Getting a bottle of water from the vending machine? ... How hard could it be? ...

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. All day long the bright fluorescent lights relentlessly beat down on all us hapless Cube Farmers. The deserted corridors funneled a stiff breeze from the ever-cycling AC and with it some loose papers from a nearby copy machine. The radiation emitted from the two twenty-one inch monitors facing me was intense as I stared with bloodshot eyes at what would be my twentieth consecutive Sudoku (my record was sixty-two in one day ... I could have done more that day, but it was five 0’clock and time to leave ... a Babylon 5 marathon was starting at six).

After breathing through my mouth (in intense concentration) for so long I was dried up. It was time for a soda break.

But wait ... in a fit of healthiness, maybe a bottle of water would be better especially after suffering through a lunch of extra-salty, cold french fries and a shoe-leather burger from the cafeteria. Even if it was more expensive that’s okay ... ‘cuz it’s good for you.

After a lonely walk to the vending room, I stood before the oh-so-refreshing picture of a Pepsi can and reached into my pocket and pulled out my last bill ... a twenty ... Damn. I look in the other pocket and pull out all my change ... $2.52 in various coinage ... Cool.

But wait ... a water is $1.10 (but it’s good for you) and a soda is $0.70. Not to mention the rules that I have learned over the years through many harsh lessons:

Rule #1: Any coin inserted after the total is over $0.70 will be rejected to the coin return bucket.

Rule #2: Only $1.00 bills are accepted.

In the one hand, a twenty, and in the other, coinage ... Damn.

It was time to seek assistance.

I walked back to the farm, looking for an occupied office. Ah ha! ... a fellow farmer. “Hey, Sherry? You got a dollar?” not forgetting to hold up my four quarters to show that I was trustworthy.

“Nope. I got a couple fives ... “

No help ... moving on.

“Chuck? Got a dollar I can exchange?” I said with my best trustworthy look ... and my quarters.

“Nope ... Sorry.”

And then a voice from behind spoke to me like a divine angel ... but deeper, “I got some dollar coins ... that should work.”

Dollar coins? The machine took dollar coins?

Rule #4 (I haven’t told you #3 yet so relax): The machine takes dollar coins.

“Hey cool ... thanks Walt,” I said stepping into my savior’s own piece of farming real-estate. “I guess this’ll work ... I just have to remember ...”

Rule #3 (see?): You must insert the dime before the dollar. (This is actually not a rule as much as it is the one solution to how, given Rules #1 and #2, you can insert $1.10 in the machine)

So ... back to the machine.

While making the trip I examine the gold coin with a Native America woman on one side ... Who was that? ... Pocahontas ... Sacagawea? I continue pondering this all important question as I dropped the golden dollar coin into the slot ...

Wait for it ...

Before I hear the coin hit bottom I realize my horrible, horrible blunder. Just to solidify the error firmly in my mind, I dropped the dime into the slot and “clink” ... straight to the coin return bucket ... I hit the coin return button ... “clunk”, “clunk”, “clunk”, “clunk” ... Quarters! ... Damn!

I trudge back. “Walt?” I said handing him the four quarters.

“You didn’t observe Rule #3,” he said wisely, shaking his head. I was ashamed.

He handed me another gold coin with an unspoken finality, and back I went. I put the dollar in my pocket and the dime in my hand and chanted “Dime first then dollar. Dime first then dollar. Dime first then dollar,” over and over down the long hallway until I arrived once again before the sweaty blue can.

“Dime first.” I inserted the dime. “Then dollar.” I inserted the dollar coin; I heard the “clunk” as it fell. Before I can get intensely disappointed, I see the display increment to $1.10.

With a heavy sigh of relief, I pushed the large bottled water button.

"Selection not available. Please select again.”

DAMN!!!!
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The Tree of Life: Book 1

Catherine Connley desparatedly missed her husband. He'd died the year before in what she was told was "a heroic sacrafice for the greater good." Catherine thought they were full of crap. So imagine her surprise when, along with an odd invitation to visit San Francisco, she received a photo of her smiling husband dated the previous week.

Follow along as Catherine and her very special daughter, living in a not-so-distant future, are swept up into an age-old secret battle for domination between two ancient foes. One side, known only as The Others, seeks their ends through any means necessary while the other side, lead by International philanthopist Robert Danann, adopts a more subtle approach.

Oh yeah ... The Others are winning.

Book 1 of "The Tree of Life" starts here.
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The Start of Something Big

Starting today I will be posting (mostly) daily updates to my new story blog at http://treeoflifestory.blogspot.com. Comment are encouraged and welcome.

Don't despair though ... this doesn't mean I won't be occasionally putting new musings in this blog as well.
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Free Falling

This is a bit of a departure from my usual writing that came out of some past experiences. The following is based ever so slightly on real events, but the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Enjoy!

James Daniels, Jimmy to anyone who’d known him for more than ten minutes, had just graduated from college not three weeks before and, out of necessity, moved in with his big brother Billy’s family in The Big City. He “was sure to find a job” because “after all, if any place needs another programmer, it’s Seattle.” At least that’s what his old roommate had said. Of course, the guy had just taken his third hit off a joint the size of your arm so his advice might be somewhat suspect. But, in truth, his chances were certainly better than if he’d gone home to Dixie. Which was, as luck would have it, about as far from Seattle as you could get and still be in Washington. Of course, the national recession didn’t help either. “Hiring Freeze” seemed to be the favorite term of the companies that had so far politely rejected his resumes.

So there he stood, on a bright summer Sunday afternoon, surrounded by people he didn’t know and a lot of pink ribbons and bows. He carefully and with great skill applied his expensive education and supreme brain power to stack baby shower gifts in a stable pile on the dining room table. The shower was for his sister-in-law Michelle, and the party was in full swing. And this wasn’t your traditional “Girls Only” shower either... Oh no ... everyone “got” to come. What fun.

“Hey Jimmy!” Michelle yelled from the foyer adjoining the dining room. “Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.” She was talking to another girl ... or should it be woman ... He never could figure out which was the right one. When did one cease being a girl ... or a boy for that matter. He would never know.

Anyway, as he approached Michelle’s friend from behind, he didn’t ogle her. He saw only her hair. She had long brown hair that made its curly way to the small of her back. Jimmy liked long hair.

Jimmy had never been one to leer at women ... or girls for that matter. The first thing he always noticed was her eyes or her smile. He got to know her face before he even looked at the rest of her body. There were many times that he couldn’t have described the body shape of a girl he’d been talking to for hours, but he knew the color of her eyes, how her smile made them crinkle in the corners, or how her hair hung just right to slightly obscure an ear ... an ear with three piercings.

Michelle made the introductions. “Sara, this is my little brother Jimmy.” Michelle didn’t cotton to any of that “in-law” stuff ... family was family. “Jimmy, this is Sara. My best friend in the world.”

He automatically extended his hand as Sara turned, and when he looked into her eyes, he was struck dumb. Sara was beautiful ... radiant. Her eyes projected her beauty which before the day was over would take hold of his heart and not let go. Her smile melted him. And that was just in the first three seconds.

“Er ... Hi” was about all he could manage. His mind went blank. His more geeky side would probably call it a Mental Application Hang.

She smiled some more. “Nice to meet you.”

Two seconds. “Same here.”, he replied. Instantiate the Task Manager. Kill the Process. Drop to the command prompt.

“Ah ... I need to go finish stacking the presents before they fall over.” Reboot.

He walked a not too straight line back to the pile.

As the party progressed it got better ... no really. It wasn’t like he was stalking her exactly. He was just getting used to her presence. Whenever he saw her across a room, she would look up and make eye contact and smile. He couldn’t help but smile back. It was like some kind of drug he was sampling ... but just a little at a time ... in progressively bigger doses. When she was standing next to him (which he tried to make happen as often as possible through a sequence of very complicated moves and countermoves that would have made his former chess club geek friends sweat), whether talking to him or someone else, she was the room to him. When she left the room, it was empty ... he was empty. When she laughed her eyes crinkled, her face beamed with an inner light. He was intoxicated by her.

Several times, to keep from overdosing, he left the room, just to let his heart slow down. But he’d invariably jump back in and “dose up” some more.

Night fell finally and the party had thinned somewhat. Jimmy had “just happened” to be in the neighborhood of a mingling Sara when Michelle and Billy came over to her with grave looks on their faces.

In a low voice, Billy said, “Lance is outside”.

Sara was visibly upset, “What does he want?” Her eyes were suddenly large and wet.

Now, Jimmy was normally a low-key, even-tempered guy. But the mere thought that someone could make Sara cry made him feel a surge of violent, protective anger. That detached part of his brain that got him through hours of Philosophy 200 was surprised.

He moved closer. “Who is this person?” He was seething inside but nobody seemed to notice.

Sara looked up, not unhappy about his intrusion. “He’s my ex.” Jimmy heard “ex” and interpreted that to mean “I’m single now”. His heart lurched a bit, and then he chided his own insensitivity while Sara continued. “He doesn’t seem to get the fact that we’re no longer together and keeps pushing.”

Michelle spoke up, “He says he just wants to talk to you for a minute.”

Sara sighed. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?”. She stood silently for a moment and took a deep breath. “Okay, but you’re both coming with me. I don’t want to deal with him by myself.”

And then it happened. Sara grabbed Jimmy’s hand and said, “Let’s get this over with.” His pulse raced. He was probably closer to passing out then he realized. Fortunately, she let go in time to save him the trouble of sprawling out on the ground in a quivering heap of Jimmy.

It was dark outside as they approached a man leaning against a late model black Trans Am. It was parked on a dark part of the street, but there was enough light to see by. Jimmy couldn’t help but smile at the cliché that stood before him. The man was over six feet tall with a black cowboy hat, a black button down shirt with fancy stitching, black jeans, and pointed black boots with silver tips. Jimmy likened him to a young Burt Reynolds without the charm and silly laugh. The cigarette in his mouth flared brightly as he took a drag.

As they approached, on some obviously self destructive impulse, Jimmy offered Sara his arm, she took it and leaned in just a little bit. It was slight, she may not even have noticed, but Jimmy noticed and it was his undoing. His head, his heart, his entire being tipped over the edge and fell for her.

In that detached part of his mind, he thought he now knew where the term "falling in love" came from. It felt like that feeling when you’re on a roller coaster and shoot over a hill in the tracks. Just for a moment you’re floating … you’re in free-fall. That’s what he felt ... he was free-falling in love ... there would be no coming back.

Jimmy and Sara came to a stop on the sidewalk beside the car, and Jimmy’s brother and sister stood behind them. Lance pushed his hat higher on his head and flicked the now spent cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his toe. With a slight drawl, he looked down at Sara ignoring everyone else, “I wanted to talk to you alone.” He exuded menace.

Jimmy was instantly pissed off. In that moment, he noticed how small Sara was. The top of her head barely reached his chest. He hadn’t notice that before. He moved slightly, half shielding Sara with his body.

Jimmy was not a small man. He never played football, but everyone said he could have been a lineman in high school. He was just shy of six feet tall and was naturally wide and strong, and with Sara holding his arm he grew at least six more inches ... in both directions. His movement wasn’t lost on Lance.

Lance looked Jimmy over with open contempt, “I see you have a new ... friend.”

Jimmy bristled but stayed still and was surprised when Sara stepped out from behind him and gently put a hand on his tensed arms as if to calm him. He looked at her and saw a fire burning in her eyes that both scared him and made him proud.

Sara stared unflinchingly at Lance and responded. “I think maybe that I have, and already I know that he is twice the man you’ll ever be.”

Lance looked like he’d been slapped and started to speak, “Why you filthy cu...”

That was enough of that. Jimmy started to move and take this jerk down when Sara’s voice stopped him short. She spoke with a quiet power that cut through Lance’s bravado. “Lance, you don’t get to talk to me any more. You don’t deserve the privilege. So I’d suggest that you get back in your car and drive away. The police will be here any second, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want them to find all those parole violations in that hidden compartment in back of that heap of crap you call a car. I’ll be applying for a restraining order tomorrow.”

Lance went white, and hearing the approaching sirens, was spurred to action.

He jumped into his car and started the engine ... or tried to. After three attempts, it backfired and finally sputtered to life with an impressive cloud of dark smoke erupting from the tail pipe.

As the car lurched forward, he screamed out of the window, “This isn’t over! You’ll see!”

At the end of the block the car paused under a street light, and Jimmy finally saw that it was made of multi-colored dark panels with several of them dented or covered with Bondo. One of the windows was covered with tin foil and had a good length of duct tape flapping in the breeze as the car sped around the corner.

Seconds later, the sirens approached and an ambulance passed by on a call somewhere in the neighborhood.

“Moron,” Sara said just loud enough for Jimmy to hear, and then louder, “Let’s get back to the party.”

She took Jimmy’s arm again, swung him around and started walking back at a measured pace.

“You bluffed him,” said Jimmy, openly impressed.

“About the cops? Yeah ... Lance isn’t very bright, but he can be dangerous. But I wasn’t bluffing about the restraining order ... I’ve had the appointment for a week.

“You were very brave to step up like that, but I should probably tell you that he’s a black belt and probably could have wipe the floor with you.”

Jimmy thought for a moment and gently covered her hand with his where she'd grasped his arm. “Maybe so, but then you’d have visited me in the hospital. It would have been worth it.”

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The Maintenance Gene

There is nothing that I like better; nothing that’s more exciting to me than the act of creation; the artistry of bringing forth something that wasn’t necessarily there before. And it really doesn’t matter if I’m doing it or if I’m just watching someone else (well, okay, it is more fun if I’m the one doing the creating). This can be something as simple as cooking a meal or watching a woman applying makeup to watching the construction of a home or writing a computer program (which incidentally is one of the things that I do for a living). You’re only limited by your imagination.

Unfortunately, one of the things that I don’t find very exciting is the act of maintaining my (or other peoples) creations. I, of course, understand the necessity; otherwise things would basically fall apart -- literally and figuratively.

As a minor example of my aptitude (or lack thereof) in this arena, I offer up as evidence my yard about 6 months after I bought my house:

You should have seen it; grasses up to your knees, amber waves sweeping back and forth in the afternoon breezes (actually it was really quite pretty). Unfortunately, there were rumors of small children being lost for hours if they accidentally ventured into the dark, forbidding forest that was my front yard. I think the neighbors were even complaining that their property values were going down for every week that the grasses went uncut. But when my friends starting saying things like, “You know this reminds me of my pa’s corn fields back in Iowa” or “I could swear I saw a pair of eyes staring back at me when I looked into that prairie behind your house”, I got the message ... I hired a guy to come and mow the lawn every week. It is well worth the money just so I don’t have to remember to do it. And consequently, property values went up all over the Bay Area after my gardener started. Coincidence? I wonder?

Anyway, you can probably see my dilemma. I love the creative part but hate the “taking care of” part. What I need is a vocation where I can create something, send it “away”, and not worry about it anymore. (By the way, if you’re wondering, I don’t think this would apply to something like, say, a child … I do own a cat after all, who is quite happy as far as I can tell. It can’t be that much different … right??) Well, you might say “that sounds like an artist or an author to me”, and I heartily agree. However, it’s not something you can just change jobs and go do, all the while paying the mortgage, credit cards, various loans and all of the other products of modern consumption that we all work so hard to acquire. So lacking any artistic talent (or a least the kind that people wish to look at – and pay for), I write when I get the time, and someday I’ll finish the book. Then, of course, I’ll have to figure out what to do with it, and do this in such a way as is agreeable to my lack of the “maintenance gene”.

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No Pressure Though ...

My blog is now two days old. Yet the big question still remains ... what the hell to use it for. I've now included the CCL (Creative Commons License), so I feel somewhat more protected if I decide to post some of my writings (as mentioned on day one ... er ... yesterday). So now I find that a friend of mine has linked in to this blog from his own saying things like, "I'll link to him pretty consistently ..." Sheesh. Now I'll have to keep things fresh.

So, with that in mind here is something I wrote as a bit of a backstory for a D&D character that I play occasionally.

It's okay. Go ahead and click on "Read More!".

“Who am I you ask?”

That’s really the question that’s the center of my life.

And the answer … one answer … is: I don’t know exactly.

Here’s the story so far:

Mar Salac is not my family name. Quite literally Mar mean “of the” and Salac is the name of the dry oasis where I was found as an infant.

The story goes that a troupe of itinerant performers discovered me among the burnt out wreckage of a caravan that while moving south toward Calimport was set upon by raiders and sacked. Not wanting to add yet another mouth to feed to their number, I was taken to the Druid monastery at the Ka’Sumar Oasis.

The all male enclave raised me as best they could. I was trained as a Druid priest to assist in the Ritual of Purification that we used to keep the water supply at the oasis pure for the various travelers that regularly pass through on their way to or from Calimport.

My growth as a Druid and as a man has been driven largely by humility, which is to say I am usually the one being humbled in the face of my own stupidity.

On one occasion, in my fifteenth year, I found that I had some amount of skill on a horse. Over the next few years I rode and practiced constantly learning everything I could from the various peoples who passed by our Water. It made for an interesting style of riding and eventually a style of combat that didn’t conform exactly to that of any race or discipline. As such I availed myself well in an impromptu “contests” with some of the young men from a local nomadic tribe that passed by on their annual trip to the Port. After winning twenty matches, in the final round, I was finally unhorsed by a rider dressed in black who the others mysteriously called “The Outsider”. I got the impression that he wasn’t part of the group, as he didn’t socialize at all with the rest of us. I never saw his face and I got a broken collarbone for my trouble.

That same year I had my first (and it would seem latest) experience with a girl. She came through as part of a toupe of performers (the same that originally found me). She was my age, but seemed older, worldly, which was not surprising since they traveled from one end of the Realm to the other twice a year. I knew her from previous visits, but I never really noticed her until then. One evening the actors were performing on a makeshift stage a reenactment of some famous story, the exact name escape me now. There were the usual heroes and villains and monsters … and the damsel in distress, and oh, what a damsel she was. She was called Alexa, and during her performance, when our eyes met, it was lightning straight to my soul. After that night we spent every waking moment together. We walked around the desert on those warm, moonlit nights hand in hand just happy to be near one another. Then the last night before they were to leave … we kissed. It was soft, slow, unhurried, as if we’d been together forever. Yet at the same time … fire. She left the next day with promises to see me again on their way north. But they didn’t come back later that year … or the year after that … or the year after that.

Then this year, nearly four years later, the troupe came through again. My studies were mostly complete. I had no distractions as I looked forward to their arrival. After they arrived, I waited what I thought was an appropriate amount of time for them to get set up for the evenings performance -- although I don’t think I could have waited much longer … my fellows were undoubtedly chuckling under their breath while I paced nervously in front of the main gate, waiting for the right time to leave. Finally, I left the sniggering behind and walked out of the compound.

As I approached the group, I couldn’t see her anywhere, but that’s not unusual, I thought, she was probably getting dressed. So I waited … and waited. I waited until the end of the first performance (which was oddly enough the same one they had done the last time they were here) and she still hadn’t appeared. I noticed one of the stagehands milling around the side of the stage so I approached him and enquired as to her location. Trying to be as non-chalant as possible. I'd been told that appearing needy was a "bad thing".

“I think we’s left her somewhere’s up the Sword Coast. Don’t rightly recall where exactly though,” he said. After a brief set of questions I was convinced that the dullard probably couldn’t have told me the time of day without a hint.

Anyway, after questioning some of the others whom I’d known from their last visit, I got, at least, a somewhat coherent story.

Apparently, as they left Balder’s Gate she told the group that she must leave them, that she’d found out some things about her family or about someone that she knew … the stories were a bit conflicted here … that she needed to investigate. Then she left. That was six months past.

Very soon after that an elf named Arianna came with her petition on behalf of the Elven community in Mosstone, and I was chosen by the elders to represent us. And just to show I’m still not above a little humbling:

When we finally left the enclave on this mission, I admited that I was feeling a bit cocky about my skills as an adventure. After all, it was I who was chosen above all others to accompany my elven friend to deal with the Arch Druid Balek -- although in retrospect I was probably chosen: A) because I was somewhat expendable to the community and B) the Elders knew that given the news about Alexa and the ichy feet that I was developing, I’d have most likely left on my own anyway. So with excitement in our hearts, our trusty weapons at our sides and riding a pair of fine desert ponies, we set off. Of course, had I been paying more attention and not been so overconfident, I’d have notice that Arianna was miserably picking sand out of her hair and clothing and not entirely paying attention herself, and I wouldn’t have been practicing sword forms on my horse while we stumbled into a nest of giant ants that any child would have noticed, had they been paying attention, in plenty of time to avoid entirely.

They were on us before we had a chance to adequately defend ourselves. Before it was over both mounts were dead, and my scimitar and shield were buried and unrecoverable. The only thing that saved us was Arianna’s skill with a bow … and the fact that when I tripped over my robes, the remaining juvenile ant was distracted by the corpse of my horse and was dispatched as it fed.

Arianna and I healed one another, but no healing spell could repair our pride … or the complaining that I had to put up with because now Arianna had to tromp through the sand and the weed and the brush without the benefit of a mount. Though I had trouble hearing it, after a couple of days I finally made out a little mantra that she sang as walked:

Each grain of sand that gets in my hair,
Is a mark against him then and there.

Each boulder of stone that invades my boot,
An arrow in his ass I’ll surely shoot.

Each bit of dust that blinds my eye,
Assures a night in father’s pigsty.

Each bite of fly that makes me itch,
Maybe a curse from Altheya the Witch.

So these I vow when I get back,
Will count against this Druid, Salac

I’m hoping that she was just bitter … although she did shoot me in the ass with an arrow. Needless to say, until we arrived at the caravan and joined up with a few other worth young adventurers, we (especially me … making sure I didn’t spend too much time with my back turned) were a bit more vigilant.

All I have of my heritage or background is a small tattoo on my forearm. With all of the people that I’ve talked and southern traveling I’ve done, I have never heard anything about the meaning of this symbol. So north is the way for me. Maybe there I will find the answers I seek, the answer to the one question that defines me.

Who am I?

So, there it is. An early effort, but an effort none-the-less.

For more on the adventures of Mar Salac and the Myriad Veritas go here.

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Why am I here?

"Logics will get you from A to B, imagination will take you everywhere." - Albert Einstein.

There are so many "quotes" from Albert Einstein floating around the internet, it's reasonable, I think, to conclude that they can't all be "real".

However, real or not, this particular "Einstein" quote is the basis for this, my blog.

You can expect regular musings about whatever I happen to be thinking about at the time (which, I guess, is somewhat between A and B as far as blogging goes). But you'll also have the opportunity to wrap your heads around my varied imaginings in the form of short stories and snippets from what a good friend calls my "Magnum Opus".

Welcome to Everywhere Else.

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