Oct 18

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Playing with Toys

Starbucks

Bear, DE

April 2006

I expected one thing from this morning’s workshop hosted by the University of DE, entitled, “Reconnect with Your Creativity”, but took away something completely different.

I want toys, now!

That’s what the first workshop session was: toys. Slinky, Lego, twisty ties, magnetic 3D designs, balls, stretchy toys, flip frogs…all that stuff that we played with as kids. We were each given a secret task. It turned out that everyone had the same secret task: draw a flower. I thought of my college Roomie and her flowers and drew as she always did: one stem, two leaves, five petals and a cloud in the background.

There were only pink and green highlighters on the table. No other colors? I wondered. Well, these will do.

The instructor watched us a bit. “Why didn’t you ask for other colors?” she commented. “Why did everyone draw the stem green?”

“How often do we not ask for help at work? How often do we do things because ‘that’s the way they’ve always been done’?”

Woah. Deep thoughts. Why didn’t I ask? I thought about it, almost did. But didn’t. I was already being chatty. I want to be that energetic “Wow” person. What held me back?

That’s a rhetorical question. I think.

Ashley made me a thick, yummy Mocha Light Frappuccino just now. She gave me the leftovers in a separate cup. That’s on my left and a half-eaten slice of reduced-fat coffee cake is in front of me. I’m at the corner table with the sun full on my back. I’m so warm, so comfy.

I wonder as I look around how many people would benefit from this type of this. The playing, I mean, not the food. Or maybe both, the indulgence of it all.

“Why didn’t you play with the toys?” she asked us. “What held you back? Why are you or why are you not creative?”

How am I creative? I write. I journal. They’re the same things and yet they’re separate. I draw or sketch on my journal pages. I scrapbook, a little bit.

How can you coax creativity out of others? That’s a really good question. I write letters, so maybe my friends will write me letters back. There’s something personal and imaginative putting pen to paper, even if you just write about the weather like Dad always did. Playing board games, perhaps? I don’t have many local friends, but I do have my coworkers.

Everything relates back to my job. Do those same reasons hold you back at work? Why don’t you ask questions?

We explored office atmosphere. Imagine the office you want. How do you get there? Provide toys at staff meetings. Create “our” traditions or ways of doing things, not “mine” or “yours.”

I shared this with my boss. I was so hyped up over this!  He seemed to get it, some of what he has been saying all along. Think new aspects for what he has said in the past.

When is a good time to reinvent myself? Do I need to? I will be that bubbly person I see myself as, the same one my friend, Tina, sees in me. The chatty person Dad taught me to be. In my mind’s eye, I see me chatting at new scrapbook stores. I see mentioning at a crop, “Who wants to do lunch with me?”  I can invite other Penn State alums over the house for company. I see me being the fun person in the room. Maybe I’m not ‘The One’ everyone flocks to at a party, but still.

Do these people here see that? The baristas do. Natalie and I have a chat. “Give us your email,” she says, “so we can stay in touch.”  Yes!  They do emails with previous employees when they leave.

Liz beside him says, “Well, you’re like an employee.”

So…I imagine what I want to be and be it.

Could it be that simple?

Oct 16

Close Encounters of the Creepiest Kind

What scares you? Think beyond concrete things like losing a job, facing the death of a loved one, and worrying over an upcoming surgery. I want to know if you’re afraid of anything truly creepy. Have you ever seen a ghost? Are you haunted by something you can’t explain? Do you wake terrified from nightmares?

For some people, there’s a tendency to disregard strange phenomena as figments of the imagination. Other individuals seek greater understanding by examining evidence and drawing logical conclusions, if any can be made. And there are the many skeptics who conveniently point to dreams as the scapegoat that makes most sense of weird and mysterious events.

Before offering an alternative explanation for the bizarre things that happen in our world, I have a few peculiar stories to share. In the end, I’ll provide a solution for overcoming the dark forces that work their way into our lives.

An adolescent boy told me of a premonition that he had experienced while sleeping. He dreamt a family friend had died. When he woke, he was upset and immediately went to find his mother. He found her downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table, and crying. She had just finished a phone call in which she had been told that the woman in the boy’s dream actually had died in a tragic car accident.

I know a woman, too, who was plagued by disturbing events that began after she had fallen asleep. She would be very glad to blame the strange incidents on awful and vivid nightmares. But what she went through felt as real to her as the premonition was for the boy in the above story.

As a young, married mother, the woman heard a noise—outside her bedroom window—that caused her to wake from sleep. She called out to her husband, who was lying beside her, but he wouldn’t stir. The woman was paralyzed and helpless during the events that unfolded. Her experience was typical to that of other people who claim to have been kidnapped, taken aboard an alien spacecraft, and subjected to invasive experimentation. After being returned to her bedroom, the terrified woman was then able to wake her husband. He tried to console her and reasoned that she must have been dreaming. In the days that followed, however, his wife’s arms erupted in strange rashes that doctors couldn’t diagnose and adequately treat.

alien

What do you believe in?

The assault was the second time the woman had felt like she had lived through a close encounter. The first occurred when she was a child. She remembered waking to alien creatures peering at her. Frantic and scared, the girl ran to her parents for help, but they dismissed the sighting by saying “it was probably nothing more than a dream.”

Nothing more than a dream . . . reassuring words perhaps, and yet we don’t fully understand our dreams. They’re the focus of great speculation. What are their purpose? What do they mean?

If you’re like me and have woken to your own scream during an all-too-intense and seemingly real nightmare, you may agree that dreaming of an evil, unearthly presence leaves you feeling more powerless than if you had been confronted by a human villain. At least we have some ability to fight a delusional person, like a lunatic wielding an axe.  But how can we avoid ghosts that haunt us, combat aliens that control our bodies, and escape malevolent forces that take advantage of our minds when we’re supposed to be resting peacefully?

The first step is to examine what our beliefs are about nonhuman, intelligent, supernatural entities.

When people of faith talk about God and His angels, it’s easily accepted that these highly regarded spiritual entities exist and influence our lives for the better. The conversation doesn’t spur sideways glances and raised eyebrows from friends and relatives. They don’t flinch and wonder whether or not we’re losing our rationality. Instead, we collectively hold to endearing thoughts and feelings about our all-powerful God and His heavenly host. But by believing in these good and protective entities, we would be hard-pressed not to also believe in the sinister angels—Satan and his demonic brethren—who defy God.

According to the Bible, God created the angels to have freewill—the liberty to choose right from wrong, to love and obey God or not. One of God’s angels became selfish and rebellious. He convinced a third of the other angels to fight with him in an effort to dethrone God, but that devil and his evil bunch lost. They were cast out of heaven and roam throughout the earth.

Since the Bible doesn’t mention how to deal with extraterrestrial beings, and I’ve never seen one myself, I’m not sure that I believe they are what many people think they are: life forms from another planet or galaxy. I’m more inclined to think that they’re a trick of the devil. Sensational spectacles that Satan orchestrates in order to divert our attention away from God. While we’re reading the latest conspiracy theory and arguing amongst ourselves about whether aliens exist or not, the one thing we’re not doing is worshipping and glorifying our Lord and Savior.

The devil will get what’s coming to him. Don’t let him drag you down along his way.

Fortunately, ghosts have steered clear of me too. A sighting would absolutely freak me out, because I believe ghosts are manifestations of evil. Ephesians 6:11 (NIV) tells us “Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”

The spirit world is real, and it’s divided between good and evil. You may as well paint a bullseye on your chest and get ready to fight for your everlasting life. You are targeted by the devil. His arsenal is full of ways to tempt and deceive you. Sometimes he’s brazen enough to make a personal appearance. Often, he’s more subtle and fills your mind with negative thoughts. His goal is to steal you from God.

In this battle, let’s remember that God loves us most. We can defend ourselves against the tricks that the devil employs when he’s “looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). Evil spirits, aliens, internalized whispers of self-doubt and hopelessness lose their power over us when we open the Bible and study the Word of God–when we learn for ourselves how to recognize truth and how to dispel lies.

Sweet dreams, my dear readers.

Oct 15

Hiking Isle Royale

 My father, brother, and I climbed Isle Royale’s 1,394-foot Mount Desor in June of 1959 in the process of hiking the island’s length. That first night, we were half-sleep in a three-sided lean-to with distant flashes of lightning reflecting off a dark, wind-rippled lake. A sudden storm was sweeping in and the loon calls were eerily sorrowful. An eight-foot moose waded offshore, almost invisible in deepening dusk. Quiet campfire flames had died to glowing embers as I drifted off thinking about the day. 

Earlier that afternoon, atop the island’s highest mountain, I could see Canada fifteen miles away in the distance across Lake Superior. We were exhausted and soaked to the skin, having hiked and climbed five hours through rain from Windigo Bay on the island’s western tip. I had never gazed across such a great distance. This was my first mountain hike into primitive wilderness on hallowed ground only Native Americans and fur-traders once traversed. There were no humans for miles. We had been told to avoid a pack of fifty wolves and several-hundred moose roaming about, but how one does this was never clear. 

My father was rummaging in a backpack, my brother and I crouching with aching limbs, out of breath, facing opposite directions. I had never heard Dave so deeply tired exclaim, “Hey, you won’t believe this, but there’s a coyote or fox, or maybe a wolf-pup, staring at us only twenty yards away. Take a look.” I was too worn out to turn around. Wolves had crossed from Canada on an ice sheet years earlier. We weren’t in a hurry to come upon wolves, or moose, armed with only jack knives. But a wolf pup might belong to a wolf pack. I finally turned around to see what it looked like, but it was gone. 

Unclipping a canteen of water purified with Halizone, I took a gulp, forgetting I had also added a fizzy grape-flavored Kool-Aid tablet to kill its taste. The result was something between grape juice and battery acid. I poured a bit into a cupped hand, discovering flakes of metal. Either the Kool-Aid tablet or the Halizone was corroding the inside of the metal canteen, but I needed water and didn’t care right then. 

After Boy Scout camping, hiking the length of Isle Royale was a real challenge. We planned to traverse its 55 mile length on the Greenstone Ridge Trail in five days, the same distance south to the Keweenaw Peninsula across Lake Superior. Two days before, we had departed Copper Harbor crossing the world’s third-largest fresh water lake that would later sink the ore-freighter Edmund Fitzgerald. But we were on a 40-foot under-powered launch unimaginatively named the Isle Royale. A five-hour rolling ride had us sea-sick long before the island’s eastern end at Rock Harbor. 

After setting up base camp and boarding a daily launch to the island’s west end, we headed up the trail planning to descend each night to a shelter at a remote lake. We left Windigo Bay with full canteens, but they were empty by mid-morning. Personal water-filtration systems had yet to be invented, so we planned to boil our water each night. By that first mid-morning, we gave up and simply filtered stream water through a handkerchief before adding more tablets of Halizone. Although Giardia Lambia intestinal parasites must have been in the water, they were unknown at the time. So, fortunately, none of us became ill. To carry less food and reduce pack weight, we planned to fish for dinner so our packs were heaviest before we began using canned food. Climbing Mount Desor with 65-pound loads on our backs didn’t begin well, plagued as we were by a fine drizzle and swarms of blood-sucking black flies. We hadn’t planned on a muddy trail and poor footing, trying to ascend a mountain before mid-day. We thought we had conditioned ourselves, weeks before, by carrying fifty pounds of boulders in backpacks around the neighborhood but, no, we were woefully out of shape. 

Two hours before Desor’s summit, still carrying our heaviest loads, my father came upon a moose antler on the ground, a perfect hiking memento. To our astonishment, he decided to carry the extra weight and hang it on his office wall. The black flies were driving us mad, circling just out of reach before alighting and drawing quick bites. Blood was running down our faces despite spraying ourselves with ineffectual Citronella bug spray. That was before we donned last-resort beekeeper’s hats and tried to protect our hands with gloves. 

Skidding on a slippery trail for hours in rain and growing darkness, a twisted ankle or broken leg would have been disastrous. We were days from help if we mishandled a knife or hatchet, much less burned ourselves in a campfire. We might apply a tourniquet or bind a cut before dragging someone out, but no one was coming to help. Cell phones hadn’t been invented and there was no way of sending messages. Boy Scout training never included Indian smoke signals, and there was no one around to read them anyway. The nearest a seaplane could land was Windigo Bay, weather permitting, and that wasn’t going to happen unless my father had a heart attack, in which case it would be too late. 

We were on our own now, in the first bug-infested three-sided lean-to by Lake Chicken Bone. It wasn’t all that inviting with a leaky roof and muddy dirt floor. Too dog-tired to care, we needed food and warmth, but had outsmarted ourselves with only a few cans of food to eat. We couldn’t fish for dinner because the shoreline was overhung with underbrush. By minimizing pack loads and bringing only canned food, we couldn’t start a fire anyway with wet firewood to cook nonexistent fish. Without a campfire, our father lit a tiny camp stove with heat pellets, and boiled life-restoring, dried-package chicken noodle soup. That was before everyone realized, all too quickly, soup made with Halizone-laced water leaves something to be desired. 

1930’s Civilian Conservation Corp’s boys hadn’t put much effort into Isle Royale’s three-sided lean-to construction. We spread our sleeping bags on dirt, thankful it wasn’t muddier. In the 30’s, there were only a few depression-era hikers to stay in such a jerry-built construction. Besides, there wouldn’t be anybody to complain to three decades later. Our father apportioned out our chicken-Halizone water soup and we were ready to slide into sleeping bags when a Tarantula-like spider appeared atop mine. It was hairy brown with shiny black eyes and totally unafraid. I was readying a knife attack when my father simply shooed it away. I immediately fell asleep despite knowing it might well climb inside sometime in the night. 

We awoke the following morning to more loons calling across the water and no sign of moose or hairy spiders. Scrambling into bright sunlight, we breakfasted on dry cereal and canned orange juice without bothering with a morning fire. Wanting to hit the trail for a long day ahead, we shouldered backpacks and left to ascend Mount Desor once more and gain the Greenstone Ridge. 

The path runs the length of the heavily-forested island and, from Desor’s summit, appears to be the spine of a long green animal basking in a cold blue expanse of Lake Superior.

We had been looking for semi-precious greenstones, found in only two places on the globe, Isle Royale and 180 degrees away on the globe in South Africa, but found, instead, a field of wild strawberries and feasted on them for lunch. 

Our day ended at a second lake-side lean-to and another fight with wolf spiders. This second batch were more determined to stay comfortably dry inside the lean-to, apparently thinking it belonged to them and not itinerant hikers. However, we weren’t putting up with any spider-nonsense and attacked them with sticks and knives while they scurried about. Too late to fish, we used more precious canned goods; Spam, peaches, and baked beans. 

At the end of the third day, more than 30 miles northeast of Windigo Bay, we finally caught three pickerel for dinner. Slipping them on a stringer to stay fresh, we lit a campfire to fry them. No sooner had we turned our backs than seagulls swooped down for their share. We chased them off with more sticks, before dining on a great dinner of fresh pickerel. That night, there was another moose wading offshore in purple twilight. Although we had been taking pains to hang our backpacks on overhead branches so they wouldn’t attract animals, my brother somehow left his atop a picnic table this time instead of overhead on a tree branch. When we were fast asleep, campfire long dead, a fox tore into his pack and ate everything foxes like. Dave’s candy bars must have attracted it but, with all of Dave’s food gone, the next few days meant a reduced diet for everyone. 

We finally finished the fifty-mile, five-day adventure trek to Rock Harbor, having learned how little we knew about wilderness hiking. Anything more challenging would need better planning.

 

 

 

Oct 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 16 – The Home Stretch

brighton-erA whirlwind of motion flooded the hospital emergency room when the four of them entered. The staff tried to take Danny from Gunner, and he growled like some wild beast. They backed away. Saint said something quietly to him. Gunner’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded as Saint backed up and the attending moved in with a gurney.

“Sir, please. You’ve got to let him go. He’s in good hands.” A male nurse said, approaching inch by inch. Gunner’s gaze lasered in on the nurse. The guy didn’t back down. Danny didn’t make a sound when Gunner set him down gently. The staff moved at warp speed after that.

“Sir you can’t come in here. It’s better you stay in the waiting room.”

“Try and fucking stop me. Where the boy goes, I go.”

Sienna’s focus sharpened on the big man holding Danny until she realized the tears streaming down her face. She blinked.

“Sienna, honey let’s get you into emergency too.”

“What?” She looked up, Saint’s fingers wiped her streaked cheeks. He guided her into a wheelchair a nurse parked in front of her. “Oh.” She still clutched his hand when they started to roll her away. Sienna struggled to keep hold of him, not wanting him out of her sight after what she’d let happen. She tried to turn in the chair. A hiss of pain made Saint’s eyes narrow. She gripped him harder, but he slowly slipped away, the release causing a chill to mark her skin. She’d told him she loved him but would he still want her after all she’d heaped on Saint?

“I’ll be here. I’ll come back to you as soon as the doctors let me,” Saint said.

The nurse nodded at him. “As soon as the doctor says it’s okay,” the nurse told her. “Not a second before,” the older woman scolded.

Sienna reached out to him again and moaned from the pain.
The nurse patted her shoulder to still her. “You’ll be done in no time.” Sienna glared at the nurse and winced. She wanted to hate the older woman pushing her, but she seemed nice if she looked beyond her bossiness.

“Mmm, mmm, that man is hot. You’re one lucky lady. If my Reggie had a face and body like that, I might have overlooked his wandering eyes. And hands. If you know what I mean. With a man like that, it would have been worth it.” The nurse kept chattering on and on, and Sienna toned her out thinking about what she could say to Saint to make up for pushing and yelling at him. What if the result of his fall was a cracked skull? She was lucky that all he had was a sore head and some stitches.

Going through the stark double doors further away from Saint felt like a chasm had opened up, like he would forget about her, disappearing like every other good thing she’d tried to hold onto in her life. The last glimpse was of Saint staring at the floor. What did that mean? Was he rethinking being with her? Had she ruined everything?

After being poked and prodded, a few hours passed. Sienna finally drifted off to sleep, her injuries not as severe as she’d thought. X-rays revealed her ribs were bruised but fine. She was battered badly and would heal in time. Sienna knew she’d be fine, at least she thought she would. But more so, she was worried about what Saint was thinking. Even before they’d reached the hospital, he’d been terribly quiet in Gunner’s SUV.

The arms of the clock slowed as if sculpted with concrete, and Saint still hadn’t made an appearance. Even the nurse came by more than a few times to check on her. The shift even changed. When the nurse stepped up to her IV bag and switched it out with another, things started to blur. She didn’t want to fall asleep without seeing Saint.

“Where’s Saint,” she thought she’d asked. The nurse’s lips moved, but all she could hear was a jumble of noise. Her eyelids kept slipping closed. “Saint?” She struggled to stay awake. Everything had to be alright between them, she was frantic to see him. But her limbs fought against her and became heavier. She eventually succumbed to the drugs dripping into her system and sleep washed over her.

Voices woke her with a jolt, unexpected words entering her mind. Her eyelids hung heavy, and she struggled to open them.

“Three of Danny’s ribs… I thought…lung…punctured but he got lucky.”

Sienna opened her eyes, things still a little fuzzy. Two figures stood by the window in her room. She blinked.

The forms finally cleared and one started to speak again, Gunner, she thought, emotion ripping through his voice. “He…when I found him…God dammit!”

Was he crying?

“When I found him, his pants were around his ankles.”

She gasped.

“Sienna, you’re awake.” It was Saint’s words that drew her attention.

She tried not to read into what Gunner had just revealed. Did Marco rape him? She whimpered. “Where’s Danny? What did that fucking bastard, Marco, do to Danny?” Her words were small, the pain for what Danny endured too large to make it past her aching throat. And then she remembered the blank stare of her mother when Marco had carted her into that small shack. Sienna didn’t know how long her mother had been dead before she had arrived. “Ohh,” she groaned.

Saint came to her side and took her hand. The relief she felt from the contact making her sharp breaths ease only a little. Sienna had to focus on something else. She couldn’t think about her mother yet. She’d known it was going to be bad. She pinched her eyes closed and tried to shift her thoughts to something else.

Her eyes flicked back up to Gunner’s his arm bandaged where he’d gotten shot. He continued speaking. “The doctors said there was no evidence of sexual violation. Thank God. But until I talk to Danny…” His words trailed off, and he took a deep breath. “He was so dirty by the time I got to him,” he took another harsh breath, “that I didn’t notice the cuts in his abdomen. Christ!” Gunner rubbed his face with rough, jerky movements. “The doctor said he cleaned and stitched the wounds. There were no serious internal injuries. He’s bruised more than anything.”

“He’ll be okay right,” Sienna asked.

“Physically? Yeah, mentally, I won’t know until he wakes up.”

“You haven’t talked to him yet?” She said. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?” Her words tripped over one another, pain sliced through her lungs with each breath, her ribs taking that moment to reintroduce themselves as the medication disappeared.

“Calm down, baby,” Saint said. “Danny’s asleep. He’s going to be fine.”

Sienna watched Gunner’s eyes move to the floor, and his body shake, with what? Anger? Fear? Guilt? She couldn’t know.

Gunner interrupted her thoughts. “I’m going to head out.”

“But, what about…”

The man steamrolled over her. “Don’t worry about Danny. I’m taking care of him when he gets out of the hospital.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Why would Gunner do that? He didn’t seem very child-friendly.

Saint asked what had stuck in her throat. “You are?”

“I know a few people,” he grimaced.

“But the woman I spoke to with social services said she’d try to have Danny placed with me,” Saint said. Gunner shook his head.

“It’s nothing against you, man, but I think I’m better equipped to deal with the boy than you are.”

“How so?” Saint asked as he stood up and crossed his arms facing Gunner.

Gunner just smiled, it not reaching his eyes. “Just know that I have his best interests at heart.”

“Yeah, now you do,” Saint whispered just loud enough, and Gunner grimaced.

Silence trickled on for long seconds, and Gunner finally said, “I’ll let you know when Danny’s released and where we’ll be.” And then he turned around and exited the room, his stride sure and quick.

Sienna was so focused on the doorway that she jumped when Saint sat on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling, baby?” She couldn’t speak. “Sienna? Are you hurting? Do you need me to go get the nurse?” He stood up. She grabbed onto his shirt not caring about the pain, and her forehead fell against his chest, and she let loose her tears. Saint enveloped her with his arms forming a cocoon of warmth, holding her close.

“I’m fine.” She breathed him in. The memory of hearing him yell out for her, storming into the small shack, him taking the too tight blindfold off her face. “God, I’m fine. I love you! I love you so much. I’m sorry I said all those nasty things. I didn’t mean them. I didn’t mean to push you. When Danny told me, you’d fallen…” Her words rolled right over each other and Saint seemed to hold her tighter.

“I know, Sienna. I know you didn’t mean what you said or did,” he replied. “I love you too.” He kissed her temple and then her lips, barely a touch. She wanted more, and she needed more. Her fingers curled in his shirt, pulled him closer and took his lips. He moaned in surprise and gently pulled her back and looked down at her.

“Saint, please kiss me. I need it. I need you.” Lifting her head and leaning in again she tried to reach him, but he held her off.

“Sienna, you’re hurt. You need to rest.” He smiled down at her.

She pouted, trying not to wince when she figured out her lip still really hurt where Marco had hit her. Saint chuckled and gave her a quick peck on the lips. Sienna exhaled and linked her fingers tightly in her lap and tried to lean back on her own but Saint was there to help relax back onto the bed.

“See. You need to heal.”

Silence lingered. “What now?” Sienna asked.

“Now, we wait until you’re released and make sure Danny’s okay with Gunner. I’m still not positive he should go with Gunner.” He looked toward the window.

“What’s wrong with Gunner? He saved us both by killing Marco.”

“I don’t know. Gunner’s got secrets. I don’t like it.”

“Well, I think it will be okay,” she said and closed her eyes. “If Social Services believes he’s the upstanding guy they think he is then we should let them be.”

“How can we do that when I know for a fact, he didn’t help Danny in that damn house. He let Danny’s mother beat the shit out of him. It’s not right. I want him with us.”

Sienna’s eyes snapped open, but she couldn’t look at him. Not yet. She focused on her fingers the red skin mottling to a white as she gripped harder and harder. Hope bloomed in her chest making her heart ache. Was what he felt worth more time than just a few weeks they’d spent together? He told her he loved her but did he mean more than the passion they’d shared so far? She wanted to grab on tight to the word ‘us’ and never let it go. But she was scared to ask him what he meant directly, so she focused on Danny instead. “Danny and I don’t get along. How well do you think he would handle me helping take care of him? Especially when you’re living above your garage, and I live at my house?”

Saint gently lifted her chin with his fingers and caressed her jaw back and forth, back and forth. When Sienna’s eyes met his, she fell into the depths of love there wanting to stay forever.

He shook his head and smiled one side lifting up knowingly. He kissed her and held his lips over hers for too long. When he didn’t move away, his next words tickled her when he spoke. “You’re worried I don’t love you enough.” His lips lingered on hers, and his tongue slipped out softly to slide across hers. She moaned, and his smile felt good against her. “Don’t. ‘Us’ means you and me forever, Sienna.” Saint’s kisses brushed across her jaw as he leaned in closer. She lifted her chin, and then his lips met the soft spot below her ear, and he nipped her there leaving his mark. Then he slowly came back to her lips for another drawn out soft kiss. “Even though our time together has been short, I know you’re it for me. I knew it when I carried you to your bed with that migraine. I surely knew it when I didn’t know if I’d reach you in time when Marco had taken you. I love you, Sienna.”

He wiped her cheeks again and she laughed. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re a beautiful mess. My beautiful mess.” He took her hands. “I don’t care how we do it. The ‘Us.’ Just as long as we’re together. You can move into the apartment above the shop.” He laughed when she wrinkled her nose. “Or I can move in with you. It doesn’t matter as long as I’m with you.”

He gave her some much-needed tissues.

“What do you say?”

“I say, yes.”

Saint smiled, and she started to giggle as he crawled onto the small bed with her and he replied, “I can’t wait.

 

The End

 

Coming in January Hot Turns in the Hot Blacktop Series

Oct 08

The Revenant – A Good Idea for a Novel – Part 1 of 2

 

screenshot-2016-10-05-06-39-34Michael Punke found enough good ideas in the journals about Hugh Glass to write a novel. At the end of the book, the author acknowledged his historical uncertainties. Alejandro G. Inarritu also found good ideas in The Revenant about the life of Hugh Glass. Inarritu strayed far enough from the Punke story to barely (or shall I say bear-ly) resemble the novel. For weeks, I wondered why Inarritu changed the story. Why mess with a good thing?

The answer to that question came unexpectedly in a screenwriting class. In this two part series, Part One explores the highlights of the novel.  Then, Part Two will show why the screenplay requires a different story and where the screenplay excels. In terms of the classic elements of story, The Revenant is rich in conflict, characters and resolution, which is the structure of the story, the plot.

It’s a Good Book When . . .

1) The action scenes are hazardous to my health.  Mesmerized by each blow of the grizzly bear’s paw, I listen to the audio book, slowing in my driving speed. Other cars are whipping past at 90mph. My car rocks in their wake until the bear’s final swipe. Punke’s novel drops stunning action into almost every scene. Action is conflict. And in this novel, the conflict is evenly spread between nature, man and self. In one scene, a snake strikes with deadly poison. Visualizing the scene, I can hardly grip the steering wheel. Also, I’m thankful I tackled this story in the heat of summer, because I feel cold in 90 degree weather. Other hazards include the frontier skirmishes with different tribes–a few fur trappers against what seems like an Arikara army. I want to duck for cover under the dashboard from the assault of arrows. For self-conflict, Glass battles his own desire for revenge when he finds Bridger, one of the volunteers left to care for him. Bridger’s haunted and tortured thoughts echo in my memory foreshadowing what is to come. Punke writes, “Stunned silence filled the room as the men struggled to comprehend the vision before them. Unlike the others, Bridger understood instantly. In his mind he had seen this vision before. His guilt swelled up, churning like a paddle wheel in his stomach. He wanted desperately to flee. How do you escape something that comes from inside? The revenant, he knew, searched for him” (p. 201).

2) The characters’ problems are larger than life. As I open the refrigerator to pull out a ready-made dinner in my heated house with clean running water, I lose appreciation for the survival challenges of two hundred years ago. The Revenant is written about fur trappers in 1823. Survival requires creativity, skill and courage. Glass must somehow find food without a knife, gun or a fast food restaurant on every corner. The descriptions of ways to trap small animals, catch fish and defeat other predators draw in the mystified urban reader. Along Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, Glass must find shelter and eventually transportation. I marvel at the “live or die” mentality that forces Glass to confront wolves feeding at a buffalo carcass. Without food, Glass will be too weak to heal, to live, and most importantly to seek revenge.

3) When revenge is not so sweet. The Revenant is an object story. This revenge-fueled obsession is because of a stolen gun. Punke devotes pages to describing the Anstadt, “a so-called Kentucky flintlock, made, like most of the great arms of the day by German craftsmen in Pennsylvania” (p. 18). Two hundred years ago, a gun was life, and Glass trusted his life to his reliable and beautiful gun. That’s why the novel’s bear attack has Glass drop to one knee and aim to shoot the bear’s heart at exactly the right distance to kill. Punke builds rich backstories for Fitzgerald and his motive to take the gun and continue in his corrupt ways. The stolen knife, however, fills Bridger with guilt. As for resolution, stories end with the character either accomplishing the goal or not. Glass finds both Bridger and Fitzgerald (not much of a spoiler). Each reader will have to decide whether Glass is satisfied with the non-Hollywood ending.

In summary, the novel adds a rich historical perspective of life on the frontier. Scenes with French voyageurs, Yellow Horse and an unlucky Captain Henry heighten this storytelling. A quick internet search on Hugh Glass brings poems, songs, historical accounts and movies. The lore and fictional accounts elevate Hugh Glass to legend. Each fictional remake of the fur trapper and mountain man adds to his story. In Part two of “The Revenant – A Good Idea for a Film,” the legend shifts in a new direction.