Suffering

Losing family is hard enough, like a grandparent, sibling, or parent, but to watch them slowly die before your eyes with nothing you can do to help kills you inside. Worse still is for them to remain alive physically as a statue of themselves--as though dead, but somehow still moving and talking. Dementia or other catastrophic neurological trauma or physical disability that leave the person a shadow of themselves haunt their victims' families and loved ones.

I know now the pain of seeing family pass away, but still remain to haunt us as phantoms of themselves--you spend your every waking desire to catch that last glimmer of the phantasm, but it escapes your reach.

I clutch, verily, to what remains of my sanity tonight.

Today is my father's birthday. He turned 63.

I was to go and visit him again in Salem today, but I cannot bear to bring myself to go. I don't have the strength anymore to do it alone.

I'm tired of all the suffering. How people older than me can keep their sanity is a miracle. I cannot fathom their devices or means. I am overwhelmed by grief--grief I cannot express, but which hides behind false smiles and hints that all will be well so long as I bear onwards. I must endure! I must survive! Why? I know not...

Maybe, this is all we "survivers" have to keep our course steady?

While this may sound absurd for someone my age, twenty-six, but I feel in these moments as if I need the caretaker--not just my parents.

My mind trickles away from me--slowly fading into sunset as the daylight of my life escapes my fingers, merging into shadow.

"Where am I headed now?", a voice calls, "Where am I to go, and what am I to do? What purposes am I to set my course? What am I to navigate by? Where is my light? Where is my tinder box?"

[Nothing.] An emptiness.

I turn, "Oh, fate! Oh, cursed plight of heaven! You cast me aside so easily, and yet, you demand everything! You leave me here, alone, abandoned, forsaken on this cursed Earth to tend my days! For what?! For what am I to do? God, you have foresook me! Am I alone? Am I no longer worthy of your graces?! Am I a husk of flesh, meat, and bone--broken sinew to be cast aside when no longer a need you can find through me? Am I contemptible to thee? In your eyes am I broken an not worthy of repair?"

I stumble. Crashing down hillsides I cry, "My God, why hath you forsaken me?! Why have the promises been undone in me? Why am I to suffer so without reproach, without relief, without reward, without peace until my final breath does leave me?"

"If I die before I wake, I pray my Lord my Soul will take. But, if E takes to cast aside, better to fade away and cry for better days spilt here, for trials evermore will curse me till I'm gone."

"As my ship sets sail, today, I cast aside my mooring. I am to die, begone, away! Lest ye fade away with me!"

Castles, sunsets, and memories of childhood

Twenty years ago, I found myself in a new world--an ancient world of wonder, filled with gargoyles, great monoliths of stone and masonry--where castles were not just found in story books, but instead were as common as a grocery store. Our town had its own ruins--barren and gray, decaying from years of neglect and misuse. The towers crumbled, and if you climbed the precarious spiral stairs, you would find yourself upon the tower--the ancient ruins of Guilford Castle.

Rich tapestries of childhood blanketed my waking dreams. Pictures of battles, wizards, and worlds afar. As one looked out towards a setting sun, you could witness the mothers filing out of centuries worn shops like little merchant fairies attending a yule ball. The smell of baked goods wafting effortlessly through a chilly Surrean gust.

Near my small and racing form stood the still, pensive figure. It was tall, yet not too much so. Short, bobby-like brown hair fell down upon a graceful smile, articulated by that fierce, yet loving, gaze. The figure was my mother, holding aloft her graceful form, casting a warm glow on the misty sunset from days long past by conscious memory and into history and legend.

Were Lady Hildebrand or Lady Guinevere to have stood aloft, I imagine they would be impressed with my own queen's vigilant prowess.

Like a cloudy visage peering through Louis Carol's looking glass did the eyes gaze upwards and over the timbers of brick forests, chimnies awaiting the good luck's a sweep, and his lady friend too.

In a pause the kindly figure turns, "It's time to go, Christopher."

"But, mom..." the little boy chides, "can't we stay for just a few more minutes? I'm having ever so much fun."

Smiling with the grace and poise of Gretta Garbo or a Hepburn, she turns, "Five more minutes. We have to get home or your father will begin to worry."

"Awe... Alright. Thanks mom! I love y'a."

Kissing the figure on the cheek, the young boy in his red jacket and blue wool uniform he hated, but beared as a talisman against angry headmasters who disapproved of hyperactive little American boys who lacked British modesty and discipline.

As the minutes enrolled onward, the boy, sensing the appointed hour, wandered slowly from his cryptic perch and slowly descended the spiral encasement towards the figure in white. Mine own Galadriel.

Slowly, I crept into the misty depths of my tower, freshly abandoned yet again for another season as the young returned to school after the holidays.

My own journey, however, was not to school, at least not where itchy wool and long socks were the required dress code or bad food the daily menu. Instead, I was to travel many leagues to my first home, Seattle. Back to a world now unfamiliar. Fear crept over my waking thoughts. Will they like me? Will I fit in? What about Jack or Victoria? Will I ever see them again?

My fears were quelled in a wash of warmth as the familiar arms grasped about my chest and held me still. My mind turned to the last sparkling shimmers fading out across the distant horizon as dusk enveloped its patrons.

Mom found my permanent record from high school (in addition to all of my special services IEP report). Having read through it, I was hit with a flashback of all of the crap I've endured throughout my life.

Just reading through the reports makes me want to scream. I don't want to scare anyone. Sorry if it sounds like that. It's more just pain. Emotional, stabbing pain at rediscovering old wounds that have long been sealed and forgotten. However, they are never truly forgotten. Instead, they scab over and become infected, but like my teeth, with time, we no longer realize the crippling sensation as the body normalizes itself to the suffering. As the suffering increases throughout our lives, we see that new level normalize and the more terrible things get, we just keep readjusting the scale--renormalizing.

It's actually a pretty amazing feat of our bodies and minds to renorm our perceptions, but while it allows us to keep on living throughout the more horrible of situations, it also possesses grave consequences for our long-term survival and happiness.

Having the strength to look back on these life experiences really produces some grievous hardships. People throughout my life have accused me of being "weak" or merely "blaming [my] own problems on others." The claim is that people who "blame" others are themselves the cause of their own dysfunction.

I spent years not trusting people--because, so many of the adults who should have been there to help me as a child failed me. They did there "job", completed the "appropriate paperwork", but never took greater steps to see what was really going on inside of this kid's head.

I was truly screwed up and was lost amidst the waters of suffering and hardship.

Even in college, the argument is that "Christopher Brown needs to work on his social skills--he needs to learn to make friends, 'fit' in and perform socially appropriate activities. Chris needs to learn to act like other children his age and to be more organized. He forgets things, etc."

There's more, and a lot of it has truth, but it's like reading about any good character--you only see some of the external and have no idea what is going on on the inside. I was a real wreak in school. At home, I was alone. Mom read to me, but I just floated about for ages and ages, precisely because I could not fit it.

I was angry, VERY angry. And every time I tried to express myself, I was attacked. If not by the students, then by the teachers, administrators, other parents.

People may claim that I'm "victimizing" myself, but I don't think that's necessarily the case. Just because someone has been wronged does not necessitate them as being a perpetual "victim". Did it ever occur to people how when one is put in such a horrible state they are the "idea" victim? I mean, when kids are struggling with their own interpersonal problems, parental divorces, all kinds of other stuff, that lone, nice kid, who doesn't really fit in--he's weak and quite and really easy to push over (psychologically). Whenever we pick on him, instead of fighting back or hitting us, or calling us names, he just sings or screams or runs away. He cries, but he won't hit back.

I did. I did once hit back. I broke a kid's nose (or at least gave him a bloody nose in one swing when I was VERY little). Another time, I nearly blinded a kid by accident by swinging a bush branch at him when he was harassing me in 2nd grade.

Every time I did something "wrong", my parents were called. My father punished me by spanking me and using extreme military treatment. I was his little soldier, whether he realized it or not. Dad used what he knew. He couldn't get close to me after his heart attack and constantly used physical intimidation to keep me in line when I did anything dangerous. The problem is--I've always been curious. I'm always getting into mischief, because I enjoy seeing things as they are or at least, understanding what's out there, learning new things, etc.

Whenever I tried to do that--explore, etc. and it broke some kind of fear line or caused parental worries, dad "beat me". Spanked is more accurate, but 25 whacks with a leather belt is something pretty traumatic. It scares the daylights out of you and makes you fear your father. It doesn't help when dad declared, "I don't care if you love me. You WILL respect me!" I think in dad's mind, the Marine Corps or his own upbringing had a lot to do with this. My aunt may disagree, but it doesn't surprise me what he tells me. Both of them have issues, but what truly comes down to cause pain is the damage that has been done from all the years of abuse.

People look at me and will probably never see all of the scares of my life. They are hidden deep, beneath the surface. I don't consciously remember the pain, because it overwhelms me. I was hurt so many times, but I knew with my parents that it wasn't because they necessarily wanted to hurt me--it's just where they were at. I know as a kid I hated my father, at least, hated him when he was cruel. Dad never really understood me or what I was going through, but maybe he did. I kinda feel like my dad repeated the sins of his father through him. You could see it in his eyes and in the way he beat himself up. He'd beat me up, because he'd already beat himself up that any more beating would kill him. Well, I think that at least. Maybe, that's just my own delusion.

You all can say what you want. I might even post some of the stuff, just for the hell of it. My pain might give someone else solace from their torment.

I know a lot of you probably don't know me that well--even my friends. I never open up, because deep down--really far at the base of who and what I am as a person, is a kid who at ever turn was wronged--by his peers, by his parents, by his teachers and community. Somehow, amazingly, and against all odds, the kid survived. He kept walking even when his emotional feet were bleeding. He refused to surrender. Not to suicide, not to hostility, not to violence. He wouldn't give in. But, eventually, the overwhelming struggle he faced took its toll.

I broke down. Finally, I reached where I am. A relatively broken man, who has covered up all his pain and mixed in his childhood delusions to mask that pain. Created a fictional delusion to soothe his aching muscles and the loss he bears.

Once more he walks down this lonely road to discover where he will next be lead, where he will next traverse, what future holds him fixated upon a beacon far in the distance.

But, even with all this glory, how will I continue?

I keep walking, but my pace slows, until at last, I fall. I fall upon my back, my knees, my whole being.

I cry for all the pain I've endured. People just don't understand. How could they? They haven't lived this life of suffering. They had friends! They didn't have each and every one they ever held close taken from them!

I viscerally understand the pain of losing a loved one, because that's all my life has been--something wonderful happens and then it is taken away!

The only thing that seems to make any sense these days is "Life is change." Buddhism has this message of healing that the world changes and we suffer when we do not come to accept this fact.

I suffer because I refuse to give up on all I have lost.

I am Job morning the loss of his wife and family--his sons, daughters, children, grandchildren, etc. Was it for his crops or land that he wept? No! It was that which was most precious to him that was taken!

Christians say that God has the power of life and death and that E rules us all. We hear and are taught stories of redemption and rebirth. But, where is my rebirth? Where is that of all those lost and buried?

Pain grips me. I know how trying our world can be. We struggle day and night to live and to survive (and in the flickering of hope, to thrive), but do we? What is the purpose and resultant of our efforts?

Death. Change.

It's not that I'm blaming God or even speculating on the subject. I'm just pointing out something obvious. We die. Life changes. We suffer when we cling to things of this world. We  suffer, because we cannot be thankful of what we were given and appreciate the time we had with it. We greedily hang on for all measure and will and corrupt all that is and will ever will be through our malice.

What would transpire if we were to live forever? It would be merely an extending of pain. My death brings great pain, but it also brings an end to loss. When we pass away, we no longer lose. We no longer are bound by the changes of the world. Our life, in those last final moments are the conclusion of a tale long in the making.

I wish my pain was not so dramatic, so melodramatic, but it is nonetheless. I bleed and cry. I sweat tears of remorse for all that I have lost. I miss greatly all that I have ever witnessed. I want to greatly to return and experience the joys of my life as they were in their prime. But, can this be so?

It cannot, and my pain continues.

I'd truly like to cope with my pain, but in this hour of my life, it is raw--unkempt--unnegotiated. I am revealed in my nakedness and I am ashamed. Ashamed of my pain, my fear, my loss, my guilt, my longings, my hunger, all of who I am.

God made me pure, but I cast it off in the realization of all things about me. I continue to struggle in this way--ever hoping for some fresh release from my agony, but ever knowing that pain will never subside. I shall be marked by this torment until I fall for the last time. The pain brings tears into my eyes. I know not what yours bring you, but I hope you find peace where suffering resides within me.

I wish you all a good evening and morning. May the sun bring rays of hope upon your lives.

My Opus

by Robin Layne

Your opus is a written statement that helps you clarify the following:

Who you are:

I am a child of God and bride of Jesus Christ. As the robin bird is a herald of spring, so am I a herald of Christ’s eternal spring—new life now and forever and a new heaven and earth to come, springing from the blood he shed on the cross and the living water, the Holy Spirit he sent, springing up from within me. I am still learning what this means, and will probably continue to learn this more forever.

What you should do in life to best fulfill God’s purposes for you:

Foremost, I shall draw close to God and share in his love, letting it change me with the infilling presence of Christ; and secondly I shall share his love with all I meet—friends, enemies, family, strangers. I shall learn to be obedient to the voice of God within me to do the specific things he tells me, and, as I obey him, I will hear his direction more and more.

Your big dream for your work:

My big dream is to draw people into the deep passionate loving relationship that Christ has for them; and to be the mother of God’s children in whatever ways he calls me.

The purpose of your work:

The purpose of my work is to draw closer to God myself, because I know that I am a unique facet of the image of God, and that it gives him pleasure to share his love with me; and to show others who God really is, as opposed to the false impressions people have of him. If they really knew him, it is hard to imagine that anyone would not fall madly in love with him and want to serve him all the days of their lives and on into eternity in Heaven.

The strategies necessary for you to achieve your goals:

I am not aware of all the strategies God has for my future. I do know that he has called me to write, and planted in me a desire to write novels above any other type of writing; however, if he wants to change my direction, my sails are up and his wind may blow me as he wills. I expect to continue to write plays with Beautiful Minds, the NAMI group I’m part of, for as long as I can, unless God tells me not to. My future may include the help and companionship of a husband who would free me in many ways to minister more effectively—to go where we want and need to go, and to learn to love more together. If I do not meet a man to marry, I will be content, however, because my spirit and emotions are fulfilled by having Christ as my husband, and I also have already experienced the joys and sorrows of having and raising a child and do not want to give birth to another. I will continue to help teach Sunday school as long as I can. I will continue to show God’s love and wisdom to the friends I have now and will meet in the future.

The ways you intend to measure your progress to determine whether or not you’re hitting your target:

This is the part I always hate: figuring out how to measure my goals (probably because it resembles math, and I hate math and am no good at it). But for me, what I need to do is ask God to “search me” and show me how I am doing in his eyes. I will not be hard on myself, because part of the second commandment is loving myself, and how can I be full of God’s love if I shut it off from my feelings and actions toward myself? Of course, this is always harder to act on than to talk about, because I overextend myself and it always seems like more is expected of me than I can do, so I pick and choose. What I choose isn’t always what is the best self-care. I have to say, though, that my life, and its target, are God’s, not my own, so I don’t intend to get too stressed out on it. I will find a balance. I will recognize when I am in favor with man—I am always in favor with God, because Christ earned that for me, but there must be more to that idea, as Christ is my example and he grew in such favor. But sometimes the times when we are pleasing God, we are least in the favor of man and don’t seem to be bringing glory to God. The ultimate picture of this phenomena is, of course, the cross.

Your worldview (what you believe):

My worldview is that God made everyone, loves everyone passionately, and is working hard not to let any perish, but that he has put much of this work into our hands, and if we neglect it, we and others suffer. The best way to help God do his work is to be the glove his hand fills and work in partnership with him. That is part of what it means to be his bride. This is not usually a lone venture; we are much stronger and have more influence when we work together. That is where my church and other groups, such as Beautiful Minds, come in. I believe in being a part of something bigger than myself, although I sometimes feel like I don’t fit in well. But when I can’t seem to make conversation in a group or we don’t see eye-to-eye, I will remind myself that I am valid as God has made me and am there for balance. And we are all continually learning—hopefully, learning truth and not being deceived.

Your principles (what you value):

I value the divine romance and the divine nature God has placed within us. I value honesty. I don’t believe in saying everything to everyone, but in choosing my words carefully and wisely and that everything I say should be the truth as far as I know it. Honesty also involves keeping my word! And I intend with my words to embrace the will of God, on earth as it is in Heaven. I believe that life and death are in the power of the tongue—and of the pen. This requires that I control my thoughts, because they are the well of what I express. I value forgiveness. I will let God’s forgiveness for me act out self-forgiveness and forgive others.

Your passion (what you love):

My passion is, first Jesus, and then, writing. Third, trying to help others write better, which often takes the form of noting mistakes that the world often considers petty or even non-existent. This has been leading me into being an editor, and as an editor, I have made more money by far than as a writer. I need to make a living (unless, someday, a husband supports me, which is rare these days), but I have to admit writing, not editing, is my first love when it comes to any kind of work. I love fiction most, and also poetry, songs, and non-fiction. I have a passion to share God’s love through my writing, especially the fantastical, but I have been writing more autobiographical material lately and have become more bold about sharing it with the world.

Your purpose (why you live and work):

Evangelism and representation of the church through the bride relationship with Christ, often through intercession—which I feel I do FAR less than I should, but believe that in the past I have experienced and prayed for things that have come about in the church and the world at the same time or later—seeds germinated by God. I guess that makes me more a mother of God’s children than I thought! I definitely need to make intercession more of a priority. I also do evangelism through friendships and writing as well.

Your process (how you will do so):

Intercession:

I will keep a list of people and other things to pray for, picture the faces in my mind, and start a prayer journal. Yes! I will use the book that Jean gave me for Christmas. I will keep it with my miracle book and my church notes spiral notebook. I will write more miracles in the miracle book as they occur or as I learn of them, and try to share them with others to increase their faith and encourage my own.

Writing:

Specific works so far: Blood of the Willing, and the rest of the AVS series, Lord willing—for teens and others interested in vampires, spiritual guidance, and spiritual warfare.

Related works, if the Lord wants, such as “Against Heaven and Earth” as novella or novel: find a publisher or self-publish when I have the money someday. But I don’t know if that one should be a priority.

The Beautiful Minds plays

Articles for AuthorsbyDesign.com

Perhaps write, and possibly act in, church dramas in Portland (to find out more next Sunday, but consider my time—and my priorities. Put God’s kingdom first, but which aspects of it?

Blog on Goodreads

Write more book reviews—Goodreads and Portland Book Review

More Hubs?

More writing work, as inspired to do it

Hopefully, make connections with people who can help market my writings (a husband, friends, agent)

Editing:

Finish classes and earn editing certificate; continue freelance editing; look for editing job; make more money to support myself and pay for my writing. Get my website to work somehow. Help others to express themselves in worthwhile writing projects of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and script writing. More as God expands my horizons.

Ultimate goal for career:
Live off my writing and reach many people with the gospel who couldn’t be reached by conventional means. Continue working outside the box.

Typing Without Glasses (experimenting intro)

    This is an interesting experience, having to maintain two monitors in order to actually see the text that I am writing. This is a peculiar experience to not need eyewear of some kind in order to see what I'm doing. Normally, I fall about, running into inanimate objects, or animate ones if some unlucky individual happens to fall into my path -- much like those unlucky characters in action television or cinema where the characters are trapped inside their vehicle and a train is roaring towards them, while a black SUV pushes them onto the tracks. While they could move, merely pressing on the gas pedal and placing the car in gear -- like some light stricken dear or out of the cliche driven madness of a script writer whose got only 20 more minute to finish that scene before the latest episode of Young Justice comes on Cartoon Network -- they stand in awe of the coming doom and do nothing, or worse, try to put their car in reverse of all things and back up! Yes, people who fall into my path are like these -- unable to move for the awe-striking mass of my girth, and await the crushing inspiration that said mass will spell for their lives once they are supplanted by a tumbling ball of flesh and sinew.

My Writings for February 16, 2013

Prompt One Response:

“Crap!”, thought Eros “In over 35,000-years of doing this job, never once have I missed. Is this what mortals call, 'getting old'? If it is, I want my money back.”

The gracefully winged immortal tossed his long, hazelnut brown locks and began pondering his next move. Since he'd never actually missed a target (or as he affectionately called them, “Aphrodite's play things”), he was rather outside his field of experience. What was he going to do? Should he contact dispatch and ask to speak with the infuriating empress of pink futons and oversized boxes of truffles? Or, would it be better to try to figure this one out on his own?

“Maybe, Eris would have an idea how to get me out of this mess? She's always causing grief, yet somehow manages to not tick-off upper management. Now, where did I put that phone?”

Prompt Two Response:

Iceberg: A big-ass chunk of ice in the Arctics that floats around and runs into boats whose crews are too focused upon making money than general safety of their passengers. Most of the mass of an iceberg exists beneath the surface of the water.

Humans are such complex creatures of design or accident. Because we lack some magical telepathic ability that lets us know what others think, feel, experience, know, the lives they have lived or the people they have met – basically, we know very little about people beyond what our physical appearances.

Each person is rather like an iceberg into of themselves. We travel about on our own, independent of one another's thoughts outside of sense experience and shared language, custom, etc., running aground every so often, passing by, but unless there is a great upheaval or just an especially shallow individual, so many of us pass by unexamined.

I'm one of those people. Unexamined by others – residing deep within the waters of the world, hidden away, and so unknown as to my true self.

Besides the Creator of this world (if such a being truly does exist), I know not of a single person whom I truly can claim “knows me”. It's a morbid experience, wandering aimlessly and listlessly through the world from my formative years onward – ceaselessly searching for companionship, yet never seeming to find it.

Lately, I've been blessed enough to find people with whom I can relate on some level, but I fear my future may not speak so kindly. Furthermore, it is only those who have experienced grievous pain that in some way can appreciate one another. It's like trying to explain to someone who has never before seen a mountain to visualize a mountain. Can this be done by one so ill-equipped? I know not, but it begs the question, “If life sets us immortally and immaterially alone, separate and apart from our fellow beings of waking sentience, then how can we be expected to live?

Perhaps, in this small way, I see this as the great burden of humanity. Whether it was by design or merely personal choice that humanity was split asunder from our capacity to truly know one another, can it be said at what cost this rendering of flesh, spirit, and soul has caused? Not just onto those for whom this fate befell, but for all those who were to follow – how is it that we as beings can survive the great immortal toil of this frail existence without ever being known save by a spirit in the sky and within our own hearts? How can we relate; how can we love; how can we feel the caring breath of this world when we are all alone within it?

I know not answers to these questions.

I am told that humanity's greatest adaptation is cooperation. What constitutes this “cooperation”, I know not, but if we lack capacity to truly know one another, how can we cooperate? Every action I might take, every feeling, ever fiber of my being could be stifled the the actions of another, but unless that person knows me, they wouldn't be able to truly, viscerally comprehend my fate. This seems a vitally critical component to cooperation irrespective of its nature. All parties must be on the same page of the manuscript of the same edition and form in order to see what the other is speaking of.

This poses a great deal of challenges for us as people to befriend and form lasting relations with one another. The pain we feel can be a truly comprehensive part of our being – something that may never escape us. Life is hard, and simply wishing for it not to be or even worse, pretending that it was not so, drastically undermines the abilities of humans to form relations.

I've greatly struggled establishing deep friendships on account of this paradox: Those who are most capable of understanding you often manifest the same flaws and struggles as you and often make having friendships more difficult, yet those people are often the only ones who can truly appreciate your situation for they have been through similar ones themselves.

One of my friends of late, Jacob French, suffers from HIV. He's also had an extremely rough life outside of that – being adopted by his parents from Romania where he was left suffering and sick as a baby by his too young Roma parents. Jake experienced a great deal of trauma from all he's been through, and it is this experience, his suffering that bonds us together. We can relate, but not just in our pain, but in many other things that show that we are “ancient souls” or however one wishes to call those of us who've lived and lived an examined life.

One of the greatest struggles, parental relations with my mother, suffers grievously, on account of a lack of understanding. Mom, a wonderful person in my mind, cannot relate on some levels with me because she's stuck in her own world. I guess I can appreciate that – being lost in my own world a great deal of the time – focused only upon what is in my immediate vicinity – ignoring all else in my path.

Life truly is a struggle, especially, when you are a human iceberg. If only I could find other icebergs who were willing to look beneath the ocean's surface.

 Prompt Three Response:

 

[Explosion]

“Captain! The aliens! They're... they're... Green!”

“Yes, Johnson... They are green. What color did you expect little green men from Mars to be? Chartreuse, maybe? Now, can you please hand me that bottle of astro-dent-remove?”

“Um... but, sir... Chartreuse is green.”

Shaking his head, “Johnson... Chartreuse is not green. It is a 50/50 mixture of primary green and primary yellow, thereby making it not green, but chartreuse. Now that you are done lecturing me on the merits of elementary color theory, can you hand me the bloody tube?!”

The overzealous private turning, “Oh, I'm sorry Captain. Yes! Right away.... Here you are, sir. Is there anything else we need to secure the air lock?”

“No Johnson... not at this time. However, I would appreciate it if when our guests of the International Space Accounting Office for Sol System and outer planets arrive you would try to be tactful for a change and not give the Taractilian Ambassador On Interplanetary Economics an exploding toilet seat. While I realize that you and Horace have been making habit of pranking one another since primary, considering he has now been promoted to the ISAOFSSAOP Admiralty, and considering you have been eagerly seeking promotion, I would suggest avoiding making a scene like last years Colloidal Neutron Milk Rectal Ramming Incident occur while in the presence of the Martians. They take a rather dim look on these matters.”

“But, Captain Eltman, just because the green Vulcans don't have a sense of humor doesn't mean the rest of us have to suffer. If I don't prepare myself, Horace is going to pull every prank he can think of until I retaliate. You know the Taractilians are?!”

“Johnson, I realize, that is why I've already spoken with ambassador Horace. He's agreed to not pranking you during the Martians stay. I fear he may be planning something, given the ease by which he agreed. He hasn't been in contact with you recently regarding this?” the Eltman replied.

“Sir, not that I am aware of, although, he may have messaged me. I'd have to check the dataservers.”

“That's fine. Please go and check and return. The Martians will be through the hanger deck at any moment.”

“Sir! Yes, sir!”

Turning and returning to his previously abandoned duties repairing the hole in the airlock sensors, Captain James T. Eltman (his father an overtly obsessed Trekie naming him after James Tiberius Kirk sans the surname modification) was pondering how he got stuck piloting a floating relic from the mid 21^st century. At least, he wasn't forced to eternally spend his days shipping rotten vegetables and plutonium arsenide to his uncle's generating plant or give Universal Studios Intergalactic Tours of the Stars for one more day – he somehow made it through University working at these putrid excuses for employment and it would take more than an outdated star transport or a misguided private to make him forget the numbers of hours he spent in the academy's detoxification chamber to meet the genetic purification code for admission into the program.

It helped that his allergies in primary had enabled him to meet the academy's chief medical officer. Strangely enough, the small village outpost where James spent his formative years was also the research headquarters for a very peculiar medical researcher who would become his friend – Doctor Shiro-Matsumata Andreas Chesterton the third, or Cheesey Shinjiro or “Cheesy” as he was affectionately called by his friends. Considering the guy could take your head off with a single move (he was a quarter Nexmoxian, a quarter Martian, and half-human. In other words, a mutt like the rest of us, but old enough—his alien gene pool securing him extreme longevity—to not be required to register for the genetics purification exams for employment and neo-patrician citizenry.

Too Familiar for Comfort

by Robin Layne

            While I was on the way to the dentist’s with a toothache, I saw this red-haired teenage girl on the bus. I thought she looked like Carletta, but I see a lot of girls who do. This one sat in the seat in front of me. She took a little book out of her backpack. To my surprise, it looked just like the journal I used to have, pink with cats all over it. Were they still making that journal? My sister sent me mine in the early ’80s. What was particularly amazing about this journal was that my character Carletta has one like it.

            I looked over her shoulder and saw her writing in the journal. The cursive was a bit messy because we were on the bus, but the best I could make out was:

            That Jack is dead meat! He’s harassed my boyfriend one too many times! I sure hope you don’t keep me from (illegible------) (illegible------).

As she wrote the rest of this sentence, her hand tightened around the pen. She stopped, lifting and dropping her shoulders with great sigh.

Another coincidence, I thought. In my story Carletta kills a football player named Jack Sloan for repeatedly harassing her boyfriend Hugh. If this were Carletta, I knew what the illegible words would be: “burying the body where it would never be found.” My imagination was surely running away with me, but I found myself staring at the girl in front of me. The way her hair flipped at the back and gracefully covered her neck was very familiar. When she turned her head to smile at a teen boy across from her, I noted how her freckles dotted the tops of her cheeks and, just like Carletta’s, were nowhere else to be found. She even wore sunglasses; Carletta did, too, because her eyes were so sensitive to sunlight. I almost expected to see fangs when she smiled, but it seemed that her hypnotism affected even me. Hypnotism? What was I thinking? This couldn’t really be Carletta. I invented Carletta.

            The first time I saw that character was in a dream years ago. I dreamed I was a teenage girl spying on her boyfriend, who danced on a restaurant patio with another girl. The temptress had short red hair, and she bit the boy in the neck and drank some of his blood. There was more to the dream. It laid out some of the plot of the story, enough to get me started. I filled in details from there, and, over a period of years, had written a whole novel. I named the teen vampire Carletta, and the boy she stole from the main character I called Hugh. In my novel, Hugh gets too caught up in her charms to notice the reports of missing persons and dead bodies in his hometown since she moved in. She continues to kill until she is stopped.

            The boy across the bus aisle looked up from his video game and caught the girl smiling at him. “Hey, Carletta!” he said.

            I felt my face flush. Surely I had heard wrong. You don’t run into a Carletta every day in the first place.

            “Wasup, pretty girl?” he said, leering.

            She slipped the diary and pen into her backpack again. She removed her glasses and batted her eyes at him—just like my character does whenever she wants to influence someone—and it looked like her eyes were gray like my vampire character’s, too. “Could you do me a big, big favor, pretty please?” she said with a grin.

            How many girls really talk like that? Carletta does, though.

            “Anything,” the boy said. He had brown curly hair and was wearing a football jersey—like the kid in the English class whom I never gave a name to.

            “Would you tell me where Jack lives?” she asked.

            “Just on my way there now!” the curly-haired boy said. “If you’re in for some action with us, I won’t tell Hugh.”

            I fell out of my bus seat, which set my bad tooth to throbbing. I cried out from the pain and the shock.

            Carletta turned and squinted at me. “What’s the matter with you, lady?” The unnamed boy was laughing.

            They got off the bus. Giving up on my dentist appointment, in spite of the pain, I got out and followed at what I hoped was a safe distance.

            It wasn’t.

            The boy pointed to a house on the right. Carletta looked back at me, and her hands went to her hips. She said something I couldn’t hear to the unnamed boy. He turned around and, to my amazement, pulled a knife out of his boot. I didn’t imagine the football player in my story would wear boots, much less a knife.

            “You can’t kill me!” I blurted out.

            “Why not?” he said.

            “It—it’s not in character for you,” I said.

            “How do you know?”

            Meanwhile, Carletta kept walking up the driveway to the house I assumed was Jack Sloan’s. This was totally crazy, but I felt I had to stop her. I turned to follow her, but the boy blocked my way. He advanced, holding out the knife. “You don’t know what I’m like. You never even bothered to give me a name.”

            How did he know that? More to the point, how could he be the high school boy I had invented?

            Before I knew it, he held the knife against my throat. I saw Carletta nodding at us from the driveway.

            “If you kill me, you’ll disappear,” I said to the boy.

            “How do you know?” he said. “Maybe we invented you!”