See John write

Stephen, Samantha, and their three children sat around the picnic table in their Mirror Lake camp site. Ethan at twelve years old was looking more and more like his father every day. They shared the same sandy brown hair, startling blue eyes, and an easy dimpled grin. Brandon, the eight year old, had much more of his mother’s coloring. His hair was dark brown and kept in a buzz cut because he simply didn’t have time to deal with combing it in the mornings. Sarah was the youngest and had recently turned five. She was completely blonde, like her father had been when he was a child. But she had her mother’s big brown eyes. She was the quietest of the children, watching her brothers constantly.

Sarah sat on the bench with her chin resting on both hands. For ten minutes now, Ethan had been trying to convince his mom to let him hike to a nearby lake with his dad in the morning.

“Aw, c’mon, Mom” Ethan begged.Samantha looked at Stephen hoping for some help. He gave her a shrug that she knew meant “You’re on your own on this one.”

“Ethan, I don’t think that it’s a good idea.” Samantha could tell this was one of those rites of passage moments. Her little boy was wanting to spread his wings, to take advantage of privileges that were off limits even a year ago. She knew she couldn’t keep him a little boy forever. But this was not like he was asking to sleep over at a friend’s house.

“Mom, you’re not being fair.”

“Look, I know you could hike the distance—that’s not even the issue for me.”

“Then what is?”

“Well, frankly, it’s that neither of you are familiar with this area at all. You see a lake on the map and think that it’s like walking around the block at home.”

“Mom, we’re not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were. I am simply pointing out that it may not be a simple as you think. What would you do if it took you longer than you thought to get there, do your fishing, and get back? What if it started getting dark?”

“Mom!” Ethan groaned. Stephen could see he needed to step in.

“Ethan, you know what, Mom is right. It’s been years since I was up here. I don’t exactly remember the way. It really could turn into a dangerous situation.”

Ethan couldn’t believe his dad was taking mom’s side. “Dangerous?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, dangerous. And besides there are plenty of fish that need catching right here in Mirror Lake.”

Ethan knew the discussion was over. He stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot.

“I’ll tell you what, Ethan,” Stephen offered. “Why don’t we get up really early before sunrise. The fishing will be great then.”

“Dad can I come too?” Brandon asked.

Ethan shot his dad a look. Stephen smiled at Ethan hoping he would understand. “Of course, you can come. But you’ve got to get right up. Those fish won’t wait for little boys who are too sleepy.”

Ethan cocked his head sideways and let out a sigh.

“I’ll get right up, Dad,” Brandon said excitedly.

The family stayed up playing card games by lantern light until the cool night air began to be uncomfortably cold. Samantha got the kids settled into the tent while Stephen heated a little pot of water on the camp stove. She came out and joined him for a cup of hot cocoa.

“So did you really want to hike to that lake?” Samantha asked as she sat down to her steaming cup.

“Well, when he suggested it, I thought it might be a good chance for him to feel like he was getting to do, ya know, a grown-up manly thing.”

“Do you even know if there’s a well marked trail?”

“I haven’t made that hike since I was Ethan’s age. But if I remember right, there was a good trail.”

Samantha pushed back a lock of her dark hair and tucked it behind her ear. Slowly she sipped her cocoa. “Well, I just don’t feel good about it. I’d be worried sick all day.”

“Sam, we decided not to go. Remember?”

“I know. But I could tell he really wanted to go. And you said before we came that you wanted to make sure the two of you had some good one-on-one time.”

“We had some great one on one time today. And we still have three more days before we head home.”

Samantha paused again and sipped her cocoa. “So, do you think he’s gonna be alright? You know, being a teenager and all.”

“Yeah. He’s gonna be alright.”

~~~~~~~

Ethan rolled over inside his sleeping bag. The early morning air was so brisk it almost burned his nose. He sniffled and opened one eye. Although the tent was still very dark, he could sense that the sky outside was giving the first hints of the new day.

Though he was quite groggy, he remembered his dad’s promise of early morning fishing. The whole campground was so quiet, he knew that most if not all of their neighbors were still sleeping. He could even hear one robust snore in the distance. He wiggled one arm out of his bag and reached over to his dad. With a gentle nudge he said, “Dad … Dad … Dad, its time to get going.”

Stephen lifted his head off his camp pillow about one inch. “Huh, yeah, sure.” Then his head went right back down on the pillow.

“C’mon, Dad. Remember what you told Brandon. ‘The fish won’t wait for little boys who are too sleepy.’”

“OK, OK. You get the gear together and I’ll be right there.”

Ethan knew it wouldn’t be long before other fishermen would be following the same plan. So he hurriedly found a sweatshirt in his bag that sat right beside his sleeping bag. He pulled on a pair of jeans and stood to unzip the tent door. He looked down at his dad who was barely stirring. As he was about to give him a good nudge with his foot, his dad lifted his head and said, “Open it quietly. Lets try to keep your mom and little sister asleep.”

“And little brother too,” Ethan added.

Stephen scowled at his oldest boy. Ethan was usually very good natured about letting Brandon tag along and try new things even though it sometimes meant slowing down to wait. Stephen knew what Ethan was thinking and that he would have little patience in this situation.

“Just get the stuff ready. We’ll be ready to go.”

With that Ethan carefully unzipped the tent door, slipped his shoes on, and stepped out. As he zipped the door back up, he saw his dad lay his head back down on his pillow.

~~~~~~

Vince had let hour after hour slip by in silence. The voices in his head even seemed to be growing tired. He stood up from his filthy grey couch and nearly collapsed. His head was dizzy and his legs felt numb. Stumbling over to the wall, he braced himself until the sensation passed.

He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then he made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A loaf of bread, a half gallon of milk, ketchup, and 24 cans of Coke. Vince grabbed a can of soda and cracked it open. He drank the entire contents in three swallows.

A small shaft of sunlight spilled in through a small slit in the living room curtains. Vince was surprised that it was morning. Then a thought surprised him—a memory from his childhood. It was only a flash, a photograph taken by his mind that had faded almost completely away.

Vince froze.

It was a moment of clarity. So much confusion. So much despair. Clouded thoughts and darkness. And standing there in the same apartment that had held him captive for days now, Vince felt the smallest wave of freedom. He knew it would not last long.

Almost unconsciously, he went to his spare bedroom. The room was almost impenetrable, junk was strewn from shelves against the wall, stacked on top of boxes that had never been opened since the last move, and covered nearly the entire floor. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything in the room.

Vince pushed things out of the way with his feet, then leaning over a large stack of boxes, he reached to the top shelf. He pulled down an old sleeping bag and tossed it behind him toward the door. Pushing aside a box to see the shelves more clearly, Vince suddenly became frenzied.

Freak. What do you think you’re doing? Having your spleen ripped from your belly and eaten by some hairy animal is better than a bullet? Whatever.

“Where’s the stupid tent!” Vince threw down another box and ripped open the top of the next. Another box was filled with old computer parts. Vince tossed them aside and heard something break inside. Without pausing, he stepped over a pile of clothes and picked up an old coat. There on the floor was a barely-used camping tent. Vince snatched it up and headed for the door. He scooped up the sleeping bag and headed into his bedroom. Grabbing a backpack he used to carry his uniform to work, he dumped out its contents on the bed. From the closet he grabbed a flannel shirt, a baseball cap, and a pair of jeans.

They won’t find the body for months. For years. Maggots or coyotes—doesn’t even matter. Rotting flesh, nothing but teeth and bones. Wonder if I could tie my hand up so it’s givin’ the bird when they find me.

Vince pulled on his work boots, they were stained with grease and oil but were much more rugged than the old pair of tennis shoes he wore most days.

As he swung the backpack off the bed, it clipped the box of 357 shells on the dresser and spilled them all over the floor. Vince stopped. He stared at the shells and the strange pattern they made on the carpet.

Don’t go freeze to death, maggot face. Or starve. Be a man and take the gun. Clean. Click and gone. Squeeze it that’s it.

Rage boiled up inside Vince. He growled and slammed his forehead into the wall. Again he banged his head into the wall. Again. Then he stooped down and started picking up shells by the handful. He threw them into the backpack, even more frenzied than when he was looking for the tent. It was as if he were making a quick escape, running, panicked.

With the shells picked up, he slid the pack over one shoulder, lifted the sleeping bag and held it under one arm and picked up the tent. He went into the living room and picked up the revolver and slid it into the waist of his jeans. Looking quickly around the room, he checked his pocket for his car keys. Then he went to the fridge and pulled out two cans of Coke and put them in his pack.

As he swung his apartment door open, the brightness of the day was blinding. He squinted and shaded his eyes with one hand. He let his eyes adjust to the light for a moment, then with the same urgency that seemed as though he were being chased, he hurried to his car. Tossing his gear in the back, he jumped in the driver’s seat and started the engine.

The late afternoon sun burned through the thin mountain air and made Stephen Jacobs’ head uncomfortably hot underneath his dark blue baseball cap. He reached over the side of the canoe and splashed a little of the cool water of Mirror Lake onto his face and neck.

Stephen’s twelve-year-old son, Ethan, was half asleep in the bow of the boat. He tipped his baseball cap up and through heavy eyelids looked at his dad. “Was that a fish?”

“No,” Stephen smiled. “I was just splashing some water to cool down.” He reached down and flicked a little water onto his boy.

“Hey!” Ethan grumbled in mock protest, pulling his baseball cap back down.

Stephen gave a small chuckle at how the high country weather acted like a tranquilizer for his usually high-energy boy. Stephen had brought his family to the mountains for one last family trip before the school year started up again. In the high Uintah mountains of northeastern Utah, the extremes of Fall were already apparent. The nights could easily dip near freezing temperatures. Then the afternoons would see the thin air heat rapidly and reach nearly seventy degrees.

You can’t plan a day this good, Stephen thought.

The sky was almost unnaturally blue. A couple of wispy white cirrus clouds were making their way across the horizon. The pinion pines that line the edges of Mirror Lake stretch toward the heavens as if trying to give credit for creating such a picturesque and peaceful place.

Stephen reeled in his empty fishing line and cast out toward the lakeshore. The fishing had been slow, but Stephen knew the reasons that had brought him a hundred miles from home had little to do with fish.

His mind drifted back to a conversation with his wife, Samantha. It was late on a Sunday night shortly after last school year had ended.

“I can’t believe Ethan is going to be in Junior High,” Samantha offered with a nonchalance that Stephen knew meant it was anything but a casual statement.

“Yeah. He is really growing up,” Stephen responded.

“Do you think he’s really ready for junior high?”

“Sure he is,” Stephen answered with as much reassurance as he could muster. “He’s always been a good student and never really had a problem.”

“I know. It’s just that it’s . . . well, you remember what junior high was like. Kids can be so mean to each other.”

Stephen laughed a little. “Yeah. I remember Jimmy Davis. … He helped out in the cafeteria so he could get free school lunch. One day some kid in his math class ticked him off. So he snuck a whole pot of spaghetti out the back of the kitchen and somehow he got the kid’s locker open. He scooped it into the pockets of the kid’s jacket and into his gym shoes. Oh and then he put the meatballs in the kid’s jockstrap in his gym bag.” Stephen couldn’t hide his sly grin.

“You’re not helping, Steve,” Samantha said as she poked him in the ribs.

“What? Do you want me to tell you that Ethan is never going to be teased, never going to have a single hard day in junior high?”

“Well, I was hoping.”

“Sam, listen to me.” Stephen grew serious. “Ethan is a good kid. He has good friends and our junior high is a good school. We’ve done all we can do to help Ethan succeed. Now he has to keep growing up—and junior high is a part of that.”

Stephen knew that only part of the issue was sending their oldest of three off to the scary world of junior high. Samantha had always been one who liked her comfort zone. Not that she hated change, but there was always a fear that when things change they wouldn’t be as good as they had been.

“You’re right,” Samantha finally said after a long pause. “It’s this feeling like we’re leaving . . . like we’re crossing some line that we can never turn back.”

“Yeah, but some lines are definitely worth crossing. Like when Sarah finally got out of diapers. That was a great day.”

Samantha broke into a wide grin. She truly loved Stephen’s sense of humor and how he could always get her to smile when she was feeling worried.

The sudden tug on Ethan’s pole brought Stephen back to the present. Ethan felt it too and immediately snapped out of his afternoon nap. Stephen was thrilled to see the intense smile on his boy’s face. He watched as Ethan worked the line exactly as he’d been taught. A good sized brown trout broke the surface of the water, thrashing to get free of the line. Father and son spontaneously let out a “Wahoo!” in unison. Stephen grabbed the net and nodded encouragement to his son. As the fish neared the side of the canoe, Stephen leaned over to scoop it up.

“Careful not to tip us over,” dad gently reminded son.

“How big do you think?” Ethan asked eagerly.

“I’d say at least a twelve incher.”

Ethan’s face beamed. “That’s the biggest one so far.”

“Sounds like a fish story to me,” Stephen joked as he patted his son on the shoulder.

The father and son team paddled their canoe smoothly toward the southeast tip of the little mountain lake. They were camped in the National Forest Service campground. Stephen remembered being a little surprised when he discovered there were still sites available. His checking had been the end result of his late Sunday conversation with Samantha. She wanted to plan a trip—a real “memory making” trip. They had discussed several options, but in the end decided it should be someplace completely new. Stephen had been to Mirror Lake once when he was a young man. Samantha jumped at the suggestion and description of the picturesque lake.

The canoe slid gently onto the shore. Ethan stood up to step out of the bow. “Be careful, don’t get your boots wet.” Stephen cautioned.

Ethan turned around, hands on hips. “Duh, Dad.”

“Sorry. I know, you’re right. You’re not five anymore.”

Stephen watched as Ethan stepped onto shore and then as if to prove his adolescent strength, he grabbed the bow of the boat and slid it another three feet up the shore.“Impressive,” Stephen complimented.

Ethan played along and flexed his muscles in over dramatic fashion. Father and son laughed together as they secured the canoe on the shore and headed back to camp to show off their fish to the family.

~~~~~

Vince Spackman lived in a tiny bottom floor apartment on the west side of Salt Lake City. The bottom floor of the three-story building was a half basement style where you have to step down four steps to reach the front door. The few windows were obscured from most direct sunlight by scraggy shrubs. And any light that did reach the windows was shut out by Vince’s tightly drawn blinds.

It was Tuesday afternoon. Vince had been expected at work three and a half hours earlier. He had made no call to work. He hadn’t so much as switched on a single light switch.

Vince sat silently in the dark of his small living room. He sat on the gray couch, where he had sat all night. He had slept very little over the last few weeks. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind would flood with a thousand worries at once. Some were very rational—like knowing that any day his boss would certainly fire him. Some were not.

His thoughts were a constant swirl of almost incoherent voices. It had become easier to keep his eyes open. Mindless television and the sound of neighbors through the walls helped to pass the evening hours. But the silence of the early morning hours was torturous. Any clock that ticked in any audible degree had long ago been smashed into silence.

Only a few years earlier during long sleepless nights, Vince used to talk to himself. He tried the “reprogramming” language that therapists had offered as help. Most often these attempts degraded quickly into combative arguments. Poison would start pouring out of his mouth. Things that Vince had never spoken were suddenly at the tip of his tongue. What he really thought of his boss. All the ways his parents had ruined his life. How his perfect brother was the world’s biggest hypocrite.

Without even realizing, Vince’s voice would raise into an emotional scream. The police had visited his apartment late at night more than once. It would always turn out the same. Vince would convince them he had simply fallen asleep with the TV on and they would tell him he had to keep it down.

But Vince didn’t argue with himself anymore. The darkness now overwhelmed him. The will to fight it had given way to surrender—even embracing the dark. The anger and hatred had lost their edge. Getting out of bed could be overwhelming. It had only been two days ago that Vince found himself wondering if he should just wet the bed rather than go through the effort of walking to the bathroom.

Occasionally there would be more lucid moments—moments when he knew he needed help. Moments when he would force himself out the door. He had even paid his parents a visit last week.

“Vince?” His mom stood at the door in obvious disbelief.

“Yeah, Mom, I need a place to crash for a while.”

“Oh … did something happen with your apartment?”

Vince knew what she was thinking. “No. Mom. I didn’t say I needed to move in.”

“Well, that’s not what I thought.”

“Can’t a son visit his childhood home? Or am I not welcome here anymore?”

She hadn’t seen Vince in almost a year. His hair was longer now, down to his shoulders. It hung over his face and covered his dark brown eyes. A scraggy goatee hid almost any hint of a facial expression.

“Vince,” his mother tried to sound as compassionate as she could, “you know you are always welcome.”

Mr. Spackman was still at work and wouldn’t be home for an hour yet. Mrs. Spackman made her way to the kitchen and immediately began trying to turn dinner for two into dinner for three. As she went into the basement to retrieve a can of soup, Vince slipped from the living room down the hall into his parent’s bedroom.

Silently he opened his dad’s closet. On the top shelf in the farthest corner sat a dusty, black shoebox. Vince carefully slid the box off the shelf. It was as Vince had hoped. He knew the 357 revolver was always in the box, but lying next to it were two boxes of shells. He slipped the ammunition into the pockets of his baggy jeans.

He picked up the gun and felt the weight of it in his hand. His thumb instinctively reached up and cocked the hammer.

How stupid is dad? he thought as he raised the gun and spun the cylinder to make sure it wasn’t loaded.

Just load it right now.

Vince shook his head violently. He groaned and gritted his teeth.

Oughta put a bullet in her head too. You know she deserves it.

Vince put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. The hammer harmlessly clicked down on the empty chamber. He shook his head violently once more and slid the revolver into the waist of his pants. He pulled his shirt down to cover the bulge. Then carefully he replaced the shoebox.

As he came down the hall, he could hear his mom was in the kitchen again. He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and flushed the toilet. Then opened the door and returned to the living room. As he sat down on the couch, the revolver dug into his stomach. It was painfully uncomfortable. But Vince didn’t move. There was something oddly comforting about pain that could find its way through the numbness.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Spackman stepped from the kitchen to the living room. She built up the courage to attempt a conversation, but the room was empty. She looked out the front window and saw Vince’s Honda pulling out of the driveway.

In the darkness of Vince’s apartment, the revolver and one shell sat on the coffee table. Vince’s eyes were bloodshot and glazed. He stared at the table and scratched his goatee.

Four years ago, I purchased a laptop for the specific purpose of writing my first novel. I had a great idea (at least I thought it was a great idea). I got started and arranged monthly meetings with Tiff to share what I had written.

Things were going great. I was making progress and really liking my story. Tiff liked it too.

Then I got about 100 pages into the story.

Tiff started a different job and wasn’t working so close. I got busier. Soon we weren’t meeting and I wasn’t making progress. (Not that I blame Tiff in any way, it was only a circumstance.)

So the story has been sitting for a while. And I finally realized that the real reason that the story had stalled was because I didn’t like where it had gone. It wasn’t true to the vision I had in the beginning. But here’s the great part. It’s MY story. I can do something about it.

I will do something about it. And you, my fine faithful readers will be a part of it.

Look for Chapter 1 of Twisted Trails (working title) here soon.

Thanks for reading.

Clearly, many of you feel that my story “In the Distance” is not finished.

I was liking where the story ended up.
So, my dear readers, take up the story line. Show me where it could go. What’s next on Brian and Jenny’s journey?

Don’t ask how it started, but we had a conversation today at work about Chicken Cock Fighting. One of my co-workers suggested that they should have an Amateur night for those birds that aren’t quite ready to go pro.

I don’t know why the image of untrained chickens harmlessly strutting around a ring with greasy men watching with filthy dollar bills in their hands made me laugh.

And it got me thinking, what other things ought to  have an Amateur Night?

How ’bout local news broadcasts? Can’t you see it. “Hi, um, this is Kiley Spritzer. Tonight on the, um, eye witnesses news you’ll be hearing about the latest in the Iraq. Oh, yeah, and we’ll show you the highlights—not my highlights, but don’t they look great—thanks Jackie, you’re the best. Where was I? Oh, yes, highlights. We’ve got high school baseball (Go Bengals! he he) and I think the Jazz played tonight. Boy, when does that season end? Huh? Seems like they’ve been playing forever. Sheesh.”
Or youth soccer referees? (Maybe we already have that

Or political debating? (That would have to be more entertaining and probably more informative.)

Or police stake outs?

What are your ideas?

Dear Winter,

I hereby give up. You win. You’ve proved you’re tougher than I am. You’re more intimidating and cruel than me. You’ve chilled me, frightened me, disoriented me, enraged me, knocked me on my butt, and made me cry.

But this morning—this morning—you broke me.

I have nothing left.

I don’t remember what summer feels like.

I can’t deal with one more snow-snarled commute.

So, Winter, take what you want. You have conquered. Take your spoils. Flaunt your victory.

AND THEN GET THE @!*# OUT OF HERE.

OK, so I’m opening this up to the readers of the blog to submit ideas for new stories.

What genre do you like?

What kind of characters?

Do you have a great opening line?

When I read in the paper (before the game) all the quotes from the players about how they were aware of BYU’s history of poor showings in the NCAA tournament, I knew they were in trouble. It’s tough enough in the win-or-go-home format to just lace up the sneakers and beat the team in front of you. (Ask Duke about that one.) But when a team feels like they’re carrying the weight of 15 years of futility, there’s no way they can play the way they need to.

The Cougars started tight. They struggled to run anything that resembled their offense and they looked scared on defense.

They did settle down. But only after falling behind 11 to 0. Yuck.

So that’s reason number 1. Next year, let’s not remind the Cougars about all the past failures. Let’s let them just go out and play. For brief glimpses last night, you could see how great this team is  when they just relax and play their game.

But for most of the game they seemed lost.

Everyone who read anything about the game beforehand knew that one of Texas A&M’s keys to success is offensive rebounds. But time and again when the situation was most critical, the Cougars failed to remember to box out and fight for rebounds.

Speaking of fighting, the Aggies are a big, physical team that literally pushed the Cougars around. The refs were letting it go and the Cougars never adjusted, never responded with physical play of their own. (See photo.) This was a scrappy, backyard game and the Cougars seemed to want no part of it.

Then there was the free throw line. The team was 7-14 for a measly 50%. Just make three more of those and the end of the game is a whole different scenario.

One of the things that made this Cougar team a good team was the way they shared the ball. They were always  willing to pass up a good shot for a better shot. It has made them tough to defend. However, I have to say that in a tight spot like the NCAA tournament, you have to make sure your best players are taking more of the shots. Lee Cummard, the conference player of the year, was 5-9 with 14 points. While true freshmen, Jimmer Fredette and Chris Collinsworth and sophomore Chris Miles were a combined 6 for 17. At least seven of those shots should have been Cummard’s. There are other discrepancies, but suffice it to say, the Cougars have got to learn how to lean on their best players a little more when it’s crunch time.

Well that’s it. I hate waiting for next year! These last two Cougar teams have been too good not to have had some success in the tournament. It’s just a shame.