September 11: Never Forget.

Everyone has their "where were you when the planes hit the towers?" moment. 

Mine?  I was asleep. 

I worked swing shifts at Vital Processing down in Phoenix, and usually didn't get to bed until 2-3 a.m.  I turned off the ringer on my apartment phone so I could sleep until 10-11 a.m. 

When I woke up around 11:30 I was shocked and surprised to see 24 missed calls, with nearly 20 being from my mother. 

Instead of listening to the voice mails I called Mom and turned on my television.  As the phone rang, I thought that the images on the television were a new movie trailer.  It was almost surreal.  When Mom finally answered her phone she informed me of the attacks, and the Pentagon attack.

"Your brother, he's okay," she informed me.  My brother had just barely moved to D.C. to go to law school at George Washington. 

"Well, of course Brett's fine," I said. "He doesn't go to school at the Pentagon." 

The whole day was remarkable.  I called my work to see if they knew (they did) and mostly just sat there, like the rest of America, stunned and glued to their chairs in horrified shock and anger.   But I wasn't awake for the initial live shots of the towers' rapid descent. 

There is something unique about the emotional response to 9/11.  Part of me wants to desperately forget the atrocities that took place that day almost ten years ago. Forgetting can help heal, but this is something that we cannot forget.  It truly changed the nation.  For a short period, we were united as one nation.  Political affiliations didn't matter.  We were Americans.  Patriotism became a societal norm for the first time since World War II. 

And though we will become united again tomorrow as we remember and tell children about the importance of the day, we will soon forget, and the nation will again risk drowning in the mire of "your side vs my side." 

I hope we remember.  I hope we never forget what it was like to have this country unified.  It took a terrible tragedy, but for a short time we loved our country again, and would do anything to protect its values.  We rallied behind a polarizing president.  We would do anything for our neighbors because it was American to do so. 

Though I may never forget what happened that day, I will also never forget how proud I was to be an American afterwards. 

Let us never forget that. 

"The cost of freedom is always high, but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender, or submission." -- John F. Kennedy

The Shinning, and other Musings

So, I'm watching The Shining, which of course deals with a writer who goes batshit insane with cabin fever.  I had forgotten how creepy the movie is.  It also sends flashbacks to when I was 10 years old, and I was up at our cabin in McCall, Idaho in the winter.  For some reason everyone thought it would be okay for a 10 year old to not only watch the movie, but watch it in the middle of winter.  The icing on the cake was having to walk home, in the dark, across the snowy road to get back to my cabin.  When I asked someone to walk me back to my cabin, I'm pretty sure the response was, "you're fine."

And that got me thinking.  For the most part, writers write what they know.  If I was to write about my father's troubles with alcohol, and my experiences dealing with it, that would ring home because it was something I experienced. 

If I wrote about my experiences at being so horrified at the idea of walking across the road late at night, the story would be true to my own life.

Where am I going with this inane rambling?  Just a bit.

So we write of our experiences.  We write what we know.  So what happens when we have an idea that occurs our own experiences?

We escape into that world, and that world, for a short time, becomes our reality.  It becomes our experiences.  When I write about Vincent going to other realities, my experiences become altered by the world in which I place the characters.

The fact that the human mind is capable of such things is pretty astounding.  It is this escapism, this idea of experiencing new things that drives me to write.

I can't wait to finish my degree so I can focus more on what I want to do.  The desire has never left; only the time to feed my desire to escape and experience new things has dwindled. 

So.. there you go.  Now, to finish watching the Shining...I mean, the Shinning.

Gus

Future Murder at Saint Maricopa Church

Wrote this for my upper level creative writing class. I'm not terribly happy with it, though I think that has more to do with the forced word count. I could have rattled on with a lot more info on character backgrounds and motivations. Oh well. Enjoy!

Future Murder at Saint Maricopa Church

She was never wrong in all the years I had trusted her ability to predict and read the future through the cards. When I last visited her this afternoon, her gray eyes burrowed deep in seeing the future and fate present itself through the mystic art of tarot, I sat patiently and waited for the results.

She looked up at me with those same eyes after some time, the incense smoke swirling around the small clay hovel she had built for her own mystic purposes. Her wrinkled skin shifted across her ancient face as she frowned at the cards.

“Are you sure you want to know this one?” she asked, her graveled and throaty voice grating the words out.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I wondered. “I don’t come here for answers to the universal questions.”

She sat back from the small rock where her cards were laid out and folded her rugged hands together. “You come here for clues, and yet I have never given you clues, only outcomes, Private Detective Jonathan Mills.”

“You provide me with the location, and I deduce from there. You once told me the cards don’t give you details anyway.”

“You are correct,” she said as she pulled out a cigarette from her shirt pocket. “And for twenty years, have you ever caught anyone in the middle of their nefarious deeds?”

She knew me too well. For twenty years, I had never caught anyone in the act, but I had caught my share of criminals after the fact. With the exception of one…

“Listen,” I groaned in frustration, “just give me what the cards say, and I’ll pay you your usual fee.”

She lit her cigarette, blowing out smoke from one side of her creased lips before speaking. “A murder will take place at the Saint Maricopa Church, just outside Santa Fe this evening.”

She rarely saw murders in her readings, so I perked up. “What time?”

“You ask questions which the cards do not answer,” she replied. “They have given their small window to fate’s path, so now what do you propose to do?”

“Go there,” I said as I stood up, dropping the small bag of marijuana on the rock table. “Until next time, Wendy Crow’s Eyes.”

“Good luck, Detective,” she said as she greedily grabbed the baggie. Within 15 minutes I was driving north on I-25 towards Santa Fe in my 1988 Ford Taurus with the windows down.

I pulled up to the decrepit remains of the Saint Maricopa Church about two hours later, the evening sun The sun was beating relentlessly down upon the high desert as I turned the engine off. The church was located in the middle of nowhere. Sagebrush and dirt surrounded the grounds for miles. The only road to the church was the one I drove up, and I couldn’t see any other cards in the vicinity.

The church reeked of the traditional Spanish catholic churches built during the early colonial period. Red-brown adobe ran across the walls up to red tiles about twenty feet high along its fairly sizeable structure. Arched windows ran their way symmetrically around the building. A central tower rose above the square roof, a bell tower presumably used to let the congregation know when it was time to pray.

It would have been pretty if anyone had used it in many, many years. There was no upkeep of any kind. Sections of the outside had crumbled to the ground years ago. Bird nests could be seen in the bell tower, which had lost its namesake years ago. The place stank of raccoon and rat shit. It was the perfect place for a murder. No one had been there in ages.

But why aren’t there any cars, I asked myself as I pulled out my handgun and walked towards what remained of the entrance. Where two wooden doors should have provided entrance into God’s domain, one door sat rotting on the ground while the other stubbornly tried to hold on to its hinges the bottom. I quietly stepped over the rotted boards and quietly entered into the church’s bowels.

Whoever was there last left with clear haste. The wooden pews suffered the same fate as the defunct door. Dust and dirt covered everything. The stone altar still stood, but was covered in spider webs. Rats went scurrying as I progressed farther into the building. A bible sat on the altar, its pages rotted beyond understanding. Bird shit could be found scattered across the dusty building. Bird nests rested on the rafters above. A solitary crow began its incessant yapping at me, as I was the intruder to its domain.

At least it’s not hot. Fall had come early to the region, and the temperature inside the building was almost cool. The evening sun shot through holes in the walls, firing off rays of dusty light across the empty building.

What a shithole, I thought to myself as I searched for any signs of recent entrance. Only my own footsteps could be seen on the dusty canvas. Walking around the untouched church, it became apparent that no one had stepped inside the building for many, many years.

She can’t be wrong, can she? I asked. She has never been wrong. Her predictions had always led me to crimes that had already been committed. The sudden possibility that a murder was still to take place, that fate may still have its hand in the game, scared the bejesus out of me. I had to get out of there. I holstered my firearm and ran for the exit.

“You!” a slightly muffled voice screamed from above the broken stairs in the bell tower. “Don’t leave yet!” As I turned to look up the stairs the laser sights of a gun shot through the dusty air, the red line pointing straight at my forehead as I looked up.

Oh my God. She wasn’t wrong. She was dead-on.

“Take your gun out of your holster and put it on the floor,” the muffled voice said. I slowly took out my sidearm and placed it on the dusty floor. A slight scent of mint wafted its way down from the opening. That scent. Where have I-

“Now, walk towards the altar, and don’t try reaching for the gun you have hidden at your ankle! Don’t turn around either, and let me know when you get there.”

I’m going to die, I thought to myself as I walked towards the altar. I have played fate’s hands too long, and now I’m going to die, and the one son of a bitch I have hunted for years will go unpunished.

“I’m at the altar,” I yelled out. The cover of the bible was somewhat in tact. I could see La Santa Biblia on the cover with the year “18-“ but the last two numbers had worn out. I heard the sounds of someone landing on the ground behind me, grunting as they landed.

“Didn’t think I would have landed that,” the muffled voice behind me said, a hint of amusement and pride in his voice. “Turn around.” I did as I was bid.

Behind me stood a very tall and thin man whose clothing was at best, eccentric. He wore Converse All-Stars, pinstripe dress pants, and a bright orange t-shirt that read “There is Beauty in Chaos.” He wore black leather gloves, and had a ski mask on, which caused the muffled voice. His firearm – a Desert Eagle .50 with a laser sight – was still pointed at me, but he started to lower it.

“Mills?” The voice asked, and he pulled off the mask.

It was him. It was fucking him!! Darren Apollo, arguably the greatest criminal mastermind ever to exist in the last 100 years, was standing right in front of me.

His black hair was cut short. Hic icy grey eyes formed a look of surprise, causing his slightly hooked nose to rise slightly. His crooked smile formed across his unshaven face.

You have got to be shitting me. It was as if my entire world had upended itself in those few seconds.

“Darren,” I managed to say, gritting my teeth. My head swooned. Disjointed flashbacks and memories slammed me in the face.

Teenager. Mother killed. Murdered for her wedding ring and necklace. Remember the smell of her perfume. Rosy, flowery scent. Was there. Saw the man. Same face in front of me right now. He smiled his crooked smile, winked, and ran. Scent of mint?

First detective job. Jewelry heist. Connection to Darren? Note left by burglar. “More Chaos Coming,” it said. Note smelled like aftershave or cologne, almost minty.

Years later. Chasing a suspect down an alley. Smell of rain. Shots fired. Shot in the leg. Blood mixing with rain in the alley ground. Same minty scent wafts over me as I lose consciousness.

I shook my head and tried to clear the thoughts from overtaking the situation. “What the Hell are you doing here?”

Darren picked up my gun and walked towards me. “She said there would be a murder here, and I wanted to see if it would really happen,” he said, his slightly raspy, throaty voice echoing through the room.

I laughed. “Oh man. How long have you been seeing Wendy?”

“Actually,” he paused as he pulled out a clove cigarette and lit it, “this was the first time. Friends in my line of business told me that she had no qualms about assisting the less…how do I say this…amiable of society. How long have you been using her mystic abilities, Jonathan?”

“Ever since you shot my mother.”

“Oh please,” he mouthed as he blew out smoke. “You know how clichéd that sounds? So I killed your mother. So what? Life is too short to worry about chasing after your mother’s killer.” He looked down at my clothing. “I see your fashion sense hasn’t changed much. The same blue jeans. Same Doc Martens. Same God-awful blue button up shirt. Couldn’t your fashion sense at least grow with your age? You gained some weight around the middle as well. For shame,” he said, tsk-tsk-ing me with a wag of a finger.

“How did you get in the bell tower? Where is your car?”

“It’s called a motorcycle, and a bit of climbing. You didn’t go around the building, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.” He always was a strong guy. “How long have you been following me?” I asked as he motioned for me to sit on the ground. “Was it after you shot me?”

He drew another drag. “Do you realize that I have kept my eye on you for years? You have been the closest thing I have to an actual arch-nemesis. I’m Sherlock, and you are Moriarty. I’m Luke Skywalker, and you are the Emperor. I’m Butch Cassidy, and you are the Sundance Kid. You nearly caught me after the jewelry heist in New York. Do you remember the name of it? DeBurg Jewelry. Some Jewish Asshat who had more money than he could possibly ever use.”

“You also shot me in that alley ten years ago,” I angrily said. “That bullet shattered two bones in my leg and hit an artery.”

“No need to get angry at me,” he murmured as he sat down across from me, gun still pointed at my head. “You were chasing me. What did you expect? That I’d throw rat traps on the ground to distract you, and try to shoot you with a pellet gun to deter your chase?

“So why didn’t you kill me?”

Another drag from his cigarette. “I’ve asked that question myself. One night after I killed an older lady because she thought my shirt was disgusting, I came to the conclusion I have stuck with to this day. Being me was getting boring. It was growing stale. That night as I buried the old lady, I concluded that I needed someone to add excitement to my life. The way you chased me down that alley, even as I saw you bleed all over the rainy concrete, I saw the seething hatred in your eyes to hunt me down no matter the cost. I knew then that you would chase me across the earth if need be. So for ten years, you have come closer and closer to accomplishing your goal. You have been married twice. Your last wife left you because you were more in love with your job. And now, here we sit, me with a gun pointed at you, and you… Well, what do you have to bring to this conversation?”

I ran my hand through my long blond hair. “Fate says a murder was to take place here. So here I am.”

Darren shook his head. “Come on, Jonathan. You can do better than that. In fact, let’s have a philosophical discussion, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, Darren,” I replied. “If you are going to kill me, then just kill me.”

“I’m holding the gun, so how bout you just be patient for a bit, mmkay? Listen, what I want to talk about is God and Fate.” He put out his cigarette and stood up. “Fate has driven every decision I have made in my life, just as it does to everyone else. That’s why I emphasize the word. It’s important to me. Fate suggests that you and I are here for the same purpose. To either witness a murder, or to see a murder after the fact.” He started waving his arms around as he talked. “Okay, so we are both here for the same purpose, but we have both known each other for years. Fate has played us a brilliant hand in coming up with the path that led us here today.”

“What path?” I asked. “Fate had nothing to do with it. It was chance that you had never seen Wendy before today, and that the cards provided the same answer to the both of us.”

“Fate and chance are closely tied, can’t you see that? God doesn’t give a shit about his own creation any more.”

“I have a hard time believing fate would allow you to keep doing what you have been doing.”

Darren laughed. “That’s the beauty of it! We all make our own path. I’m shocked that you have never seen this until my brilliant deduction provided the way to see it. We control our own Fate. We provide the path that is laid out in front of us. God himself, or the crazy Indian woman, can only see what Fate they create for us. But,” he smiled, “that is the Fate they created. That is not the fate I have created for myself. You chose to avenge your mother’s death by hunting down the killer. You chose your Fate.”

That actually kind of makes sense, except…

“You changed any fate I would have had when you killed my mother. You forced me down another path. You changed the hand I was dealt at that moment.”

Darren shook his head. “You still don’t see, do you? Maybe you are my arch-nemesis because of your detective skills. You sure aren’t my intellectual equal.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “Listen, Jonathan. Yes, I killed your mother. Yes, that was a life-changing event. But you didn’t have to become a cop. You didn’t have to get kicked off of the force for forging evidence to make sure someone received his or her comeuppance. You didn’t have to spend your life chasing me like a dog chases a car. Don’t you see? You created your own fate!”

What if he is right? I wondered. “That doesn’t change anything about right now, “I replied. “We are at this point because fate has chosen that we meet at this time, and now someone has to die because fate demands it.”

Darren groaned. “You still don’t get it, do you? That isn’t my Fate. That isn’t your Fate. Wendy and God, the paths they see for us? Doesn’t mean shit. They could give me the yellow brick road for all eternity, but if I walk off that path, if I choose to step into the wilderness beyond the path, there is nothing they can do to stop it.” He put out his cigarette. “And that leaves me with a quandary.”

“Do you shoot me?” I asked. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is. Maybe it is my Fate to kill you. But I don’t think so. Not today. Give me your ankle gun.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked as I pulled the gun out from my ankle holster.
“I’m not going to kill you.”

Oh, well that’s good. “Why won’t you? You have the shot.”

Darren chuckled, a glint of madness seeping through his eyes. “Because I want to step off the path laid out by God and Wendy. I want to tell them to fuck off. And frankly,” he smiled, “you are too much fucking fun to have around.” He took out the clip from both my guns, emptied the bullets and put the empty guns in his pockets. “Listen, the next time we meet, how about we meet somewhere over coffee or something, ‘kay? It was a long-ass drive to get here.” Then he backed off and walked out the church.

No, I said to myself. I can’t let him leave. I have waited too long for this chance. I scrambled up and ran to the door. He had run behind the building and was about to hop on his dirt bike. I flew towards my car and unlocked the trunk. I could hear the dirt bike’s engine roar to life. I lifted up the blanket in my trunk to reveal the hunting rifle below. It had one round in it. As I turned, I could hear his bike roaring past me. I moved towards the trunk, leveled the gun and looked through the scope.

Please, God or Fate, make this bullet hit its target. That was the only prayer I had ever said at that point in my life.

Darren’s shirt showed up in my crosshairs, flying down the dirt road. I pulled the trigger.

Through the scope, I could see the impact knock Darren off the bike. He landed with a harsh thud on the dirt road as his bike spun out of control.

Thank you, God or Fate, I thought to myself as I grabbed a loaded handgun from my trunk. I ran towards Darren.

He laid there, blood pouring from the wound in the middle of his back, causing his shirt to turn a unique shade of blood-orange. I turned off the safety to my gun as I walked up to him.

He looked up at me, fear in his eyes. “Jonathan,” he struggled to say as blood began to curl around his lips, “I create my own Fate! We were to keep chasing each other until we grow old and useless to society!”

I pulled back the hammer. “Fate said there was to be a murder,” I replied. “Someone has to die here.” To my surprise, he laughed.

“Even now, you still haven’t learned,” he said. “Well, do it then.”

I aimed for his head, and pulled the trigger. Darren was dead immediately. A breeze sent his minty smell away from me. For the first time in twenty years, it smelled clean.

I took a deep breath, walked back to my car, put the guns away and drove home to whatever Fate had in store for me.