><a href="https://neverstopneverquit.com/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">https://NeverStopNeverQuit.com</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">.</span></span></p>
<div><!--[if !supportEndnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="edn1">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">[1]</span></span> <a href="https://www.census.gov/library/publications/2020/demo/acs-43.html">https://www.census.gov/library/publications/2020/demo/acs-43.html</a>
<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
</div>
<div id="edn2">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">[2]</span></span> <a href="https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/CSN%20Annual%20Data%20Book%202021%20Final%20PDF.pdf">https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/CSN%20Annual%20Data%20Book%202021%20Final%20PDF.pdf</a>
<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="edn3">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">[3]</span></span> <a href="https://www.military.com/money/personal-finance/3-reasons-veterans-are-more-likely-be-victims-identity-theft.html">https://www.military.com/money/personal-finance/3-reasons-veterans-are-more-likely-be-victims-identity-theft.html</a>
<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="edn4">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">[4]</span></span> <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6352911/">https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6352911/</a>
<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
</div>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-90589264973071401312022-08-18T19:53:00.002-07:002023-08-26T10:15:18.385-07:00Announcement #2 – Free Promotion<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58IHb37xRABrk1XFkze0gei7K2LybXKZ_xynE0sFOBRvYe4seAcjGU92CHoqdOe__EpKAS0_WyyD4j-ojVMrW1XuCMii1iUA-kgCgaqQoeG6mtc2ifKes6E195hZMGPK9xmvd4aYD4xnfqzT7U9dREzCNIkt5GU9tj_ZfWGRETO4bBHY5G5G_GWvVAg/s4739/Four%20Books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1572" data-original-width="4739" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58IHb37xRABrk1XFkze0gei7K2LybXKZ_xynE0sFOBRvYe4seAcjGU92CHoqdOe__EpKAS0_WyyD4j-ojVMrW1XuCMii1iUA-kgCgaqQoeG6mtc2ifKes6E195hZMGPK9xmvd4aYD4xnfqzT7U9dREzCNIkt5GU9tj_ZfWGRETO4bBHY5G5G_GWvVAg/w400-h133/Four%20Books.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To celebrate the rerelease of these four published books <b>exclusively
on Amazon</b>, I’m running a free Kindle promotion from Friday through Tuesday
(August 19 – 23). <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Kevin-Byrne/e/B01IWR8P3G"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;">https://www.amazon.com/Kevin-Byrne/e/B01IWR8P3G</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Go to my Amazon author page if you would like to own a
free copy of:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My MS and E<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">…in abeyance<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Annie Flynn – first row,
second desk<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Moments<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, you can always buy a print copy anytime
through Amazon. Contact me directly if you would like a copy signed by me (and E).
Kindle prices will go back to normal on Wednesday, August 24.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">100% of all royalties go directly to NEVER STOP NEVER
QUIT, a charitable organization supporting the fight against multiple
sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Never Stop… Never Quit…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Kevin<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<hr class="wp-block-separator" style="background-color: #e6e6e6; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: solid; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; height: 1px; margin-bottom: 1.5em;" />
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Please consider a donation to NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT.</strong>
</p>
<form action="https://www.paypal.com/donate" method="post" target="_top"><input name="hosted_button_id" type="hidden" value="HGFXP4RTLVU5E" /><br /><input alt="Donate with PayPal button" name="submit" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_donateCC_LG.gif" title="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!" type="image" /><br /><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" /></form>
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">100% of your donation will directly support our fight. We pay the cost of managing our foundation.</strong>
</p>
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">All donations are tax deductible to the extent allowed by law. You will receive a receipt.</strong>
</p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-16896126522919418252022-08-17T09:00:00.003-07:002023-08-26T10:18:23.423-07:00Announcement #1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHetWfw-xEKIqi-W8Cm5XD8QpE9M9-o3aHqTE-Rz-ZWDS-fnXiDF-I1tB0HnA5ociqQjkFMldIRR4m-pknTxGWUJUmLK_JVcQL6XCif2bdPciLSScPm0PYcggf-JnigEpk5nLeamfJ8uAJh8mIRMjUYx8099kMvXhXriWprFxOry2zSoIHu5yZD1JFQ/s4739/Four%20Books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1572" data-original-width="4739" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHetWfw-xEKIqi-W8Cm5XD8QpE9M9-o3aHqTE-Rz-ZWDS-fnXiDF-I1tB0HnA5ociqQjkFMldIRR4m-pknTxGWUJUmLK_JVcQL6XCif2bdPciLSScPm0PYcggf-JnigEpk5nLeamfJ8uAJh8mIRMjUYx8099kMvXhXriWprFxOry2zSoIHu5yZD1JFQ/w400-h133/Four%20Books.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I'm excited to announce my rerelease of four published
books </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">exclusively on Amazon</b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> (paperback and Kindle versions). 100% of all
royalties go directly to NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT, a charitable organization
supporting the fight against multiple sclerosis.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Click on the link to my Amazon author page if you would like to purchase any of the great titles out there: </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Kevin-Byrne/e/B01IWR8P3G" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">https://www.amazon.com/Kevin-Byrne/e/B01IWR8P3G</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This is preparation for the release of my next novel. <b>Sensations</b>
will come out in early 2023.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>April 27, 2034 – Eleanor
Nickerson developed technology that records and recreates human emotion. Once
labeled the 21st century’s greatest gift, a worldwide crisis places her against
government attempts to control the experience and the underworld’s exploitation
of our need to feel. Ellie now faces her truth when pressed for the vision of
her creation: <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>“I am not a God.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>“But what if you were?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Never Stop… Never Quit…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Kevin<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Moments</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> (novel)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dominic Bandall is a condemned man. A once powerful
attorney in New York City, he and his law partner, his wife Sharon, focused on
their never-ending fight for justice. Now an aged man, his body is battered
from the crippling ailments he has endured in his lifetime— his mind is
burdened by the memories of the 9/11 attacks that killed Sharon and so many.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On February 28, 2019, a young law student named Angela
Grant met him at his office in Honu‘apo, Hawai‘i, to conduct a series of interviews.
What transpired over the next 10 days began with his first confession: “I can
see moments in time, Angela.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">… in abeyance</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
(a novella) and<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Christopher Baxter is a man recognized for his
accomplishments: West Point graduate, medical doctor, combat veteran. Chris is
also a condemned man-a man who struggles with the familiarity of circumstances
he has carried his entire life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nothing else changes; no mystical stories or tales of
fantasy. What would you do if humanity stopped dying? As the world struggles to
come to grips with dormancy, is one man-Chris Baxter-just another unwilling
participant, the curse, or their salvation?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My MS and E</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> is
a children’s picture book depicting a typical interaction between Kevin and his
daughter, Eleanor. They share an unbreakable father-daughter bond, even in the
face of his ongoing struggles with multiple sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Annie Flynn - first row, second desk</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
(short story) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Annie Flynn knew early on where life would take her.
“The northeastern region of Syrtis Major Planum. That’s where I’m going to
land.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Experience the magical life of Annie Flynn, from those
early years in the first row, second desk to humankind’s first landing on the
red planet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<hr class="wp-block-separator" style="background-color: #e6e6e6; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: solid; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; height: 1px; margin-bottom: 1.5em;" />
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Please consider a donation to NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT.</strong>
</p>
<form action="https://www.paypal.com/donate" method="post" target="_top"><input name="hosted_button_id" type="hidden" value="HGFXP4RTLVU5E" /><br /><input alt="Donate with PayPal button" name="submit" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_donateCC_LG.gif" title="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!" type="image" /><br /><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" /></form>
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">100% of your donation will directly support our fight. We pay the cost of managing our foundation.</strong>
</p>
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">All donations are tax deductible to the extent allowed by law. You will receive a receipt.</strong>
</p>
Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-84166204157085279182022-03-01T21:12:00.003-08:002022-03-02T08:40:42.126-08:00Save the Date!<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgT76Ihht3fQ653Ij9lHldfJk2J4BWKvC-0lFkwmG5AWfzOfOQIoe1mnq44dTYhKFaaItcaNPiTlQ6U2iuhH5eKF6BaaGJPjgpfDb0a6UBcc7JZuJRYuFiOeoOdZTTXBc3PRu5Q5388f1S1KMTX347hfj489U3E54kXKdYVWi5nsuJ25f1KtyEtULigvg=s500" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgT76Ihht3fQ653Ij9lHldfJk2J4BWKvC-0lFkwmG5AWfzOfOQIoe1mnq44dTYhKFaaItcaNPiTlQ6U2iuhH5eKF6BaaGJPjgpfDb0a6UBcc7JZuJRYuFiOeoOdZTTXBc3PRu5Q5388f1S1KMTX347hfj489U3E54kXKdYVWi5nsuJ25f1KtyEtULigvg=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; font-size: large;">Monday, January 31, 2033</span></div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Place and Time: TBD<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Standard Insurance Company, all executives and employees,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Please save the date for my celebration of tomorrow and plan for
an exciting future.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Why January 31?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Way back, in February 2022, one of your disability benefits analysts
presented me with an offer regarding my long-term disability claim with your
company. I was honored that he would “like to offer an opportunity to settle
your claim in exchange for a lump-sum payment.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s every little boy’s dream to be chosen for such an honored
opportunity, especially since “The Standard does not routinely settle LTD
claims for a number of reasons.” I won’t lie, I was tickled pink.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, after several rounds of misleading calculations
and not-so-veiled threats, like “we know that you write books” and “if you do not
accept the offer, you will still have to regularly validate your ongoing
disability (to prevent fraud)”, I was still unable to understand how you came
to the lump sum dollar amount presented. I’m pretty good at math, so it was odd
that my calculation was quite different. I said it was wrong — he said it was
right, showing me “the <u>full</u> three pages of the present value calculation
you received.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I thanked him then showed him again, this time in detail, how his
calculations were wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And the Truth Shall Set You Free!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nevertheless, your determined analyst persevered, taking my
question regarding the deductible income adjustment to your actuarial
department.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Imagine his surprise when he found out that there was another
variable not included in “the <u>full</u> three pages of the present value
calculation!” I wonder if you can imagine my surprise; I can’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Apparently, “the present value calculation process incorporates
actuarial mortality assumptions.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, since your team did so much hard work and determined the correct
mortality assumptions for an individual living on disability with multiple
sclerosis, I figured I would take the baton and do some more of that math I
love so much.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By the calculation of your actuarial department, discounting for
the time value of money, my life expectancy is 131 additional months. I will be
dead by the end of January 2033, at the ripe old age of 61.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Let’s Just Pretend<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I know your guys are smart, but please humor me for just a
moment. What if I become a medical wonder and exceed the medical expectations of
Standard Insurance Company’s actuarial department? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That would be nice. I would definitely want to celebrate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Therefore, please save the date. When I’m not dead on January
31, 2033, I would like to celebrate with all my close family and friends, and
with my advocates at The Standard. There will be food, drinks, music, and lots
of celebration. I may even have a piece of cake!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the Meantime<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have lots of party planning to do. Thank goodness I have 131
months. Formal invitations will follow as we get closer to the event.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the meantime, here’s some wonderful reading for your
actuarial department about the life expectancy of individuals living with
multiple sclerosis. It was published in 2020 by the National Institutes of
Health, National Institute on Neurological Disorders and Stroke — Wow! Say that
five times fast with a mouthful of crackers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Multiple Sclerosis: Hope Through Research”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.ninds.nih.gov/Disorders/Patient-Caregiver-Education/Hope-Through-Research/Multiple-Sclerosis-Hope-Through-Research">https://www.ninds.nih.gov/Disorders/Patient-Caregiver-Education/Hope-Through-Research/Multiple-Sclerosis-Hope-Through-Research</a><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What is Multiple Sclerosis?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The disease is rarely fatal and most people with MS have a
normal life expectancy. New treatments can reduce long-term disability for many
people with MS. Currently there are still no cures and no clear ways to prevent
the disease from developing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have enough challenges to deal with daily, so please don’t try
to stack the deck against me more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Please consider this an official decline of your opportunity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hope you’ll still come to my party!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">This
is not about what my life will be like when the fight is over.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I
will never stop…<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I
will never quit…<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">This
is my story<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Never
Stop… Never Quit…®<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">***<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Please consider a donation to NEVER
STOP NEVER QUIT. <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.paypal.com/donate?hosted_button_id=HGFXP4RTLVU5E"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">DONATE
HERE</span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">100% of your donation will directly
support our fight. We pay the cost of managing our foundation.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">All donations are tax deductible to
the extent allowed by law. You will receive a receipt.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-24109450156651428382022-02-21T11:59:00.006-08:002022-02-22T12:42:39.137-08:00Chaos–2022<p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><a name="_Toc515653322"></a></b></span>
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxCTgN0YUNb6dP5hd1fW84OLWuQ-6IklBrLiWKeP25x4fWHOCQsuxY4JUvUqxqOijxYzcuEtuLu8zIHf1oS4WWjizc3Luf-Dki5M2m5r1moRrHrGHRvJcnts4yLvGH4qkDQA3UEYO2z9im1fizjc_gPti0qfYmosHka0VYaPKUxEkbMhRL8lMs6UMmAA=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxCTgN0YUNb6dP5hd1fW84OLWuQ-6IklBrLiWKeP25x4fWHOCQsuxY4JUvUqxqOijxYzcuEtuLu8zIHf1oS4WWjizc3Luf-Dki5M2m5r1moRrHrGHRvJcnts4yLvGH4qkDQA3UEYO2z9im1fizjc_gPti0qfYmosHka0VYaPKUxEkbMhRL8lMs6UMmAA=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></b></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><b><a name="_Toc515653322">Chaos </a>– 2022</b></b></span>
</div>
<p></p>
<p class="TitleHeading">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="NoIndentKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I first wrote this piece in 2018 as a preface to explain the logic behind
my collection, <i>The Ramblings of a Condemned Man</i>. Four years later,
as a new world began to take shape, I decided to dust off these digital
pages and revisit my rationale for using the word.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Chaos” is not a perfect choice, but it is the best explanation I can
supply when I address the inevitable question, “What are you thinking?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">My life has always been rife with chaos. Some of the turmoil was inflicted
on me — I am merely a victim. Other times, I have been guilty of instigating
disarray. Of course, chaos is often a simple fact of nature. My most
memorable moments occurred when all three energies combined. As to the
correct proportions of responsibility, prudence would expect me to split
much of the blame between nature and others. However, I can’t fault the
darkened skies of nature for somber winter moods any more than I can blame
her absence for summer drought. And, though others have been witnesses,
partners, even agitators to my stupidity, I cannot lay blame on them for the
chaos my mind wrestles with. I take ownership of it all.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t believe my body experiences a greater share of hardship when
compared to others. My mind, however, finds it challenging to see beyond the
chaos, many times to the detriment of peace and beauty around me. Looking
back on my life, images that most often come to mind are the chaotic, the
horrific, and the truly burdensome. At some point in the past, my brain let
go of many great recollections for some unknown reason. The memories that
remain often play second fiddle to my demons.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In and of itself, confronting chaos is not bad. You can achieve a great
deal of satisfaction by solving impossible challenges, overcoming
overwhelming odds, or righting the wrongs around you; it’s the calling of
every superhero. But, when or where does it end? At what point will our hero
look beyond today’s villain, stop reminiscing over yesterday’s evil, and
forgo anticipation of tomorrow’s plight? <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It must be nice, taking off the cape to enjoy the win and rejoice in
today’s treasures. But unfortunately, this freedom is not afforded to
condemned men. My sentence is the recurring vision of chaos. The reality of
my multiple sclerosis (MS) antagonizes turmoil already deep inside me.
Twenty-three years later, I remain fascinated by the continuous thrashing my
body has undertaken since my diagnosis. My mind constantly rattles its
dedicated response to every emotion and fear I possess: “What’s next?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I am indeed a condemned man, but not for the reasons you might assume. The
chaos of my MS falls mainly into the last category: it is a simple fact of
nature. I’m not a victim of my disease; MS is just another obstacle in life.
Compared to other forms, one powerful difference with the chaos of MS is
that an answer exists to the question, “When does it end?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Never.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Writing is my way of soothing all forms of chaos, easing the daily wounds
they inflict on my mind and body. I began this adventure in 2008, writing
stories meant only for our unborn daughter. Ailish never joined her mother
and me in this world. Weighted by grief, we experienced an agony once
unimaginable to me. I wasn’t yet mature enough to simplify this emotion as
chaos, but I was drawn to continue writing my thoughts, hopes, and dreams
about life to someday share with someone. On August 28, 2010, Eleanor was
born. I remember thinking, “I already have so much to tell you.” Everything
I write in those pages is for her to read when she receives my journal, and
it becomes hers.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Later in 2010, writing became a response to the increasing chaos caused by
my MS. The blogs I still write are my way of expressing hope that someday
there will be an answer to “When does it end?” By exposing everything to my
readers through my blog and confronting chaos, I raise awareness in our
fight against the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis. More
importantly, the more I write about the chaos of my MS and share it with
others, the more my fears lessen. The semi-biographical character named
Kevin Byrne now carries the weight, not Kevin Byrne, the author. In 2017, I
published <i>My MS and E</i>, a children’s picture book version of a recent
blog post. It tells the story of how Ellie beautifully navigated my world MS
during one magical trip that created moments so wonderful. There is no chaos
in the world that could ever dampen those memories.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">If writing helps me cope with my MS, why not apply it to other aspects of
my life?<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">As it turns out, I was already doing that exact thing. In 2014, while Ellie
spent the week at OMSI camp (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry), I spent
that time in an East Portland internet café drafting the novella
<i>…in abeyance</i>. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">So, I went back and finalized the story with this new outlet of expression.
The main character, Christopher Baxter, is a personification of the chaos I
carried with me for far too long. Chris is who I am, was, wanted to be,
feared, struggled to overcome, and so much more, wrapped up and scripted
into an entirely fictional persona who lives in a fictional world (with a
heavy smattering of historical context in this alternate reality). Placing
the turmoil onto Chris’ shoulders relieved the burden from my own.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I began to write stories overflowing with the anxieties of my unrest.
Sometimes an entire saga addressed just one struggle I faced. My favorites
are those based on the utter confusion in my head that I can’t quite
accurately describe any other way. Some stories are dark and gruesome;
others express a more thoughtful perspective. Alternate realities became a
surrogate for the chaos I could not otherwise express. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Regardless of why I wrote the stories, sharing my chaos this way helped me
sleep a bit better. Maybe it discounted my fears. Perhaps it validated them.
However, I hoped that my therapeutic benefit from writing paled compared to
the enjoyment you receive from reading my tales.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I gathered some of my favorite stories and, through the NEVER STOP NEVER
QUIT private foundation, published
<i>The Ramblings of a Condemned Man </i>in 2018<i>.</i> They were the words
I wrote or revisited to help me battle a harsh struggle with MS and personal
chaos that lasted nearly two years.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In the blink of an eye, it was 2022.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I got a call last month regarding the progress of my MS. It was from the
insurance company that handles my long-term disability; one of their
actuaries determined that my disease is now considered “total, permanent,
and irreversible.” I asked them why they deemed it permanent AND
irreversible, rather than just one or the other. He didn’t understand the
question.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The insurance company was my final holdout, still tracking how I
progressed, hoping I would get better. Now, it’s unanimous. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In the four years since I first shared “Chaos,” my body has weakened, my
muscles have atrophied. I deal with the constant pain of chronic neuropathy,
torn muscles and tendons, bladder diverticula, scoliosis, and a host of
other symptoms. I guess permanent was not sufficient to describe just how
fucked I am — my condition is permanent AND irreversible.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In the four years since I first shared “Chaos,” I am happier and more at
peace with life than I have been for many, many years (my brain lost track
of that last moment).<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Writing became a release for so much chaos it quickly became my drug of
choice. I published <i>…in abeyance</i> as a separate novella, followed by
<i>Annie Flynn – first row, second desk</i>. My first novel, <i>Moments</i>,
and a short story collection, <i>Triune</i>, soon followed. I was writing
away the constant noise of my chaos as quickly as it built. I continued to
write and share. I battled back against my physical decline by increasing my
hours in the gym. I continued to reverse the effects of poor diet and
nutrition by dropping the excess weight my body could no longer handle. I
looked better, felt better, sounded better. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">But, like any euphoric drug, addiction has a dark side. “Just to make the
pain go away” became my reason for living. Healthy beneficial activities are
neither healthy nor beneficial when they become an obsessive focus. My
writing suffered; my body began to feel the pain of overexertion; my weight
dipped far below a healthy target. I replaced one set of chaos for another —
if I do that long enough, they will both rise up and crush me. As everything
worked so much better on the outside, my thoughts focused on, “I don’t want
to live like this.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In October 2019, I stopped trying to fix the broken in favor of building my
life. When I thought my 17-month journey was complete, I began to share
“Reconstructing and Defining Kevin” with my readers. Over the next four
months, the real work began. I exposed flaws in my effort to repair
“something broken” in my life. I was still searching for resolution; I
continued looking for closure. I found neither. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">There will never be a lasting resolution of my priorities. Each concern I
hold dear will require attention and care for the rest of my life, more on
some days than others. Nevertheless, I embraced my discovery and their
connection to the Seven Dimensions of Wellness.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">But that’s another story…<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>What Does This Mean for My Chaos?</b><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Though it is still there, chaos no longer controls my life. I recognize my
memories, fears, and anxieties as subconscious responses to my surroundings,
yet they no longer trigger. Only through my capacity to monitor then
positively regulate those responses in each dimension of existence can I
profoundly affect my wellness.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>What Does This Mean for My Writing?</b><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I want to breathe life into pages far beyond anything I have accomplished
to date, telling tales conjured up by my constant noise. No longer will I
look to put words down solely to ease my anxieties. Instead, I will write
stories because sometimes I smile as my mind floods with the images I
create. I may laugh, cry, or even nod my head in approval of the tale. On
other occasions, the crafted images chill me to the core. I want to elicit a
bounty of reactions as I breathe life into stories, narratives, reflections,
and rantings.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Rebuilding and Rebranding<o:p></o:p></span></b>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I have begun the process of removing my published works from distribution.
After cleanup and revision, I’ll re-release my titles through these
channels:<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Books</b>: <i>My MS and E</i>, <i>…in abeyance</i>,
<i>Annie Flynn – first row, second desk</i>, and <i>Moments</i>, will
republish. Publishing and distribution channels are still in negotiation.
100% of all royalties received will continue to NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT in
support of our fight against the damaging effects of multiple sclerosis.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Short Stories</b>: the remainder of
<i>The Ramblings of a Condemned Man</i> and <i>Triune</i> will publish for
free on my blog site,
<a href="https://neverstopneverquit.blogspot.com/">https://neverstopneverquit.blogspot.com</a>. I just want to share; If you enjoy the stories, please consider a
donation to NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">On the Horizon<o:p></o:p></span></b>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-list: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">After these changes, my focus will revert to the stories that flood my
mind.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->My short stories will continue. I have been busy sharing
tales over the last few months. I have no plan to slow down.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><i>Sensations</i>, my next novel, is tentatively planned for
the end of ’22 or early ’23. More to follow.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->My journey, documented in the raw blog series,
“Reconstructing and Defining Kevin,” is currently under revision and will
gain new life as a piece I hope will help others as much as it guided me on
this journey.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I will continue to blog, sharing sometimes-too-much detail on
my journey. There is so much in motion now; the days are not nearly long
enough.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="NoIndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To those who think my disability is permanent AND irreversible, you may
be correct. However, the thought doesn’t scare me. My writing is no longer
an exercise based on anxiety, fear, and resistance.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="NoIndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I choose to focus on what my writing is — what it is for myself and what
I hope it brings to the hearts and minds of my readers.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="NoIndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Kevi</span><span color="windowtext" style="line-height: 150%;">n<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">February 2022<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is not about what my life will be like when the fight is over.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I will never stop<o:p></o:p></span></span></b>
</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I will never quit<o:p></o:p></span></span></b>
</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is my story<o:p></o:p></span></span></b>
</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></b>
</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Never Stop… Never Quit…®<o:p></o:p></span></span></b>
</p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: right; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kevin Byrne<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: right; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Portland, OR<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: right; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="http://www.neverstopneverquit.com/"><span style="font-size: medium;">www.neverstopneverquit.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"></p>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-48837268128117287242022-02-09T08:20:00.000-08:002022-02-09T08:20:54.264-08:00Peanut Butter and Jelly<p>
<span style="background-color: #fcff01;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Short Story</span></span>
</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPLh9Gqx6BOyMbNaLt_PQlaA7czryLYNzFm5x9gFmZCNJMNgc3BoGgdIdJiwUtz2lTt08DQKj02PA0WFjh0hilWWVU_tFerdwRC4S7XP0j8yqa6R8lR1N3K6VzeAW3doEsaE2RBsBVog6Gx6nsJHgc46w1t9jL1xRCuLLUtCiPde1ZY7mosfgyPt0oxg=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPLh9Gqx6BOyMbNaLt_PQlaA7czryLYNzFm5x9gFmZCNJMNgc3BoGgdIdJiwUtz2lTt08DQKj02PA0WFjh0hilWWVU_tFerdwRC4S7XP0j8yqa6R8lR1N3K6VzeAW3doEsaE2RBsBVog6Gx6nsJHgc46w1t9jL1xRCuLLUtCiPde1ZY7mosfgyPt0oxg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />Peanut Butter and Jelly</b></span><br />
<p></p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Grandpa! Grandma!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly’s squeal bounced across every wall throughout the two-story home in a
way that only a five-year-old’s squeal can bounce. She stood at the top of
the stairs tracking every step the two made.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Dad!” Lilly said. “Grandpa Mike and Grandma Gail are walking up the
driveway.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“What are they doing so early on a Monday morning?” Dad’s voice came from
somewhere. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know. Grandpa has a big bag in his arm,” she said. Still up on the
second-floor landing, Lilly dropped to her belly to get a better look
through all the front windows. “I can’t see where they went.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Dad peeked out from the bathroom, shook his head, and smiled. Lilly was
still trying to scout the positions of her visitors. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In a calm voice, he suggested, “Why don’t you go down there and see what
they’re doing?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Good idea!” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Lilly darted down the
stairs to wait by the front door. The anticipation was almost too much to
contain. Was Grandpa behind the front door, waiting to surprise her with a
“Gotcha!” if she got too close? Maybe he was sneaking in around the side to
zap her with the tickle monster. It was quiet. Too quiet.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">When Dad started to make his way down, he was not surprised to see Lilly
still by the entranceway, head turned and one ear pressed against the door.
“Are they here?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I think so. But I can’t tell.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Dad was still amused. “What can you tell by listing to the door?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Not much.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With a chuckle, Dad tussled his daughter’s hair as he urged her out of the
way He unlatched the bolt and turned the handle, coming face-to-face with an
all-too-familiar sight.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Geez, Pop, Gail. Get a room, you two!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike smiled and said, “Ha! Sorry about that, Brian. Love is in the air,
Son. Love is in the air. Happy Valentine’s Day!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Brian moaned just loud enough so everyone could hear him as he turned to
make his way back upstairs and finish getting ready for work. On his way, he
mocked his father’s happy mood. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Love is in the air… Whatever,” he said, just quiet enough so no one could
hear him.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Centerstage was now open for Grandpa Mike.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Who’s ready for some Valentine’s Day breakfast?” Mike sang in his best,
‘Come on down!’ tone.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Me!” squeaked the first voice.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Me!” squealed the second.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“That sounds like a tie to me,” Mike said. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly and Gail stared each other down with grimacing scowls, both thinking
they should have won that round. Lilly cracked a smile first; Grandma Gail
claimed her victory.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“You ready for breakfast, too, Grumpypants?” Mike called upstairs.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Good one, Grandpa,” Lilly chuckled as she grabbed the bag her grandfather
was holding and made her way to the kitchen. As she walked, a scowl returned
to her face, her shoulders slumped, and she clumsily walked side to side,
side to side, mumbling, “Grrr! I’m Mr. Grumpypants.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Good one, Lilly,” Gail chuckled as she followed Lilly’s version of Mr.
Grumpypants into the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike smiled, glancing upstairs to see if they got a reaction from his son.
“Breakfast in ten, Brian,” he said, loud enough for anyone upstairs to hear.
Mike hoped his son wasn’t alone up there and wouldn’t come down. Love is in
the air.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I’ve got a busy morning, Dad. I need to get to work,” Brian said. He was
yelling from the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I said breakfast in ten.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Yes, sir.” Brian just closed his eyes and took a calm breath. “I’m never
going to win this one, am I?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Nope.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike walked into the kitchen to see his two helpers laying out the contents
of his shopping bag onto the kitchen island. Two jars of peanut butter, two
jars of jelly, a loaf of bread, and a pack of soft tortillas. Neither helper
seemed particularly confused, but they were waiting for further
instruction.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Who wants to help me make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” Grandpa
Mike asked, looking deep into the crowd of two.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly bounced up and down with her hand held high. “Ooh,” she said. “Me.
Pick me!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Gail quickly raised her right hand, placing the tip of her index finger to
her nose. “Not it,” she said. Lilly claimed victory.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Okay, munchkin, you’re up.” Grandpa Mike started barking out orders in
rapid succession as Lilly scrambled to keep up with his pace.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I need four plates,” Grandpa said. Lilly darted to the cabinet, counted
off four dishes, then dashed back to the island. She placed them down and
announced the completion of her mission. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Four plates!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Four napkins on the table.” <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The report never came in until her task was complete. “Four napkins!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Five spreader knives.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Five spreader knives!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I smell coffee brewing. Let’s get a cup for your dad. Black.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“A cup for my dad. Black!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Two orange juices.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Two orange juices!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Pizza cutter.” <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly didn’t know what to do. “Pizza cutter?” she asked. A look over to
Gail didn’t help. They were both confused.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“You heard me,” Grandpa Mike confirmed. “Pizza cutter.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Pizza cutter!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Cutting board.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Cutting board!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">When Brian turned the corner into the kitchen, he shook his head again. No,
this was not a fight he was going to win. “What is your grandfather up to
this morning?” he asked his daughter.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Breakfast,” she said. Then, taking her dad by the hand, Lilly led him over
to the table and motioned for him to take a seat in front of a piping hot
cup of coffee. She sat down by his side.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Grandma Gail made her way over to the table and took a seat, her hands
warming up around the cup of tea she made while the other commotion was
going on.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Okay, Lilly,” Mike said. “Do we have everything?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I guess so, Grandpa. I got everything you told me to get.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Then the last thing I need to get is cracking. So, let’s get cracking!”
Lilly squeaked and laughed. Gail chuckled. Brian shook his head at the corny
pun.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Grandpa Mike reached across the kitchen island and took the first plate off
the stack. He raised it, keeping his arm straight, slowly rotated the dish
in front of his family, showing both the front and back to prove it was
empty. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“First up, sweet Lilly,” he said. The five-year-old bounced and clapped her
hands in excitement.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike opened the pack of whole-grain bread, set the first two pieces from
the end aside, and grabbed two fluffy slices, placing them on the cutting
board. He looked back up and scanned his audience for reactions. Nothing.
Next, he reached towards the peanut butter jars, then paused ever so
slightly before grabbing the chunky peanut butter. Lilly gasped a sigh of
relief as her grandfather opened the jar. He scooped a generous portion and
lathered one slice of bread end to end with a spreader knife. Mike looked up
and reached across for a jelly – the jar of raspberry preserves, to be
specific. Lilly wasn’t concerned he would make the wrong choice that time.
He spread an even amount across the second slice. When the crowd inched
forward, waiting to see what would happen next, Grandpa Mike reached across
and grabbed the pizza cutter.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“When you were a baby,” he said to Lilly, “you loved peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches. We used to eat them together every day.” As he talked,
Mike started to cut into the coated slices. Three cuts up, two across. Next
piece, three and two. Twelve squares each. He looked at Lilly. “One day, you
grabbed the peanut butter slice while I was still spreading the jelly. So I
thought, ‘If that’s the way you want it…,’ and I just put the jelly slice on
your plate.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike looked back down and grabbed a peanut butter corner. “You would take a
bite of peanut butter,” he said as he placed the first corner on her plate
before grabbing a raspberry preserves-coated version of the next piece. He
continued, “then, you would take a bite of jelly. Until one day…” Grandpa
Mike rebuilt the two images: peanut butter – jelly – peanut butter – jelly,
for one, then jelly – peanut butter – jelly – peanut butter, for the
other.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“…we did this.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">There were more giggles, bouncing, and clapping as Mike presented his
checkerboard sandwich creation to Lilly.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I remember that,” Brian said. “You always had some silly way to eat a
sandwich.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly looked at her dad and giggled in agreement before picking a plate to
show Grandma Gail. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s a good-looking sandwich, Sweetie,” Grandma Gail said.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With approving nods from all, she put her plate down to wait for the other
breakfast creations.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike grabbed the second plate and presented it with the same pomp and
circumstance. However, he picked a tortilla and laid it directly onto the
plate this time. The second jar of peanut butter, the creamy one, was his
next selection. Mike reached for the unopened jelly but paused. With his arm
still extended, he looked over to Lilly for a recommendation. Aghast by what
he must be thinking, wondering if her grandfather had gone mad, she shook
her head no – it was more of a nervous twitch – but refused to say a
word.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“You’re right, my dear,” Grandpa said. “My lovely bride definitely prefers
the sweet sugars of your favorite raspberry preserves.” He tapped the jar,
indicating his selection. Lilly gasped a breath of relief. Gail knew he
would never dare.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike continued. “Unlike you, however, she does not like that fancy organic
12-grain bread. She prefers…” Mike picked up the package and squinted to
read its tiny lettering. “…low-calorie, low-carb, high-protein, whole-wheat
tortillas, with creamy peanut butter and raspberry preserves.” Mike smeared
the peanut butter in a lazy S down the middle of Gail’s tortilla before
blending it with a healthy smidge of preserves. He placed the “contaminated”
jelly spreader into the sink before carefully rolling the breakfast
sandwich, neatly folded at one end.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Brian congratulated Gail, “that’s one fine-looking peanut butter and jelly
burrito. ¡Come con gusto, Señorita!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly admired the creation. She said, “I think I might try that the next
time I have a PB&J. Whenever that will be.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Tomorrow!” all three shouted in agreement. More giggles, more
bouncing.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Brian,” his dad said as he grabbed the third plate. “In all of your years,
you have never strayed from the original.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I am who I am,” Brian said as his father pulled two more slices from the
bag. He grabbed a spreader and applied an even layer of crunchy peanut
butter, corner to corner and end to end, onto one piece before reaching for
the unopened jar.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Yep, old school grape jelly proves you are who you are. I love it!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“No school like the old school, Dad. You taught me that.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike grabbed the fourth spreader and spread the grape jelly. It was not
spread on the clean slice, mind you, but directly atop the peanut butter
layer. He looked up and winked at Lilly before spreading a second layer of
crunchy peanut butter on the other slice.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I started doing this for your school lunches when you were a kid,” Mike
said. If you put the J in between layers of PB, it won’t bleed through the
bread before lunchtime.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s what Daddy does for me,” Lilly boasted.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“You two must be the envy of your classes,” Gail said. But the task was not
yet complete, so she set the stage. “What about you, Grandpa?” she asked.
“Would you going to have for your Valentine’s Day breakfast?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s a tough one,” Mike said. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb across
his chin as if he was deep in thought. “Grape or raspberry?” There was no
anxiety this time, but Lilly was again on the edge of her seat.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Raspberry it is!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Gail’s hands raised in triumph once more.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Brian jerked his neck back, shattered by losing a race so close.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly sighed, happy that breakfast prep was almost over.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Sorry, Son. She got me hooked on the ’serves.” Mike grabbed the two loose
end pieces and put them on his plate.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s not a word, Dad,” Brian said while his father dropped and smushed a
healthy serving of crunchy peanut butter on one slice. “At least you haven’t
gone creamy.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Nope, I’m a chunky man,” Mike said, pausing to rub his belly. He then
grabbed the fifth spreader (it was uncontaminated) and scooped raspberry
preserves, piling them on top of his peanut butter. Then, using the second
slice as a press, he pushed the preserves across both peanut buttered and
un-peanut buttered portions of the sandwich.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“You never could eat your sandwich like a normal person, Pop!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s the perfect creation,” Mike explained as he walked over to the table,
plate in hand, and sat next to his wife. “The pressure spreads the preserves
across the bread, but not too far over the edge. See?” He traced his finger
along the bottom of his sandwich, noting three different points where
raspberry preserves protruded but never separated from their host. “Every
time I bite into this PB&J, my mouth will enjoy a different
sensation.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">He circled one corner of the bread. “Almost all grain with just a hint of
raspberry sweetness. Will there be peanut butter somewhere in that bite?” He
looked over at Lilly, but she just shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know
either.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“This part here,” he said, running his finger along the bread’s ridgeline,
“will be a healthy mix. The bread, preserves, peanut butter, and bread again
will all come together in a fantastic battle for control of my taste buds.
Every next bite will be different from the last.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Then, he pressed the middle of his creation, denting the soft slice for
just a moment. “This is payday! A hefty portion of chunky peanut
butter-ness. Sometimes I save the center for last, enjoying the unique
combinations of every other bite my sandwich holds. Sometimes I gobble a
path straight through, satisfying my urge before cleaning the bones off my
prey.” Grandpa Mike’s eyes grew wide as he scanned the table, searching for
a reaction. Lilly’s eyes grew wide, Gail’s formed tears of laughter, Brian’s
looked down as he continued to shake his head.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s still weird to me,” Brian said.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Gail looked over at Mike and shared a quick, silent conversation (one you
can only have after 21 years of marriage) before tapping her hand on the
table.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Lilly, dear,” she said. “I have some Valentine’s Day presents in the car.
Of course, they are no artisan peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but why
don’t we get them to share over breakfast.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Arty who?” Lily asked.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Come on, silly! I’ll explain on the way.” As the girls popped up to get
gifts from the car, Gail looked back at Mike and winked before opening the
front door.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Thanks, Babe,” Mike’s silent reply said.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“‘Fantastic battle for control of my taste buds!’ That’s a good one, dad.”
Mike leaned back and enjoyed another sip of coffee.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Thanks,” Mike said. They enjoyed a silent moment before he decided to
share a story.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“You know, Brian, I’ve made a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in
my life.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m sure.” Brian showed no interest in this declaration. His dad continued
anyway.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m talking thousands and thousands since I was a kid. I ate them all my
life. I can make a good sandwich – a normal sandwich.” Mike pointed out
Brian’s, and he pointed to Lilly’s. “For me, though, they were always weird.
I never thought so, but everyone who has ever watched me make one thought
they were weird.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s because they are, Dad,” Brian said.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“True.” Mike thought about that for a minute, but he had to reconfirm.
“True.” Again, the table remained silent for a while.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“But,” Mike said, as though he realized a point to his losing argument, “I
continued to make them. You know, many people think that the way you craft a
PB&J is a sign of what kind of person you are.” He pointed to Lilly’s
plate – “Strong, intelligent, and organized.” He swung his finger over to
Brian’s plate – “Traditional, loyal, reliable.” Pulling his arm back, Mike
gestured towards Gail’s plate, by his side – “This one’s confident,
creative, and exciting.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Me?” Mike looked down at his plate. “They think this says that I’m a mess.
Never got my shit straight; at my age, I never will. However, even though
everyone always had a comment about the poor form of my sandwich, I
continued to make them.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Good for you, Dad,” Brian said while getting up to refill his cup. What he
really wanted to do was eat his sandwich; that coffee was burning a hole in
his empty stomach. But, when he heard the car door outside slam shut, he
hurried back to his seat.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike continued, “I met Gail a few years after your mom and I divorced. Do
you know what that woman said the first time she saw me make a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">For the first time, Brian was curious how the story would turn out. “What’s
that?” he said.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Nothing,” Mike replied. “Since the first day we met, Gail has never
commented on my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">To Brian, that was interesting. “So, what does she think about them?” he
asked.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike shrugged his shoulders, twisted his face, and threw his hands in the
air. “I have no idea,” he said. “That I am confident? Creative? Don’t have
my poop in a group? Maybe she thinks I am a complete loon.” Brian spat a bit
of coffee while laughing. His dad piled it on. “She may be playing the long
game, waiting for me to check in on the funny farm! Lilly, too. She has
never said a word about Frankenstein’s sandwich.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Both men kept laughing so hard they never heard Gail and Lilly come back
into the house. Cautiously, the girls inched their way in towards the sound
of bellowing laughter. Mike jumped up, tears streaming down from his face.
He lifted Lilly with one arm, then wrapped the other around Gail’s
waist.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Brian had to know. “Hey, you two,” he said, between snorts of laughter. How
come you never said anything to Grandpa Mike about his ugly peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches?<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Not sure of what the joke was, they looked at each other curiously.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know,” Gail said. “It’s his sandwich.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Lilly remained clueless but could not contain herself, joining in on the
laughter. “Because that’s the way Grandpa likes ’em,” she giggled.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike held his two treasures, unable and unwilling to dry his eyes. “Brian,”
he said, “do you know what to do with someone who doesn’t share their
opinion about everything?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s that, Dad?”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike pulled his two girls in tighter, kissing them both on their
cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“You love them for the rest of your life!”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="IndentBodyKB" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><br /></p>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-76970397969178722702022-01-18T09:03:00.000-08:002022-01-19T10:25:07.601-08:00Dogface Soldier<p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span>
</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ-NGhI_XMne0tTUA4PDCEBQ7Te39iPrTmXmYfngggmhCH_2qx6ENMMMLDM1Uc4g3iM0d0qwf6QRdXL-xY96sr1jixV37-Ok9T5a4MZpv3sdRTyJtVkdt8lbLdDyjRv4d9nD1cRXMunSQY2X2YdV5NKDqO7GXW8pejoA85xSUTl3xF8AhwzbyybHIspA=s300" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ-NGhI_XMne0tTUA4PDCEBQ7Te39iPrTmXmYfngggmhCH_2qx6ENMMMLDM1Uc4g3iM0d0qwf6QRdXL-xY96sr1jixV37-Ok9T5a4MZpv3sdRTyJtVkdt8lbLdDyjRv4d9nD1cRXMunSQY2X2YdV5NKDqO7GXW8pejoA85xSUTl3xF8AhwzbyybHIspA" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Dogface Soldier</b></span><p></p>
<p class="NoIndentKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you think they’ll torture us, Sarge?” The two men sat crossed-legged
on an empty floor, back-to-back. They were each other’s support rest that
way. Plus, they could scan in all directions, as far as the dim light
allowed their eyes to penetrate the darkness. The older one slowly
searched for any activity, left to right, then right to left. The younger
sat cowering, with a look that said it all.<i>
I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. Please tell me everything will be
okay!<o:p></o:p></i></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know, Taggart. I don’t know – never been this close to ’em
before.” He wanted nothing more than to offer reassuring words but just
could not allow himself to share fantasy and false hope. He was scared as
well. “No, never been this close to ’em before. I heard back in ’42 they
found a half dozen from the Second ID, soldiers from an advanced party we
sent out to try and fix their location. All they recovered were those six
bodies.” Sitting on the floor, Taggart pulled his knees close and buried
his face to hide his expression. <i>This can’t be happening.</i>
<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“They sent 128 in total; no one has any idea what happened to the rest of
them. If those six were any indication, it didn’t go well.” The sergeant
continued scanning as he spoke. His detached expression showed no sympathy
for their predecessors. “When they were found, they were stripped and
half-starved. Four were already dead — the others made it another 36 hours
before…”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Before what, Sergeant Clark?” <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clark wanted nothing more than to reassure his soldier. He could not find
the words but finally choked out a response.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The bastards had ripped out all of their finger-and-toenails, Taggart.
One was carved up so bad – head cut up and shaved, ears mutilated — you
couldn’t even identify the body as human without…” <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The sergeant’s response kept trailing off, repeatedly fighting back the
urge to break down and cry; Taggart was already there.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clark and Taggart were the only soldiers remaining. At least, they were
the only two at that particular location. Sergeant Clark found it
impossible to tell where they were or why they were being held. The room
was large; Clark found it hard to believe it was needed just to hold two
naked and frightened soldiers. The plan must have been to capture more.
That was, of course, before things got out of hand in the final defense of
Perimeter Tango. Clark never saw bloodshed like that before — he never
even heard of brutality on such a scale.
<i>What the fuck happened?</i> Hell, they’re the Third Infantry Division,
the famed “Rock of the Marne” of 1918. Their dogged defense is still
legendary. Clark was baffled. “It never should’ve gone that bad, that
quickly. What the fuck happened?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But those famed battles of the American Expeditionary Force were over 160
years ago. Warfare had advanced beyond primitive days of fighting amongst
the trenches, scrambling to capture inches of ground. Their unit was
Earth’s third expedition deployed beyond the galaxy. This time, 432
soldiers were heavily armed when they landed and went in on foot. Air and
ground vehicles proved ineffective against that alien force. The enemy
immediately targeted and destroyed vehicles whenever any left the security
of their assembly area, obliterated before anyone could get a fix on
anything. “Modern warfare” took more than a few steps backward, putting
troops back into trenches. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Scouts were advancing. Then came the counterattack…<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clark and Taggart recounted the same story. Both were hit from behind
while their attention was focused on chaos to the front. They were losing
— the last moment either remembered was their commanding officer giving
the order, “fix bayonets.” <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The next thing recalled was waking up in that warehouse. Taggart had a
nasty welt on his back from some sort of piercing. He looked over his
sergeant and found the same, probably a tranquilizing agent. Clark was
trying to assess his surroundings. No equipment. No windows or doors.
Hell, the room was so tall neither could determine just how high the walls
reached until the ceiling emitted its dull brilliance. He paced the empty
room’s perimeter, 50 by 75 meters, figuring the dimensions reduced their
chances of being underground. There were no doors, windows, or openings on
four smooth metal walls. The floor showed signs of recent activity. All
they could see in the low light were each other. Stagnant air gave no
indication of circulation.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Neither could tell how long they were out, but the men were clean-shaven
the morning of battle. Clark caressed the heavy scruff on his face. His
stomach was growling as if it had been empty for days. A few days could
mean their position is anywhere on that planet, or any of the other four
in the belt for that matter. They were alone, confused, and scared. Plus,
they were naked.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Without warning, a slot at the bottom of one far wall raised. From it, a
metal tray slid into view. Both soldiers ran to the opening, but it closed
before they reached the spot. The tray had a pile of what looked like
brown flesh next to two bowls of liquid. Water was Sergeant Clark’s
guess.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Taggart leaned over the specimen to inspect it with his nose. “Is that
shit? Did they just take a shit on a plate to feed it to us,
Sergeant?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s actually pretty good once you finally get past the smell.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The quip startled both soldiers. They immediately snapped their heads
around to see who or what was there. It came from the other side of the
room. A man was standing by the wall as if he had been there the entire
time. Some part opened then sealed again while they were distracted.
Sergeant Clark took the lead.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Who the hell are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The stranger boomed, “Corporal Victor Hernandez, Charlie Company,
Reconnaissance Advanced Force, Second Infantry Division. ‘Second to
None!’” He was an old man trying his best to stand tall, snap a salute,
and bark the famed mantra of the Second ID, but his body could only
replicate a pathetic reproduction of the real thing. Immediately, however,
Clark recognized him as genuine.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“At ease, Corporal.” The character relaxed. Even old soldiers find
comfort in protocol. “I’m Staff Sergeant Linus Clark, and this is Private
Vincent Taggart.” Clark was stunned. He stared for a moment into the
geriatric’s eyes. “Have you been here since the First Expeditionary
Force?” Corporal Hernandez must have used up whatever military bearing
remained within him. He waved his hand like a giddy little kid.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Yep! Class of 2041.” As Hernandez tossed the two soldiers cloth cut from
some animal skin, Taggart gasped and asked if he had actually been held
there for 37 years. “We count time a little different out here, but if you
say it’s been 37 years, then yes, I have. I probably came to this place
much like the way you did. I don’t really know where we are,” he smiled,
“but we both know it’s not back on Earth. I go out into the yard every
once in a while. The sky is a hazy shade of purple and brown, even in the
day, but the sun peeks through sometimes.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What are you doing here?” Sergeant Taggart pulled his head through a
hole cut into the tunic. Corporal Hernandez described various duties he
was either tasked with or instinctively developed. He fancied himself a
hospitality director for their new home, often welcoming groups brought in
over the years. “There aren’t as many troopers as you might think. Most of
the time, what comes through is a roundup of regular people — four or five
at a time seems preferred. Children are better than adults since they
don’t really seem to have any desire to deal with grown humans.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Maybe they can’t.” Clark’s nonsense was just about the only sentence he
could form, still trying to come to grips with his new surroundings.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh, they’re actually quite sophisticated with our species! They try to
breed us whenever they get a woman of childbearing age or raise a bitch.”
As Hernandez kept talking, Taggart returned to the ground and sat, his
arms wrapped around trembling knees as he rocked, softly sobbing. “The
last one they caught a few years back, her name was Jenny, they kept her
pregnant through seven pups before her body gave out. Yep, five full-term,
one stillborn though, two rejected.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clark seemed confused. “They mate with our species?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh, no,” chuckled the suddenly energetic corporal. Hernandez seemed
entertained for someone who spent most of his adult life as a prisoner of
war. His delight grew the longer he talked; Clark wondered if he was just
happy to see another human after however long it must have been.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh, no,” he continued. “I don’t think they can mix with our breed.
Besides, I’d hate to be the poor female they tried that on. I did the stud
role for a while back when I was a young and tough Ranger. You think you
would never do it. You know – rape a woman. But that’s what they want you
to do. They stick you in one of those ‘breeding rooms’ and don’t let you
out until you did it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hernandez smiled. “Until, you know, you fucked her. They brought one
through here yesterday. Angela, I think her name was. Yeah. Angela
Townes.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“They got Lieutenant Townes?” Private Taggart was unsure if he should be
happy or frightened from that discovery.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Yeah, they got her. She came in here buck naked, just like you. She’s a
fertile one.” Hernandez developed a faraway look as if he was visioning
her fleshly form, imagining what he could do with her in his younger days.
“She wasn’t here long, probably sent to the breeder.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clark was growing tired of the conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“So, what the hell do they intend to try and do with us? They’re breeding
our women? For what purpose?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That all depends on what you end up with.” Corporal Hernandez explained
the situations to which he had borne witness. Humans held in isolation —
brought to the brink of starvation before they are caged with another. Two
men, one scrap of food, locked up until one is declared victorious. By the
third or fourth time any are placed in that scenario, aggression becomes
instantaneous and without mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some live their life in a pen not much different from the one they were
currently held, except for the walls. One or two sides might be open. A
strange field of energy prevented their escape while alien creatures
gathered. Their intentions were never made known. The few people Hernandez
ever spoke with after such an experience said they felt like exhibits or
observations.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I see some when they are brought back to my little sanctuary. Their
bodies are mutilated.” Private Taggart began to cower and cry at the
notion of that fate. Hernandez seemed to show some sympathy. “Those
examples are few and far between. Most of the time they come back, they’re
old, fat, and happy! I’m sure you’ll be with the second group.” It was not
much of a consolation.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At that moment, a most displeasing guttural howl came from across the
room. Hernandez jumped with glee, grabbed an arm of each soldier,
straining to lift and guide them across the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Ooh! It seemed you’re about to have your answer, Sergeant. Here! Come
here.” He directed Clark to a spot on the ground, well stained and reeking
of piss and shit. The Sergeant growled.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clark snapped as he struggled against the
man’s grip.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Trust me,” the corporal insisted. “I’ve done this thousands of times
before. This is my job. I’m supposed to prepare you for a presentation.”
He continued his positioning, coercing Clark over to his intended
location. The private was an easy move, broken and unwilling to wage a
fight against this inconceivable situation. The two were placed about
seven feet apart, facing the commotion.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Just stand there and don’t do anything stupid.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They were ready. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hernandez’s eyes lit up as he bounced on the balls of his feet in
anticipation. “I love this part. Good luck, gentleman.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The image of a wall seemed to disappear. In its place, four figures
loomed. Sergeant Clark figured three of them must have been at least
twelve feet tall, while the fourth was smaller. He never saw a real Junket
up close before. The pre-mission briefing pictures and videos never quite
captured the matted hair on their lean, muscular frames. Covered in
secretions, the hair seemed to knead and manipulate their four limbs
across the floor.
<i>Like a fucking rotting corpse dipped in barbecue sauce</i> was the
description he remembered.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Jackpot!” Hernandez began to run around in a frenzied craze. “I know
them! I know them!” Clark and Taggart remained put as their suitor
continued to dash about. “The one on the left, the striking one…”
<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They were still tall when moving, only leaning forward slightly onto
their second pair of legs. The Junkets reminded Sergeant Clark of a
praying mantis in that position. Clark could not understand what,
precisely, was striking about any of them. They were hideous. Plus, there
was that smell.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“…he’s my master. He is the one who has taken care of me since I got
here.” Hernandez was indeed subject to whatever influence these aliens
held. “I know the other two tall fellows. They’ve been here before, coming
every two or three seasons to get a couple more humans. I don’t know the
last one. He looks familiar, though.” The aliens’ liaison stared silently
for a moment until he remembered.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Wait! Is that Bobby?” <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clark asked, “What the fuck’s a Bobby?” <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know his real name,” Corporal Hernandez chuckled, “or if he even
has a name, but when they call out to him, I hear ‘Bobby’ in my head. Wow,
it must have been,” Hernandez paused. “23… It’s been 23 harvest seasons
since Bobby first appeared on the farm.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Wow! We’re both getting old, Bobby. Aren’t we?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two of the creatures moved forward. Clark and Taggart felt it was wise to
do as advised — stand there and not put up a fight. Their hair was
tussled. Taggart’s cloth was pulled aside as his genitals were lifted. It
was almost as if they were inspecting the offerings. The two stepped back
and conferred with “master” while Bobby moved in to explore the two.
<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Horrific screeches erupted between the three taller Junkets. Bobby seemed
more interested in the new humans, slowly inching closer. One “adult”
emitted a guttural yelp, and Bobby immediately stepped back to rejoin the
herd. She must have been the mother. Only a mother has such control over
their children.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom and dad made their way towards the wall where they entered. Bobby
followed close behind, screeching and spitting back towards the
humans.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hernandez was sure a deal was set!<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“A deal for what, Corporal?” Clark burst into anger.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“For you. A deal for you,” the old man rambled. “One of you. Maybe both.”
He began to jump in excitement at the thought. “Maybe they’ll keep both of
you!”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="line-height: 150%;">Maybe they’ll keep both of you.</span></i><span style="line-height: 150%;">
The phrase snapped Private Taggart out of his trance.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Keep us?” he asked. “You mean, like pets?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Sergeant erupted, “At ease, Taggart! No one’s keeping us as fucking
pets!” As Sergeant Clark turned to move towards the aliens, Corporal
Hernandez was already standing in his way. He anticipated the reaction,
one he had probably seen before. He herded the two together while working
to soothe them.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Calm down, Goddammit. Calm down.” Hernandez’s demeanor was firm. His
manner changed in an instant. “Let me tell you what is going to happen.”
The Corporal bent down and patted his palms onto the stone floor,
directing the two to take a seat. They had no choice. It was just the
three of them alone in the warehouse again. Sergeant Clark and Private
Taggart complied and took their place in front of the old soldier.
Hernandez comfortably placed a hand on each of them as he continued.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“This is what I do, gentleman. I welcome people to this godforsaken world
and try my best to help them make sense of the rest of their days.” He
rose and slowly circled the two, gently brushing his fingers through their
hair on each pass. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’m pretty
good at my job. Master has kept me in this role, so it must think I’m
doing good.” The crazy old man they first met was no longer in front of
them. Instead, they were taking direction from the noncommissioned officer
in charge.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Here’s what’s going to happen. In a few minutes, that wall will open
again, and they are going to bring in a cage.” Before Sergeant Clark had a
chance to recoil from the word <i>cage</i>, Hernandez cut him off. “Don’t
interrupt me, Sergeant.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“They will let you know who’s going in the cage. They’ll be gentle if you
don’t put up a fight. They won’t be gentle if you resist.” The Corporal
placed his hands together in prayer. “Please don’t resist. Trust me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Private Taggart raised his hand as he posed his question. “What are they
going to do to us, Corporal?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know where you’re going, but I know that you will have it good.
I have seen people after they’ve gone with this family. Life will be as
best as it can get for you on this planet. There will be chances to see
that glorious brown sunset. You’ll get good food. You’ll get used to
it.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Corporal Hernandez continued to circle as he let the words sink in.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“If you resist… If they don’t take you… If any others come for you… I
don’t want to share the horrors of what will happen if you don’t go into
the crate.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The corporal stopped in front of Clark. Hernandez’s somber look changed
with the slightest hint of a grin.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sergeant Clark, you said you are with the Third Infantry Division?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“First Battalion, Second Regiment, Exo-Planet Task Force!” Clark
boasted.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hernandez paused like he was struggling to recall his old army days.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Third ID? ‘Rock of the Marne?’”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hooah, Corporal!”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“They still call you Dogface Soldiers?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Only in history books,” Taggart replied.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Corporal Hernandez did not need to provide any more clarification. There
was nothing left to explain. He continued to circle his two soldiers as
the reality of their fate firmed.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Neither Dogface Soldier reacted when the wall faded once more, opening
just enough to allow a dilapidated flatbed vehicle through. It seemed to
float inches above the floor, elevated by a sputtering cushion of air. Its
cargo was a square metallic crate with dozens of fist-sized holes
perforating the walls.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The vehicle went silent as it settled. A Junket exited without a sound
and came around back, tracing one of its thin upper limbs across the
crate’s top. Unlocked, one side fell to the bottom of the truck bed in a
violent sound that broke the silence and set Corporal Hernandez to action.
He knew just what to do next.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Let’s go, Sergeant,” he whispered while gently tugging Clark’s arm.
There was no fight left in the man. He sheepishly rose and followed.
Hernandez herded him to the crate, grabbed the nape of his neck, guiding
him into a sitting position with his knees folded. “Make some room,” he
ordered while pushing Clark deeper into the crate, then returned to
retrieve Taggart. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You’re up, soldier.” The process was repeated without resistance.
Hernandez backed away as the Junket closed its crate; nothing remained for
hospitality to do. He turned, forgoing any “fond farewell” or “bon voyage”
for his fellow soldiers. Walking over to the untouched food on the tray,
he sat down and treated himself to his reward for a job well done.
<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The vehicle looked as it had seen better days, slowly sputtering to build
enough cushion and lift itself off the ground. While the engine was
straining, Hernandez took one last look at the two new family pets. He
could barely make out their faces through the air holes. Softly, he began
to hum a tune both soldiers were sure to know. As the engine grew louder,
so did Hernandez’s tune. When the vehicle broke free from gravity, he
burst into song:<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I Wouldn’t Give A Bean<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To Be A Fancy Pants Marine<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’d Rather Be A<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dog Face Soldier Like I Am<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I Wouldn’t Trade My Old OD’s<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For All The Navy’s Dungarees<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For I’m The Walking Pride<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of Uncle Sam<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On Army Posters That I Read<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It Says “Be All That You Can”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So They’re Tearing Me Down<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To Build Me Over Again”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The engine howled louder. His song grew bolder. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m Just A Dog Face Soldier<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With A Rifle On My Shoulder<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And I Eat Raw Meat<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For Breakfast E’V’RY Day<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So Feed Me Ammunition<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Keep Me In Third Division<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.3in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Your Dog Face Soldier’s A-Okay”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Good luck, men,” Corporal Hernandez whispered to himself as the vehicle
pulled away and exited.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Neither Clark nor Taggart could make out anything during their trip. As
the engine choked, its speed increased. A bitter wind blew through the
crate as turbulence tossed them about. The men were frightened, cold, and
disoriented. Taggart threw up twice, spewing bloody bile from his empty
stomach. By the time the trip was complete, about 45 minutes, hyperthermia
had begun to set in for both. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nighttime set upon a world 350,000 light-years away from home.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While Papa Junket guided the metallic crate into a well-lit, heated barn,
Mama and Junior watched from the main house. Taggart peered through the
ventilation hole and watched the younger one. As its mother stroked her
elongated antennae across its thorax, the child mimicked the same motion
across the back of a rather plump elderly woman. Their eyes met for just a
moment.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She did not appear amused.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The crate settled to the ground in synchronized unison just as all lights
extinguished. One side open, spilling its contents of one Private Vincent
Taggart, one Staff Sergeant Linus Clark, and a foul stream of human
secretions. Taggart rolled onto his knees, trying to stand as he peered
into an empty void.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Stand fast, Private,” were the first words spoken. “You have no idea
what’s out there.” Clark placed his hand on Taggart’s shoulder. He was
still charged with the health and welfare of his subordinate, but this
time, there was no sense of a chain of responsibility. The Sergeant was
not caring for his soldier; he was not soothing a scared boy. Linus was
reaching out for security and comfort from another soul.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“We’re better off staying put,” Clark reassured himself aloud. “At least
it’s warm. We’ll take shifts tonight — I have the first hour, so get some
sleep. At first light, we’ll recon the area and assess our next move.”
<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Taggart confessed, “I saw something in the other structure when we
arrived. It looked like a female, Sarge.” Clark did not respond. He just
propped himself up against their crate. There were no words to offer, only
the comfort of sliding his arm around Taggart’s neck and chest as the
private leaned back and relaxed every muscle in his exhausted frame.
“Bobby was holding her like they were buddies forever. They looked happy,”
his words trailed off.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you think they’ll be as good to us, Sarge?”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sergeant Clark held back. He wanted to tell his soldier to toughen
<a name="KVWin_undoend"></a>up and quit whining, to share his plans of
escaping and killing every last Junket they found. He thought about making
it to the rally point and rejoining their unit for a second assault. He
wanted to share something positive, something decisive, but he could not
lie to his only friend.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Get some sleep, Taggart. We’ll talk about everything at first
light.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That was enough for the young soldier. Tucking his arms under the flimsy
garment, he turned his head into Clark’s chest and closed his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Good night, Sarge,” came a soft whisper.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Woof,” Clark sobbed as he wrapped his arms tighter around Taggart,
gently rocking the young Dogface Soldier to sleep. The only sounds were
his melodic hum and occasional words of their beloved lullaby.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’d rather be a dogfaced soldier like I am…”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Acknowledgments</b><o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What if it was <i>you</i> on the other side of the cage?<o:p></o:p></span></span></b>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“We fight the big fights to end suffering for all animals.”<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Together with millions of supporters, the Humane Society of the United
States takes on puppy mills, factory farms, the fur trade, trophy hunting,
animal cosmetics testing and other cruel industries. Through our rescue,
response and sanctuary work, as well as other hands-on animal care
services, we help thousands of animals every year. We fight all forms of
animal cruelty to achieve the vision behind our name: a humane
society.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Learn more here: </span><a href="http://www.humanesociety.org/all-our-fights"><span style="line-height: 150%;">www.humanesociety.org/all-our-fights</span></a><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Dog Face Soldier Song was written in 1942 by Lieut. Ken Hart and Cpl.
Bert Gold, two U.S. Army infantry soldiers. It is the official song of the
3rd Infantry Division. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.dogfacesoldier.org/"><span style="line-height: 150%;">www.dogfacesoldier.org</span></a><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rocky the Bulldog is the symbol of the 3rd Infantry Division. He was
created by Walt Disney himself in 1965. The 3rd Infantry Division gained
the right to display Rocky through an exchange of letters between Disney
Productions and the 3ID commander at the time, MG Albert O. Connor.<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">“Rocky the Bulldog.” <i>Fort Stewart-Hunter Army Airfield</i>, </span><a href="http://home.army.mil/stewart/index.php/about/history/rocky"><span style="line-height: 150%;">home.army.mil/stewart/index.php/about/history/rocky</span></a><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></b>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dogface Soldier<o:p></o:p></span></span></b>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Words and Music by Ken Hart and Bert Gold, additional lyrics by Jack
Dolph<o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">© 1956 SHAWNEE PRESS <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All Rights Reserved <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<i><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC<o:p></o:p></span></span></i>
</p>
<p class="IndentBodyKB" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</p>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-34722318284026355762022-01-13T07:24:00.002-08:002022-01-19T10:25:07.593-08:00The Drowning Man - DAY 8498<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=s3682" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2068" data-original-width="3682" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a>
</div>
<p class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/">https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/</a><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 8498<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Seventeen years ago, I decided there was no room in my heart
for anyone but *her*. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Long after she passed, I broke my solemn vow and grew angry
at the miserable circumstances of my life. My thoughts and words were clouded
again like before she saved me. I spend my days in solitude once more,
despising the loneliness yet unwilling to embrace another horror. Recently, I
began to debate the cost of one versus the benefit of another. I now venture
beyond the patio, fearful that I will see her each time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Before I made my way home today, I caught a glimpse of her
between the market booths. Was she hiding from the persistent mist, early
July’s attempt to delay summertime glory in the Pacific Northwest? I don’t mind
the rain. It poses less danger than the deep waters I have grown accustomed to.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No, it was me. I was the prey. She was following at a
distance until the time was right, but she had lost her skill as our years
advanced. I cannot place a date, but I have seen that face before. It was our
time to meet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You are not her,” I declared when she turned the blind
corner I slipped past, then waited for my shadow to appear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hello again, Andrew.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Again?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I can almost see it in your eyes. You’re trying to figure
out the last time we spoke. Are you still talking to yourself in that weird,
semi-lucid speech pattern?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I am,” I confessed. “On both counts.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“God, the blog is entertaining to read, but I wish you would
fucking stop talking like that.” Sometimes, I do as well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I gestured towards a table by the food carts, where we could
sit and talk. She was charming. She wasn’t *her*, but the fascination proved to
be absorbing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was no need to react when she mentioned reading my
words. I assumed everyone did. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She knew everything and had an opinion on everything. “Your
idiosyncrasies have been entertaining to follow over the years. Angela found it
‘fetching.’ Yes, I think she used to use the term fetching.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My heart began to warm with thoughts of her and our time
together. She always called me “fetching.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Peggy thought it was quirky but just shrugged it off
because you were an American.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When she spoke her second name, fear began to build.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“How do you know her names?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She raised a hand to my face, a signal to stop speaking.
This was her time, her moment to share a well-practiced soliloquy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I first saw Angela when you brought her back home, where we
grew up. I guess you wanted to show off those old stomping grounds. You were
married five years at that point — you still looked like the 12-year-old boy I
remembered from summer camp.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Summer camp. My first hint.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I mentioned it to my mom. She talked to your mom. We found
out you were back from your adventures.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wanted to hear more, but Angela’s chapter was over.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I kept in touch. I mean, I found you moved to Brussels. New
life, new wife, huh?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Peggy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Did you know I was there when you two met? After all those
years, it was supposed to be my <i>accidental run-in</i>. I was about to call
out your name when I saw that stupid look on your face again. You were standing
in the middle of the street, staring into that shop. You saw her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I walked right up to you and whispered, ‘Elle est
magnifique.’ I already realized there was no chance you would notice me that
day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Magnificent! I remember you.” I remembered a voice that
would never be *her*.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“<i>Gorgeous</i>. Close enough. Geez, eight months, and you
never learned the language!” Even if I wanted to explain, it was not my turn to
speak.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Everything I planned vanished in the blink of an eye when
you saw her. I was rejected again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rejected again? My second hint.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Four times before you met Hy’ing, we <i>accidentally</i>
crossed paths.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Valparaíso. Wonju. Köln. Singapore.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Four times, but you never reached for me. You never
attempted to connect.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I recalled a face. “You weren’t her,” I confessed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Never say that again!” she yelled, slamming her fist on the
table before taking a deep breath to re-center the calm and reiterate her
mandate. “Never say that bullshit to me again. You broke my heart with those
words as a child. We played in the pool, happy and laughing until you looked at
me with those sad eyes. ‘You are not her,’ you mumbled, turned, and just swam
away.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The pool. I remembered her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I sincerely apologize…” but the expression of remorse would
never reach completion. Instead, her hand to my face again cut short all insincerity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I thought after Hy’ing you were a broken man.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I was,” came my assurance. “I am,” was my affirmation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s what I thought. It satisfies me to see you this way.
I don’t try for a reunion anymore. I just like to read those pitiful words you
post, to know that you feel the way I do, I mean did.” Her slip revealed more
than she wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I grew curious and had to know more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Then, why today? What caused you to emerge from obscurity?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Emerge from obscurity?” she chuckled. “You are such a fucking
tool.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn’t the answer I hoped for, so I re-inquired.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Fine, why now? What do you want?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s simple,” she revealed. Raising her hand a third time,
now directed away from me, she pointed into the crowd. “I wanted to stop you
from meeting <i>her</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She was beautiful. For seventeen years, my heart lay
dormant. When a drowning man cannot take a breath, there’s no need to circulate
blood through his body. I remember my childhood, slipping into the water to
stare at her body below the surface. I realized she was not *her*. Desire drained,
but I maintained a yearning for more. My body needed the oxygen only a beating heart
could provide. My lungs required the air above my head, beyond the water in
which I was drowning. I looked up as I pressed my feet against the pool floor.
Shooting to the surface, I could see air preparing to welcome me. My lungs
would soon find the satisfaction of precious oxygen. My blood would quickly
become vibrant, giving my heart the only thing it desired: a reason to pulse once
more. I surfaced, made my declaration, then turned and swam away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was no reason to merely stare when I saw *her* through
today’s crowd. I pressed my feet to the ground, preparing to live after
drowning for so many years. My heart rippled in anticipation of once again
having a purpose. Before I exited our conversation, I felt familiar breath
whisper into my ear once more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I stopped you so I didn’t have to kill her again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>What will</i>
versus <i>What should be</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I smiled, at peace with my response to our game.</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 2319<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m delighted I took that chance. These have been the most
enchanting four days of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 2315<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
I lost track of time during my new life in Shenzhen, failing to share my words
for more than 500 days. For some reason, however, I knew today would be
different as I ventured outside. With so many traveling home for the New Year,
open-air markets once again hosted my pleasurable afternoon stroll. I marveled
at the aromas of seasoned meats, dumplings, live poultry, fresh vegetables,
and the sites of ornate silk garments, handbags, DVDs, and an odd assortment
of children’s toys. The merchants always peddle their collections for purchase
at reasonable prices. I was close to completing the day’s third voyage through
Luohu when I saw her.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
How many moments passed before my eyes turned away? A single? A thousand? For
the very first time, I resisted that pull towards the one person I desired.
<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
Even as my heart yearned to run back and scour the marketplace, dark memories
gathered to remind me of what our future guaranteed. <i>What will</i> would be
victorious against <i>What should be</i>. I purchased two fresh lotus roots
and made my way home.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“Why did you stare so long, only to turn and run away?” Her voice did not
startle me, for destiny will always press the inevitable. I continued to walk
but slowed my pace; her stride was much shorter than mine. <o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“I already found the woman of my dreams,” I replied when she finally reached
my side. “They were magical times — times I would never consider wasted or
frivolous.”<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
I was cautious with my next words.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“Do I dare let you into my life again…”<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“I’m already here,” she interrupted.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“You are. But the question is deeper. Do I dare let you into my life again,
embracing everything I yearn for? Can I risk adding you to her legacy? Do I
threaten to turn my heart and mind cynical?”<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“Why don’t we talk about this over dinner? You can cook.” I found comfort with
her simple words.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
Is it selfish for me to cut her life short so that I may satisfy my carnal
desires? There is no doubt in my mind that what happened before, and the time
preceding, will mirror itself in her blood. If she only breathes one day in my
arms, though, it is one more than I hope she could ever take beyond their
reach.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
So I did, and we did. We decided that everything was too glorious to pass.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1770<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
Cruel instruction often reinforces a softhearted message. <o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
Today my reminder rings true: it is better to love. In all scenarios, it is
better. She reminded me of that lesson every single day.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“My darling, a time may come when you no longer need me. I hope you always
find comfort knowing that, though I will be sad, I’ll understand.”<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
I chuckled every time she sent the text, then fed her my response to our
playful tête-à-tête.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“I always hoped you would remember by now, though I am more than happy to
remind you again. A day may come, my darling, when you can no longer hold onto
our life. It will not be my choice, but I’ll never mourn your loss. I will
understand. I will always need you.”<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
Then, she would call.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“Like before?” she would ask.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“Like before,” I’d reply, always adding, “but unlike any other time.”<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
My prediction came true today. I have no other choice than to rejoice once
more. Every day of my life, for as long as I am cursed to go on, I will always
need her.<o:p></o:p>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>***</span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>HIS BLOG: DAY 1448<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I wish it were possible to travel through time. I would visit the day we
first met so many years ago. Not to interfere but to bear witness. What was
my reaction when I knew she was the one I desired? Was it the same image as
my reflection in that glass today?<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I had returned to the safety of isolation, writing these words to everybody
instead of talking with anyone. Senseless conversations board me; the only
thought in my mind was always <i>you are not her</i>. Is detachment somehow
necessary to find love? <o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Everything changed when I saw her today. It was foolish to assume she was
waiting for me. Yet, could there have been any other reason for her to sit
alone in that café, framed by the sash bars of its nine-panel storefront
window, staring out to the Rue du Trône the moment I walked past?
Impossible.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I felt familiar breath whisper a word in my ear. <i>Magnificent</i>!<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Saying goodbye to my love, I stepped into a new chapter.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>“Excuse me,” I said while approaching her table. I planned to ask if I
could join so that we might talk for a bit. Instead, she caught me off guard
with an invitation to sit. My ability to form words declined as I listened
and watched, falling in love with her once more.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Like me, she was far from a place she no longer claimed to be home. We were
both searching for new starts. That silly girl swore our paths converged
because her heart knew fortune would travel down the Rue du Trône, past that
beautiful picture window looking into the café. She talks like I do.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>That was the moment I discovered something never meant to be concealed. I
know what I need, and she is enough.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>***</span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>HIS BLOG: DAY 1<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Why did I choose today to start writing? Because on this special day, I
have no one with me to celebrate. Before her, I preferred time alone.
Seclusion kept me safe in an otherwise cruel world. I don’t recall choosing
a withdrawn life over more pleasant options. It was all I had. It was
enough. But when we met, I set aside my lonely past to become part of her
world. She filled our days with excitement, adventure, and passion. She was
more than I ever thought to ask for, more than I wanted, more than I would
ever need. Without her, I was ignorant but satisfied. But, with her by my
side, happiness blossomed beyond imagination, as did the expectation that it
would never end.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>She died today. All I can do is write these words, telling the world about
her. Others might choose to cry in sorrow, but I welcome the tears of
laughter that tickle my cheek. I need no consolation, nor will I hold onto
some fantastic notion that she will wake me from this nightmare. Memories of
our time together fill my heart. They leave no room for regret that we will
not share another day. To focus on such despicable thoughts would slander
her legacy. These words are our reminder.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>It is not just the drowning man who needs to be saved. <o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>For a man who needs nothing, to find love is the greatest gift. <o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Love is needed for the successful man to achieve greatness. <o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Love becomes essential if the satisfied man is to find joy. <o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>With love, a man is prepared to follow when he already knows the way. Time
will come when they brilliantly walk side-by-side. The time may come when he
must carry her further. Now, it is time to continue my journey alone.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I am already slipping from the reality we shared but, please, strike me
hard if a day ever comes when I pity myself because she is no longer here.
Curse me if I pretend for a moment that she did not supply me with more than
I will ever need.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>No, I promise to share the only returns she ever asked of me in exchange
for her love.<o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Smiles. <o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Laughter. <o:p></o:p></span>
</span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Memories.</span><o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-83244383049618818962022-01-12T06:24:00.001-08:002022-01-19T10:25:07.602-08:00The Drowning Man - DAY 2319<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=s3682" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2068" data-original-width="3682" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a>
</div>
<p class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/">https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/</a><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">HIS BLOG: DAY 2319<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I’m delighted I took that chance. These have been the most
enchanting four days of my life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">***</p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">HIS BLOG: DAY 2315<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
I lost track of time during my new life in Shenzhen, failing to share my words
for more than 500 days. For some reason, however, I knew today would be
different as I ventured outside. With so many traveling home for the New Year,
open-air markets once again hosted my pleasurable afternoon stroll. I marveled
at the aromas of seasoned meats, dumplings, live poultry, fresh vegetables,
and the sites of ornate silk garments, handbags, DVDs, and an odd assortment
of children’s toys. The merchants always peddle their collections for purchase
at reasonable prices. I was close to completing the day’s third voyage through
Luohu when I saw her.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
How many moments passed before my eyes turned away? A single? A thousand? For
the very first time, I resisted that pull towards the one person I desired.
<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
Even as my heart yearned to run back and scour the marketplace, dark memories
gathered to remind me of what our future guaranteed. <i>What will</i> would be
victorious against <i>What should be</i>. I purchased two fresh lotus roots
and made my way home.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Why did you stare so long, only to turn and run away?” Her voice did not
startle me, for destiny will always press the inevitable. I continued to walk
but slowed my pace; her stride was much shorter than mine. <o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“I already found the woman of my dreams,” I replied when she finally reached
my side. “They were magical times — times I would never consider wasted or
frivolous.”<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
I was cautious with my next words.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Do I dare let you into my life again…”<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“I’m already here,” she interrupted.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“You are. But the question is deeper. Do I dare let you into my life again,
embracing everything I yearn for? Can I risk adding you to her legacy? Do I
threaten to turn my heart and mind cynical?”<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Why don’t we talk about this over dinner? You can cook.” I found comfort with
her simple words.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
Is it selfish for me to cut her life short so that I may satisfy my carnal
desires? There is no doubt in my mind that what happened before, and the time
preceding, will mirror itself in her blood. If she only breathes one day in my
arms, though, it is one more than I hope she could ever take beyond their
reach.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
So I did, and we did. We decided that everything was too glorious to pass.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">***</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1770<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
Cruel instruction often reinforces a softhearted message. <o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
Today my reminder rings true: it is better to love. In all scenarios, it is
better. She reminded me of that lesson every single day.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“My darling, a time may come when you no longer need me. I hope you always
find comfort knowing that, though I will be sad, I’ll understand.”<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
I chuckled every time she sent the text, then fed her my response to our
playful tête-à-tête.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“I always hoped you would remember by now, though I am more than happy to
remind you again. A day may come, my darling, when you can no longer hold onto
our life. It will not be my choice, but I’ll never mourn your loss. I will
understand. I will always need you.”<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
Then, she would call.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Like before?” she would ask.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
“Like before,” I’d reply, always adding, “but unlike any other time.”<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
My prediction came true today. I have no other choice than to rejoice once
more. Every day of my life, for as long as I am cursed to go on, I will always
need her.<o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">***</span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1448<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I wish it were possible to travel through time. I would visit the day we
first met so many years ago. Not to interfere but to bear witness. What was
my reaction when I knew she was the one I desired? Was it the same image as
my reflection in that glass today?<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I had returned to the safety of isolation, writing these words to everybody
instead of talking with anyone. Senseless conversations board me; the only
thought in my mind was always <i>you are not her</i>. Is detachment somehow
necessary to find love? <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Everything changed when I saw her today. It was foolish to assume she was
waiting for me. Yet, could there have been any other reason for her to sit
alone in that café, framed by the sash bars of its nine-panel storefront
window, staring out to the Rue du Trône the moment I walked past?
Impossible.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I felt familiar breath whisper a word in my ear. <i>Magnificent</i>!<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Saying goodbye to my love, I stepped into a new chapter.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Excuse me,” I said while approaching her table. I planned to ask if I
could join so that we might talk for a bit. Instead, she caught me off guard
with an invitation to sit. My ability to form words declined as I listened
and watched, falling in love with her once more.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Like me, she was far from a place she no longer claimed to be home. We were
both searching for new starts. That silly girl swore our paths converged
because her heart knew fortune would travel down the Rue du Trône, past that
beautiful picture window looking into the café. She talks like I do.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">That was the moment I discovered something never meant to be concealed. I
know what I need, and she is enough.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">***</span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Why did I choose today to start writing? Because on this special day, I
have no one with me to celebrate. Before her, I preferred time alone.
Seclusion kept me safe in an otherwise cruel world. I don’t recall choosing
a withdrawn life over more pleasant options. It was all I had. It was
enough. But when we met, I set aside my lonely past to become part of her
world. She filled our days with excitement, adventure, and passion. She was
more than I ever thought to ask for, more than I wanted, more than I would
ever need. Without her, I was ignorant but satisfied. But, with her by my
side, happiness blossomed beyond imagination, as did the expectation that it
would never end.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She died today. All I can do is write these words, telling the world about
her. Others might choose to cry in sorrow, but I welcome the tears of
laughter that tickle my cheek. I need no consolation, nor will I hold onto
some fantastic notion that she will wake me from this nightmare. Memories of
our time together fill my heart. They leave no room for regret that we will
not share another day. To focus on such despicable thoughts would slander
her legacy. These words are our reminder.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It is not just the drowning man who needs to be saved. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">For a man who needs nothing, to find love is the greatest gift. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love is needed for the successful man to achieve greatness. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love becomes essential if the satisfied man is to find joy. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With love, a man is prepared to follow when he already knows the way. Time
will come when they brilliantly walk side-by-side. The time may come when he
must carry her further. Now, it is time to continue my journey alone.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I am already slipping from the reality we shared but, please, strike me
hard if a day ever comes when I pity myself because she is no longer here.
Curse me if I pretend for a moment that she did not supply me with more than
I will ever need.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">No, I promise to share the only returns she ever asked of me in exchange
for her love.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Smiles. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Laughter. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Memories.</span><o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-43101435452845562512022-01-11T05:44:00.001-08:002022-01-19T10:25:07.595-08:00The Drowning Man - DAY 2315<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=s3682" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2068" data-original-width="3682" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a>
</div>
<p class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/">https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/</a><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">HIS BLOG: DAY 2315<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I lost track of time during my new life in Shenzhen, failing
to share my words for more than 500 days. For some reason, however, I knew
today would be different as I ventured outside. With so many traveling home for
the New Year, open-air markets once again hosted my pleasurable afternoon
stroll. I marveled at the aromas of seasoned meats, dumplings, live poultry,
fresh vegetables, and the sites of ornate silk garments, handbags, DVDs, and an
odd assortment of children’s toys. The merchants always peddle their
collections for purchase at reasonable prices. I was close to completing the
day’s third voyage through Luohu when I saw her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">How many moments passed before my eyes turned away? A single?
A thousand? For the very first time, I resisted that pull towards the one
person I desired. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Even as my heart yearned to run back and scour the
marketplace, dark memories gathered to remind me of what our future guaranteed.
<i>What will</i> would be victorious against <i>What should be</i>. I purchased
two fresh lotus roots and made my way home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Why did you stare so long, only to turn and run away?” Her
voice did not startle me, for destiny will always press the inevitable. I
continued to walk but slowed my pace; her stride was much shorter than mine. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I already found the woman of my dreams,” I replied when she
finally reached my side. “They were magical times — times I would never
consider wasted or frivolous.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I was cautious with my next words.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Do I dare let you into my life again…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I’m already here,” she interrupted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“You are. But the question is deeper. Do I dare let you into
my life again, embracing everything I yearn for? Can I risk adding you to her legacy?
Do I threaten to turn my heart and mind cynical?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Why don’t we talk about this over dinner? You can cook.” I
found comfort with her simple words.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Is it selfish for me to cut her life short so that I may
satisfy my carnal desires? There is no doubt in my mind that what happened
before, and the time preceding, will mirror itself in her blood. If she only
breathes one day in my arms, though, it is one more than I hope she could ever
take beyond their reach.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">So I did, and we did. We decided that everything was too
glorious to pass.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">***</p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br /></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1770<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">Cruel instruction often reinforces a softhearted message. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">Today my reminder rings true: it is better to love. In all
scenarios, it is better. She reminded me of that lesson every single day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">“My darling, a time may come when you no longer need me. I
hope you always find comfort knowing that, though I will be sad, I’ll
understand.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">I chuckled every time she sent the text, then fed her my response
to our playful tête-à-tête.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">“I always hoped you would remember by now, though I am more
than happy to remind you again. A day may come, my darling, when you can no
longer hold onto our life. It will not be my choice, but I’ll never mourn your
loss. I will understand. I will always need you.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">Then, she would call.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">“Like before?” she would ask.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">“Like before,” I’d reply, always adding, “but unlike any
other time.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">My prediction came true today. I have no other choice than
to rejoice once more. Every day of my life, for as long as I am cursed to go
on, I will always need her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1448<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish it were possible to travel through time. I would
visit the day we first met so many years ago. Not to interfere but to bear witness.
What was my reaction when I knew she was the one I desired? Was it the same
image as my reflection in that glass today?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had returned to the safety of isolation, writing these
words to everybody instead of talking with anyone. Senseless conversations
board me; the only thought in my mind was always <i>you are not her</i>. Is detachment
somehow necessary to find love? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everything changed when I saw her today. It was foolish to
assume she was waiting for me. Yet, could there have been any other reason for
her to sit alone in that café, framed by the sash bars of its nine-panel
storefront window, staring out to the Rue du Trône the moment I walked past?
Impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I felt familiar breath whisper a word in my ear. <i>Magnificent</i>!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Saying goodbye to my love, I stepped into a new chapter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Excuse me,” I said while approaching her table. I planned to
ask if I could join so that we might talk for a bit. Instead, she caught me off
guard with an invitation to sit. My ability to form words declined as I
listened and watched, falling in love with her once more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Like me, she was far from a place she no longer claimed to
be home. We were both searching for new starts. That silly girl swore our paths
converged because her heart knew fortune would travel down the Rue du Trône, past
that beautiful picture window looking into the café. She talks like I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That was the moment I discovered something never meant to be
concealed. I know what I need, and she is enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Why did I choose today to start writing? Because on this special day, I
have no one with me to celebrate. Before her, I preferred time alone.
Seclusion kept me safe in an otherwise cruel world. I don’t recall choosing
a withdrawn life over more pleasant options. It was all I had. It was
enough. But when we met, I set aside my lonely past to become part of her
world. She filled our days with excitement, adventure, and passion. She was
more than I ever thought to ask for, more than I wanted, more than I would
ever need. Without her, I was ignorant but satisfied. But, with her by my
side, happiness blossomed beyond imagination, as did the expectation that it
would never end.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She died today. All I can do is write these words, telling the world about
her. Others might choose to cry in sorrow, but I welcome the tears of
laughter that tickle my cheek. I need no consolation, nor will I hold onto
some fantastic notion that she will wake me from this nightmare. Memories of
our time together fill my heart. They leave no room for regret that we will
not share another day. To focus on such despicable thoughts would slander
her legacy. These words are our reminder.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It is not just the drowning man who needs to be saved. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">For a man who needs nothing, to find love is the greatest gift. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love is needed for the successful man to achieve greatness. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love becomes essential if the satisfied man is to find joy. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With love, a man is prepared to follow when he already knows the way. Time
will come when they brilliantly walk side-by-side. The time may come when he
must carry her further. Now, it is time to continue my journey alone.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I am already slipping from the reality we shared but, please, strike me
hard if a day ever comes when I pity myself because she is no longer here.
Curse me if I pretend for a moment that she did not supply me with more than
I will ever need.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">No, I promise to share the only returns she ever asked of me in exchange
for her love.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Smiles. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Laughter. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Memories.</span><o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If you enjoyed the story, please consider a donation to NEVER STOP NEVER
QUIT.</strong>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-30883562412151178632022-01-10T06:49:00.000-08:002022-01-19T10:25:07.592-08:00The Drowning Man - DAY 1770<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=s3682" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2068" data-original-width="3682" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a>
</div>
<p class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/">https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/</a><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1770<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Cruel instruction often reinforces a softhearted message. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Today my reminder rings true: it is better to love. In all
scenarios, it is better. She reminded me of that lesson every single day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“My darling, a time may come when you no longer need me. I
hope you always find comfort knowing that, though I will be sad, I’ll
understand.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I chuckled every time she sent the text, then fed her my response
to our playful tête-à-tête.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I always hoped you would remember by now, though I am more
than happy to remind you again. A day may come, my darling, when you can no
longer hold onto our life. It will not be my choice, but I’ll never mourn your
loss. I will understand. I will always need you.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Then, she would call.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Like before?” she would ask.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Like before,” I’d reply, always adding, “but unlike any
other time.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">My prediction came true today. I have no other choice than
to rejoice once more. Every day of my life, for as long as I am cursed to go
on, I will always need her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1448<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish it were possible to travel through time. I would
visit the day we first met so many years ago. Not to interfere but to bear witness.
What was my reaction when I knew she was the one I desired? Was it the same
image as my reflection in that glass today?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had returned to the safety of isolation, writing these
words to everybody instead of talking with anyone. Senseless conversations
board me; the only thought in my mind was always <i>you are not her</i>. Is detachment
somehow necessary to find love? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everything changed when I saw her today. It was foolish to
assume she was waiting for me. Yet, could there have been any other reason for
her to sit alone in that café, framed by the sash bars of its nine-panel
storefront window, staring out to the Rue du Trône the moment I walked past?
Impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I felt familiar breath whisper a word in my ear. <i>Magnificent</i>!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Saying goodbye to my love, I stepped into a new chapter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Excuse me,” I said while approaching her table. I planned to
ask if I could join so that we might talk for a bit. Instead, she caught me off
guard with an invitation to sit. My ability to form words declined as I
listened and watched, falling in love with her once more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Like me, she was far from a place she no longer claimed to
be home. We were both searching for new starts. That silly girl swore our paths
converged because her heart knew fortune would travel down the Rue du Trône, past
that beautiful picture window looking into the café. She talks like I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That was the moment I discovered something never meant to be
concealed. I know what I need, and she is enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Why did I choose today to start writing? Because on this special day, I
have no one with me to celebrate. Before her, I preferred time alone.
Seclusion kept me safe in an otherwise cruel world. I don’t recall choosing
a withdrawn life over more pleasant options. It was all I had. It was
enough. But when we met, I set aside my lonely past to become part of her
world. She filled our days with excitement, adventure, and passion. She was
more than I ever thought to ask for, more than I wanted, more than I would
ever need. Without her, I was ignorant but satisfied. But, with her by my
side, happiness blossomed beyond imagination, as did the expectation that it
would never end.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She died today. All I can do is write these words, telling the world about
her. Others might choose to cry in sorrow, but I welcome the tears of
laughter that tickle my cheek. I need no consolation, nor will I hold onto
some fantastic notion that she will wake me from this nightmare. Memories of
our time together fill my heart. They leave no room for regret that we will
not share another day. To focus on such despicable thoughts would slander
her legacy. These words are our reminder.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It is not just the drowning man who needs to be saved. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">For a man who needs nothing, to find love is the greatest gift. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love is needed for the successful man to achieve greatness. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love becomes essential if the satisfied man is to find joy. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With love, a man is prepared to follow when he already knows the way. Time
will come when they brilliantly walk side-by-side. The time may come when he
must carry her further. Now, it is time to continue my journey alone.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I am already slipping from the reality we shared but, please, strike me
hard if a day ever comes when I pity myself because she is no longer here.
Curse me if I pretend for a moment that she did not supply me with more than
I will ever need.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">No, I promise to share the only returns she ever asked of me in exchange
for her love.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Smiles. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Laughter. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Memories.</span><o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
<hr class="wp-block-separator" style="background-color: #e6e6e6; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: solid; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; height: 1px; margin-bottom: 1.5em;" />
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If you enjoyed the story, please consider a donation to NEVER STOP NEVER
QUIT.</strong>
</p>
<form action="https://www.paypal.com/donate" method="post" target="_top"><input name="hosted_button_id" type="hidden" value="HGFXP4RTLVU5E" /><br /><input alt="Donate with PayPal button" name="submit" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_donateCC_LG.gif" title="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!" type="image" /><br /><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" /></form>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">100% of your donation will directly support our fight. We pay the cost of
managing our foundation.</strong>
</p>
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">All donations are tax deductible to the extent allowed by law. You will
receive a receipt.</strong>
</p>
Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-49012011747693535442022-01-09T07:27:00.001-08:002023-09-11T16:14:57.056-07:00The Drowning Man - DAY 1448<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=s3682" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2068" data-original-width="3682" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a>
</div>
<p class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/">https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/</a><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1448<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish it were possible to travel through time. I would
visit the day we first met so many years ago. Not to interfere but to bear witness.
What was my reaction when I knew she was the one I desired? Was it the same
image as my reflection in that glass today?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had returned to the safety of isolation, writing these
words to everybody instead of talking with anyone. Senseless conversations
bored me; the only thought in my mind was always <i>you are not her</i>. Is detachment
somehow necessary to find love? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everything changed when I saw her today. It was foolish to
assume she was waiting for me. Yet, could there have been any other reason for
her to sit alone in that café, framed by the sash bars of its nine-panel
storefront window, staring out to the Rue du Trône the moment I walked past?
Impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I felt familiar breath whisper a word in my ear. <i>Magnificent</i>!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Saying goodbye to my love, I stepped into a new chapter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Excuse me,” I said while approaching her table. I planned to
ask if I could join so that we might talk for a bit. Instead, she caught me off
guard with an invitation to sit. My ability to form words declined as I
listened and watched, falling in love with her once more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Like me, she was far from a place she no longer claimed to
be home. We were both searching for new starts. That silly girl swore our paths
converged because her heart knew fortune would travel down the Rue du Trône, past
that beautiful picture window looking into the café. She talks like I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That was the moment I discovered something never meant to be
concealed. I know what I need, and she is enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Why did I choose today to start writing? Because on this special day, I
have no one with me to celebrate. Before her, I preferred time alone.
Seclusion kept me safe in an otherwise cruel world. I don’t recall choosing
a withdrawn life over more pleasant options. It was all I had. It was
enough. But when we met, I set aside my lonely past to become part of her
world. She filled our days with excitement, adventure, and passion. She was
more than I ever thought to ask for, more than I wanted, more than I would
ever need. Without her, I was ignorant but satisfied. But, with her by my
side, happiness blossomed beyond imagination, as did the expectation that it
would never end.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She died today. All I can do is write these words, telling the world about
her. Others might choose to cry in sorrow, but I welcome the tears of
laughter that tickle my cheek. I need no consolation, nor will I hold onto
some fantastic notion that she will wake me from this nightmare. Memories of
our time together fill my heart. They leave no room for regret that we will
not share another day. To focus on such despicable thoughts would slander
her legacy. These words are our reminder.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It is not just the drowning man who needs to be saved. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">For a man who needs nothing, to find love is the greatest gift. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love is needed for the successful man to achieve greatness. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love becomes essential if the satisfied man is to find joy. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With love, a man is prepared to follow when he already knows the way. Time
will come when they brilliantly walk side-by-side. The time may come when he
must carry her further. Now, it is time to continue my journey alone.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I am already slipping from the reality we shared but, please, strike me
hard if a day ever comes when I pity myself because she is no longer here.
Curse me if I pretend for a moment that she did not supply me with more than
I will ever need.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">No, I promise to share the only returns she ever asked of me in exchange
for her love.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Smiles. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Laughter. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Memories.</span><o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
<hr class="wp-block-separator" style="background-color: #e6e6e6; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: solid; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; height: 1px; margin-bottom: 1.5em;" />
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If you enjoyed the story, please consider a donation to NEVER STOP NEVER
QUIT.</strong>
</p>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">100% of your donation will directly support our fight. We pay the cost of
managing our foundation.</strong>
</p>
<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">All donations are tax deductible to the extent allowed by law. You will
receive a receipt.</strong>
</p>
Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-82660053743481135882022-01-08T08:46:00.001-08:002022-01-19T10:25:07.602-08:00The Drowning Man - DAY 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #fcff01;">Short Story</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=s3682" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2068" data-original-width="3682" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjClhQk3f_3uH6Owl45_idjniT9M-yswiqjKwOXLJvswZp7ehIHJreczU9PpAv6ecCoMs5Gp33xTJV_Pf43vzzVOGOjNrsXSp6ndpcSGfSofUF73CpBmiyOjyaVlapXxtnNwPSDc-1mc2zhzh59njAng_HHTOCrjo7SY_FNWmMC5fQgdeOK1pZfiWXzAQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a>
</div>
<p class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p align="center" class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/">https://the--drowning--man.blogspot.com/</a><o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">HIS BLOG: DAY 1<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Why did I choose today to start writing? Because on this special day, I
have no one with me to celebrate. Before her, I preferred time alone.
Seclusion kept me safe in an otherwise cruel world. I don’t recall choosing
a withdrawn life over more pleasant options. It was all I had. It was
enough. But when we met, I set aside my lonely past to become part of her
world. She filled our days with excitement, adventure, and passion. She was
more than I ever thought to ask for, more than I wanted, more than I would
ever need. Without her, I was ignorant but satisfied. But, with her by my
side, happiness blossomed beyond imagination, as did the expectation that it
would never end.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She died today. All I can do is write these words, telling the world about
her. Others might choose to cry in sorrow, but I welcome the tears of
laughter that tickle my cheek. I need no consolation, nor will I hold onto
some fantastic notion that she will wake me from this nightmare. Memories of
our time together fill my heart. They leave no room for regret that we will
not share another day. To focus on such despicable thoughts would slander
her legacy. These words are our reminder.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It is not just the drowning man who needs to be saved. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">For a man who needs nothing, to find love is the greatest gift. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love is needed for the successful man to achieve greatness. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Love becomes essential if the satisfied man is to find joy. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With love, a man is prepared to follow when he already knows the way. Time
will come when they brilliantly walk side-by-side. The time may come when he
must carry her further. Now, it is time to continue my journey alone.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I am already slipping from the reality we shared but, please, strike me
hard if a day ever comes when I pity myself because she is no longer here.
Curse me if I pretend for a moment that she did not supply me with more than
I will ever need.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">No, I promise to share the only returns she ever asked of me in exchange
for her love.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Smiles. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Laughter. <o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Memories.</span><o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2688791470136372881.post-68944965152730835112022-01-04T20:30:00.006-08:002022-01-19T10:25:07.599-08:00Past Deeds – Chapter 02<p align="left" class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
><a href="https://neverstopneverquit.blogspot.com/2021/12/past-deeds.html"
>Read Past Deeds – Chapter 01</a
><o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="ChapTitle">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
><span style="background: yellow;">Short Story</span><o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="ChapTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"></span>
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
><a
href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqj8TjevV0fgsFp2atYG1yXDVbwAy0vkATPo_r5IHoF27Epk0bx8wsju1sMCLSGJGItgMemRve6EdZoGlRFzM9ndMqxbS9868rTf7l72SCENLb39X8J0gyno43EqOYEACDm6JwBGvr0WvGPIEOfDibz-ZsHQ4qYAL4S8yzy0Lz5_jq_eVtcpJSXZQNPw=s1120"
imageanchor="1"
style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"
><img
border="0"
data-original-height="315"
data-original-width="1120"
height="113"
src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqj8TjevV0fgsFp2atYG1yXDVbwAy0vkATPo_r5IHoF27Epk0bx8wsju1sMCLSGJGItgMemRve6EdZoGlRFzM9ndMqxbS9868rTf7l72SCENLb39X8J0gyno43EqOYEACDm6JwBGvr0WvGPIEOfDibz-ZsHQ4qYAL4S8yzy0Lz5_jq_eVtcpJSXZQNPw=w400-h113"
width="400" /></a
></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Chapter 02<o:p></o:p></span>
<p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>We are home. Angie is upstairs, fast asleep in her bed. I wonder if she
thinks about the carefree, innocent days of her childhood. I wonder if she
thinks about two weeks ago. Everything happened just like it was supposed to
go down. A perfectly executed cultivation exercise, except for the fat man.
My after-action report will have to detail every step; hopefully we can
figure out what went wrong. Something always does go wrong in this phase,
that’s just the game. Our team is secure, however, so the exercise was a
success. Fat man may be a problem in the future. He knows our hometown;
we’re gonna have to clean that one up.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>Even though I would call it a successful pick up, everything caught me off
guard. I mean, when did they start the program at 16 years old? I know not
to press details. Angie won’t share any, and if she does, I won’t know the
difference between the truth and a lie. My dad never asked a single question
– it’s still a mystery to me when he was pulled in. I tried to sneak a few
questions during her brief on the way home.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“You were in there for a long time,” I said, when we first left the
airport. Until then, we were both silent ever since she left the bathroom
and smiled, a signal to move.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“I know, I know. She put up a fight.” Angie was fidgeting with her hands, a
classic sign of inexperience. “I never killed someone before with my bare
hands,” she said while choking back tears. I wanted to reassure her, to
comfort her in some way. <i>It’s okay, darling. It gets better.</i> But I
don’t, mostly because it doesn’t. You just learn to go cold.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>Instead, I pressed for more details of the bathroom. I asked Angie, “was
everything left in order?”<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“Yes,” she said. “The target is in a stall, set like she is doing her
business. I called for cleanup – they should be on site soon.”<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“It’s already done.” Our scrub crews are efficient. They were ready for
this — if they pulled her in this early, they were ready. I filled in the
rest of the missing details. “The fat man must’ve gotten spooked because you
two were in there longer than expected. He bolted at some point when I was
focused in your direction. He is a big boy, but he managed to fade into
nothing.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“I have a backup set of comms at home, if any of yours were damaged in the
bathroom. We’re doing burgers and tots tonight, and I got more of the ice
cream pops that you like. At this point, we are communication level 5, so
let’s just keep that in mind until I get instructions from my boss.”<o:p
></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“Thank you, Daddy!” Angie ran her fingers across the length of my arm,
tracing the scar hidden underneath my jacket that ran from my shoulder blade
all the way down to the wrist. Not once has she ever asked me how I got
it.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>We had a wonderful evening sharing stories of her vacation back East. Uncle
Billy and Aunt Sue brought her down to Rockefeller Center to see the
Christmas Tree. They don’t have kids of their own, so Angie is the center of
attention when she’s around. Billy flies out here at least once a year. He
pretends that it is to visit me, but it’s really to steal Angie and bring
her back for a couple of weeks in the summer. Billy always reminds me that I
have an open invitation, whenever I am ready to fly again. <o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>They spent an entire day in New York City, doing all the “touristy things”
my daughter craves when she’s there. I used to like it, as well. Even though
I was born and raised in the Bronx, I’ve been gone for so long that I would
just be a sightseer if we go back. I should make a trip soon. Mom’s not
doing well – I need to get out and see her. <o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>It was wonderful to have my sweet princess home again! Today was only the
sixth day of Christmas, so we have a few more until she goes back to school.
I’m sure we’ll get instructions before then. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, but
tonight was our Christmas morning. I bought Angie lots of clothes, innocent
and snuggly stuff for the winter. Nothing too fancy – I’m not ready for my
little girl to grow up. Had I known what was in store, I would have bought
some more practical outfits. She loved them all but asked if I could wash
her new sweatshirt, to wear again tomorrow. Billy always picks out the good
stuff.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>Her gift to me had been underneath the tree since before she left for her
trip. I stared at it every day she was gone, thinking about what I would do
if Angie was killed in some tragic accident before I saw her again. Plane
crash, car accident, random street mugging – all sorts of morbid thoughts
ran through my head, like they always do about everything. I wondered if I
would open it or leave it as an unknown reminder of her lost future. I guess
I can now tackle violent actions onto the tragic accidents I fear for my
daughter. When I placed the bags with her gifts (I don’t wrap Christmas
presents) under the tree, I buried her gift to me deep in the back. The ones
from Santa Claus (he wraps the presents) were piled on top of mine. Angie
dug through the stack to find my box, wrapped in beautiful green paper with
cartoon reindeer dancing in scattered directions, and gave it to me.<o:p
></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“You first, Daddy,” she said. Her eyes were open wide, her lips could
barely contain the smile bursting underneath. If I did not open it right
away, I think she would have torn the paper herself. She was patient,
though, so I decided to show mercy and not drag it out too long. Underneath
the wrapping, the shoebox sized carton gave no clue of its contents.
Bouncing with energy the entire time, Angie finally gave in to her impulses
as I opened the box with care and stared in disbelief.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“They said this would fit the piece you carry,” Angie explained. “It’s
custom molded – and there is webbing to wear across your waist or over the
shoulder. I don’t know which is more comfortable for you.”<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>I stared down at a new holster for my 9mm Luger, the gun she doesn’t know
about, the gift she wrapped and placed under the tree before leaving for her
trip back east. That little minx knew before she even left Wewa Falls. I
wanted to ask her when, how, what else, but we were still level 5. Besides,
she would never tell.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“It’s beautiful, Angie. Thank you,” I said. It was all I could offer while
choking back tears. She was so proud of herself, it’s time to dig into that
glorious stash of presents.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>The rest of the night went off without a hitch. Angie loved all her new
clothes. None of them scream Uncle Billy, but she smiled anyway. After
dinner, we sat down to watch a few of our favorite Christmas shows, classics
from even before my childhood. She wanted to fight sleep and watch the rest
I had recorded, but it was time for bed. Plus, I had my journal entries to
make. Angie did, too. I hope she completes today’s entries, but it’s on
her.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>When Angie dotted upstairs, I pulled out my tablet to log the details of
this fucking crazy day. I didn’t know where to start.
<i>Dear Diary: today my daughter came home a certified contract killer.</i>
I wonder if I will be this excited when she graduates high school. All
relevant information was recorded; if they want my impression, they can get
it at our debrief. I assume we will debrief together, as a team.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>I just put my tablet away when Angie came down the stairs. Poor Kiddo, she
looked so tired.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“Daddy,” she said, “I can’t sleep.”<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“What’s the matter, darling?”<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“I don’t know.” She just stood there for a moment, decked out in her
brand-new Christmas pajamas. Our matching set were long-sleeved tops and
flannel pants, both with horizontal red/white candy cane striping. “Can you
come upstairs and sing to me?” I could never say no to that request.<o:p
></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“Of course,” I said. “Would you like me to go put my PJs on before I sing
our song?”<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“Yes, please.” With that, she turned and walked back up the stairs. I
wasn’t far behind.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>“I’ll be there lickety-split, babe.”<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>I lumbered up the stairs and grabbed my set of jammies from the dryer
before heading into my bedroom. While I undressed, I stared into the mirror,
inventorying the scars that covered my body. They were all from a life
before Angie. Her mother knew me when I was still in; she nursed more than a
few wounds while they were fresh. I told her I couldn’t give it up, I had a
responsibility to protect this country. When we first tried to get pregnant,
though, everything changed. I wanted a new life, a life with my child, a
life with my family. I tried to walk away from the game. I was
administrative by the, but I made so many enemies along the way. In an
instant, one of them took my wife from me. Her body became a vessel for my
unborn child. For two months, whatever was left of her soul nursed Angie so
she could come into this world healthy and innocent. For two months, I laid
helpless in a hospital bed – my scar count doubled in that same instant. My
first day conscious was Angie’s birthday. When they placed her in my arms,
my recovery became a selfless cause. I needed to be there to raise Angie, to
protect my daughter from every evil.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>I walked into the bathroom and stared at my sink. Rows of medicine bottles
lined the countertop. Painkillers. Muscle relaxers. Sleeping pills. More
medication, to treat the side effects of medication. Each one containing
90-day refills I neither wanted nor asked for. The only way I can stay on
payroll is if they believe I’m taking care of myself. If it takes
prescription medication to convince them, I’ll keep the pills coming. I keep
the full containers as a reminder –
<i>if you don’t use them, it must not hurt too bad</i>.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>Angie’s bedroom door was open and her light still on but, when I walked in,
the kid was sound asleep, buried in a pile of her favorite stuffys. I sat on
the edge of her bed and whispered our song. Just as I’ve done thousands of
times before.<o:p></o:p
></span>
</p>
<p></p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"
>I wondered what tomorrow would bring and if my little love will ever need
me to care for her again.</span
><o:p></o:p>
</p>
<p class="Indent" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p>
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managing our foundation.</strong>
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<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #888888; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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Never Stop... Never Quit...http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523720859983963550noreply@blogger.com0