Part 6

They flew me to Germany last night and it was like being in a time machine. Back from Eden and into—what? Hell? Concrete everywhere, dirty air, people in hideous clothes looking angry and harassed. I've been pricked a hundred times as they take blood, given at least a gallon of piss so they can check for parasites, tapped and prodded and asked if "that" hurts.

But finally they seemed satisfied, done. Tomorrow I go home. I'd requested that my family not be notified of my miraculous survival. I wanted to do that myself. I wanted to see Sandburg, find out if he was all right, if dad found someone to teach him, if Sally liked him. She had to like him, he was very likeable.

Six hours after hitting American soil, I was dropped off in front of the house. It was mid-afternoon and I knew dad was probably at work, but I had hope of catching Sandburg at home. I wondered if he liked living here or if he felt as lost as I had?

No one answered and I checked under the planter where Sally always left a key. It was still there and I let myself in, stupidly surprised to find that the house had changed in the years since I'd been in it. The dark drapes had been banished and the heavy oak furniture had been replaced by sleek modern pieces.

I raced up the stairs, irrationally hoping to find Sandburg waiting for me in my room. The door was open and looking in, I saw no trace that he lived there—or had ever lived there. His absence hit me like a kick in the gut and I realized how badly I'd wanted to—needed to—see him.

I wandered through the rest of the upstairs, looking in every room for some sign of Sandburg. In the master bathroom, something sheer languished across the shower rod.

I snatched it down and looked at it. Dainty and delicate, it reeked of seduction and sex. On the vanity, exotic bottles filled with mysterious lotions and perfumes shared space with my father's Dial soap and Crest toothpaste. None of us enjoy contemplating our parents as sexual beings, but that wasn't what bothered me.

What bothered me was the suspicion that Sandburg had somehow interfered with my father's dalliance and had been banished to who knew where. Some institution where he was ignored and warehoused? Picking up one of the bottles, I fondled its sensuous form, wondering about what kind of woman appealed to my father, then slammed it against the tiled wall. The room was filled with a complex scent that was both earthy and citrusy and which unaccountably reminded me of the way Sandburg had smelled after his shower.

Suddenly exhausted, I retreated to my old bedroom and threw myself down on top of the bed.

I hadn't intended to sleep, but almost immediately I fell into a dream.

The dream.

The one with Sandburg. The one I’d been having for 18 months.

At first when I'd awakened from the dream, I'd been horrified. Sandburg's brain injury had left him with the mental capacity of a child and it seemed to me that that made me a pedophile.

But dreams weren't real. They were churned up bits of reality mixed with the debris of our memories. My dream couldn't hurt or corrupt Sandburg and as I would never allow the dream to escape the confines of sleep, Sandburg was safe.

This dream was nothing more than an alternative reality, a what might have been played out in the shadows of my mind. If Sandburg had not been hurt, if we'd met differently, if he were inclined to love a man…many ifs, but not too many for a dream.

As always, it was just so damn good to see his face again. Smiling, he welcomed me into this space we shared, which neither existed in time or place. Arms open, he beckoned me to him, and without hesitation, I moved toward him. As I touched his face, a woman screamed—

A woman screamed, and I snapped awake, bolting up in bed. Real or dream?

Real.

A woman stood in the doorway, her hand over mouth, clearly shocked to see me. "You're alive," she said, stating the obvious.

"Who are you?" I asked, then realized she had to be the owner of the sexy wisps of clothing in the bathroom.

"Oh," she said, her hands fluttering around her face. "I'm—"

"Let me take a wild guess. My father's latest lady friend."

Her blush went all the way up to the roots of her red hair.

"No," she said with a slow shake of her head. "Actually, I'm a little more than that. I’m his wife and—"

"His wife?" I shouted, stunned by her announcement. "When did this happen?"

"Just a few months ago," she said, waving her hand as if it was unimportant. She stared at me hard, and I was shocked to see tears in her eyes. "What happened? We were told you were dead." She slowly approached me as if she thought I might evaporate.

"It's a long story, and I don't want to get into it right now. There was a boy living here for awhile. Do you know what happened to him?"

"Do you mean Blair?"

"Blair?" What—who was she talking about?

"Yes, Blair Sandburg. My son."

I dropped back down on the bed, stunned. "Your son?"

As she nodded, she sat down next to me and took my hand in hers. "Yes, my son. And I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for looking out for him and getting him away from those two men."

"Where is he? How is he?"

Her smile was luminous as she reported, "He's good. He has his memory back."

His memory was back. I wondered what changes that had brought for him. "That’s great.” It was great. But was he still the boy I’d known, or a stranger that would see me as a stranger. “Where is he?"

Her smile faded. A new fear gripped me. "He—he had a hard time accepting your death. Getting back to his life." She looked out the window, then back at me. "We tried to help him get readjusted, back into school, but Blair—just couldn't."

It wasn’t a good sign that she wasn't answering my question, but I waited quietly, holding on to the fact that she'd smiled when I first asked how he was.

Her grip on my hand tightened as she said, "You have to understand, we didn't want to, but we had to let him go—"

"Let him go? Let him go where? Where the hell is he?"

Dropping my hand, she sighed. "He moved back to Seattle—he moved into the house you had been renting."

"He what?” The Fringe was no place for a kid like him. “And you let him?"

She actually jerked back as if I had hit her then took a deep breath and said, "Jim, you didn't know him when he was whole, but he is now, and he's an adult. He needed to do this and nothing your father and I said could dissuade him. He said it was home."

"He called that dump home? Why didn't he feel this was his home? What happened between my father and—" I found myself unable—or unwilling to say his name. I hadn't gotten used to the idea his name was Blair. Blair Sandburg.

His mother didn't need me to say his name to know I was talking about him. "Nothing happened. William adores Blair, would do anything for him."

Leaning in close, she surprised me by placing her hands on my face. "Everything's going to be all right now. You're here, you're living and breathing and Blair—" she stopped talking as a hiccup escaped her, followed by a sob. Then my shirt was being drenched with her tears.

I didn't know what to do with her—I'd never been good with crying women, but she wasn't stopping, so I patted her shoulder clumsily and murmured sounds I hoped would calm her down. It didn't work. It made it worse. Her sobs deepened, becoming rougher and I started to get alarmed. Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her close, hugging her tightly.

"It's going to be all right. Shhh, now, shhh," I droned over and over, slowly rocking her until her sobs eased up and she pulled away, saying, "Wait until William gets home and sees you. He'll be so ecstatic."

Ecstatic? I didn't know my father was capable of ecstasy, but I didn't correct her. They hadn't been married all that long and she had plenty of time to learn of his limitations.

I pulled my shirt out and used the shirttail to dab away her tears. "I'm sure I'll see my father soon, but first I'm going to Seattle and retrieve…Blair." There, I'd said his name. I'd made it—him—real.

"Can't you wait until William comes home?"

"I hate the idea of Sandburg—Blair—being alone in that house, in that neighborhood. It's only two hours there—we'll be back in five and have a real family reunion."

Jumping up, she twirled around like a five-year old girl. "I can't wait to tell your father! And Blair will be back tonight!" she paced to the door, then swung around and came back towards me. "You will hurry back won't you?"

Before I could reassure her, she gripped my shoulders and shook me. "But don't speed. And if you're too tired, pull over. We don't want to lose you again."

Her vehemence shocked me. My well-being seemed to be every high up on the list of her concerns and it was a little disconcerting. I didn't even know the woman.

"I will hurry, I won't speed and if I'm tired, I'll pull over. Now you promise me something. Don't call and tell Sand—Blair—I'm coming."

"But…" She started to object, but then her voice trailed off in acquiescence. "All right. You go ahead and surprise him."

Part 5

keeping going while I can....

They flew me to Germany last night and it was like being in a time machine. Back from Eden and into—what? Hell? Concrete everywhere, dirty air, people in hideous clothes looking angry and harassed. I'd been pricked a hundred times as they took blood, given at least a gallon of piss so they can check for parasites, tapped and prodded and asked if "that" hurts.

But finally they seemed satisfied, done. Tomorrow I go home. I'd requested that my family not be notified of my miraculous survival. I wanted to do that myself. I wanted to see Sandburg, find out if he was all right, if dad found someone to teach him, if Sally liked him. She had to like him, he was very likeable.

My father, if he remained true to form, would have kept his distance, maybe checking in now and then on the kid. But maybe I was doing my father a disservice. He might have found some of Sandburg's family and cleared up the mystery—he was an excellent lawyer and he'd be motivated. Finding Sandburg's family would get him off the hook of looking after someone so—different. My dad wasn't keen on people being different.

It was weird, I suppose, that after a year and half, all I wanted to do was see a brain-damaged guy I'd known for all of two days. Saying that I wanted to see him didn't really describe it. I don't know if I could describe what I was feeling or why I was feeling it.

Blue eyes framed by dark lashes had haunted my dreams all these months until they had become the beacons bringing me home. Home to a manchild. Who had needed me, but wouldn't need me now.

But I needed him.

How ironic was that?

There was some chance my father had not found any family, and that there was a place for me in Sandburg's life. As his guardian, or if not that, as a big brother.

The dreams I'd had of him in the jungle had made me want so much more, but I knew looking after him, making sure he was safe and happy, was all that could be, and I'd be lucky to have that.

I slept on the plane taking me home. Sandburg came to me in my dreams, as he always did. Beautifully whole and strong. In my arms, close to my heart, saying my name, welcoming me home.

The steward's grip on my shoulder scattered the dream and I worried I'd cried out in my sleep. I quickly turned away, scrubbing the evidence of tears from my face.

As anxious as I was to track down Sandburg, I was the last one to disembark, suddenly unsure of my impulse to insert myself in Sandburg's life. He didn't need me, probably didn't remember me. He'd be confused if he saw me, maybe even alarmed. If his family had been found, they would view my continuing interest in him as suspicious.

But if no family had been found…

The first thing I had to do was find out what the last year and a half had held for Chief.


***

I was chasing a soccer ball, my motions quick and fluid. I captured it, stopped it with my toe, making an incremental shift to change its direction, looked up, and kicked it straight at the goal.

It was going in low, but it was gonna go wide and the crowd's yells reached a crescendo as one of my teammates pierced its trajectory and with precision, angled it right in. We'd won. I bent down to catch my breath as the fans left the stands and streamed onto the field.

I saw Jim leap over the fence and run towards me, smiling and yelling, "Way to go, Chief," And then he was sweeping me off my feet and into a bear hug and I was cupping his face and bringing my lips down to meet his.

The electricity I felt as they met jerked me awake to reality—Jim was dead and his body was decaying in South American soil. My head ached—residual damage from Jack and Dick's beating, and I got shakily out of bed. That was the other reality I had to face—I might dream of playing soccer and making deft moves, but in real life, despite all the physical therapy, I still moved with awkward tentativeness.

The faint light from my computer called me to my desk and I pulled the chair out and settled down. On the screen in front of me was yesterday's entry.

February 19, 1989

When I ran my idea of moving to Seattle, back to the Fringe, maybe see if I can rent your old house, my mother was, understandably, against it.

The idea that I would voluntarily put myself back where the memories of Dick and Jack live horrified her—but I don't care about that. The memories I care about are the ones of you, which are rapidly fading.

To help me know you better, your dad made me copies of the scrapbooks he's kept about you. Did you know he did that? He's a funny one, your dad. I think he's a bit like those parents we talked about—the ones who didn't name their babies until they were sure they were going to live.

I mean it's weird, Jim. You should see these scrapbooks. So much love for you there and yet he bypassed the chance to spend time with you. The army called off the search for you. When your dad heard that, he started knocking back the bourbon. I took the bottle away when I saw how drunk he was getting, but Naomi gave it back. She said he needed it.

And I guess she was right. At first he just ranted. About how unfair it was and how stupid you were to put yourself in danger. But after a few more drinks he mellowed out some. Told us about you and Stevie learning to skateboard and how he came home from a trip to find the two of you had emptied out the swimming pool and were using it as a skateboard park, skimming to the top and hanging there, then twisting and plunging back down. Said the pool was never the same after that, and then surprisingly, smiled.

He put his head in is hands and described the day you walked out and joined the army. His voice was a flat monotone. When Naomi said all boys need to find their own way, he stood up and threw his glass into the fireplace, saying "To hell with that. His way just got him killed. My way was much better, much safer."

"A safe path wasn't what Jim was born to tread, Billy."

Yeah, that's right, my mom calls your dad, "Billy". Bet you wish you were alive just to hear that.

"I don't believe in all that predestined crap."

"Then how do you explain us, darling?"

That shut your father up, let me tell you.

He loves her, you know. Your dad loves my mom. And as if that wasn't weird enough, my mom loves your dad. You don't know Naomi, but if you did, you'd know how much this doesn't make sense. Until you see them together, and then it makes complete sense. I can't quite explain it.


February 20, 1989

It's getting close to eight and I have an appointment with Edith at nine, so I have get moving. She says I've fixated on you and it's unhealthy. I don't know about fixated. Even though you're dead, my relationship with you seems to be evolving. Last night I dreamt I kissed you. And all I want to do right now is crawl back into bed and hope I have that dream again and that the dream doesn't end until we're hot and sweaty in bed.

I'd never tell you that if you were alive, of course. You'd probably deck me or worse. But that's my silver lining, thin as it is. You're dead and a boy can dream.

This will be my last appointment with Edith. I'm not about to share my dream about you with her. She'd want to explore my sexuality and then she'd have a field day when she found out I'd never experienced a twinge of same sex attraction until you. Does this mean I have bisexual tendencies now?

Jeez, I hope it doesn't mean I'm attracted to dead people.

Despite scrambling to get to Edith's on time, I was late. As she was quite strict about ending our sessions on time, it didn't make any difference to her and she smiled when I came in. "Good morning, Blair."

I nodded hello as I sank down onto the couch and worked on getting my breathing under control. Edith waited patiently. "I'm going to end my therapy sessions with you," I announced abruptly.

"Have you found someone else to work with?"

"No."

"Do you feel you've emerged from your grief over Jim's death?"

Ah. The 64,000 dollar question. "No."

Edith pulled her feet up. She looked like a five-year old playing at therapist, and I suspected her black glasses, unfashionably huge, were fake. I imagined it was a persona that worked, allowing her to disarm years of defenses in her patients. I wasn’t defensive, just stubborn. She hadn’t found a way around that.

"Then do you think it's wise to discontinue?"

I took a deep breath and slowly let it out, telling myself that I didn't need to explain or convince her—after all, she worked for me. But I answered anyway. "Probably not. But I realized I'm not prepared to give up my feelings for Jim yet."

Edith nodded and started to respond. I cut her off.

"You've said it before, and 100,000 self-help books have said it as well—to achieve change, you have to want change. Other people want me to change—want the old Blair back, want me to go back to school, pick up my life where it left off, get my Masters. But I don't."

"You like being stuck," she stated, as if she could shame me into letting Jim go.

I shrugged, but didn’t argue.

"Perhaps we haven't explored the trauma of what happened in those months you were held by Dick and Jack enough."

"I didn't come here to talk about those months. I came to talk about my feelings for Jim. At some point you decided I was dealing with grief—and while I don't deny that I was—am—I realize that is just a small part of what I was—am—feeling. If grief therapy is all about letting go, then we're doomed to failure, because I have no intention of ever letting go. So I'm done."

"Blair—"

"Edith," I threw up my hands and awkwardly stood up. "Let me go. If and when I'm ever ready to work through this, I'll be back."

Edith stood up as well. "I understand, but—" she stopped herself from saying the useless words that would've come after the but. Reaching out, she took my hands in hers and gave me a wan smile. "I wish you well then, Blair and hope you find peace."

As I walked home, I thought about how to tell Naomi that I wasn't going to be going back to school. She had her heart set on me going back. It would mean I was better, healed, back to normal.

I was better. But normal? Had I ever been normal? Could I be? Did I want to be?

All I knew was I couldn't go back, couldn't sit still in a classroom, listen to theories, and dream about finding a non-existent Sentinel. I couldn't keep living with Naomi and William. They were about to be married and deserved to begin a life together without me underfoot.

Sorry for the delay. My daughter hi-jacked my computer and I only got it back this afternoon. Onwards!

Part 4

As long as the tribe is still at bay, I thought I'd get part three to you.



Nowhere Man

In the middle of my plans, the phone rang. "Ellison."

It was my CO, pumped. "It’s a go, report to the base by 0100. We leave at 1400."

When I didn’t answer immediately, Davis barked, "You too busy to answer me, Captain? We have our orders."

I focused and answered, "Yes, sir!"

That was that. I had to find someone to take care of Sandburg and fast. For the next hour I made phone calls, but nothing panned out. I really didn’t want to drive him to a government building and hand him over—I wasn't sure if he’d be able to understand that it wasn’t jail.

So finally I did the thing I'd planned never on doing, I phoned my father.

I was surprised when I heard his familiar, "Yes?" I'd expected Sally to answer. He never says hello like a normal person, it’s always, "Yes?" in that frigid butler tone that dared you to have a reason for calling that he’ll find adequate.

"Hi dad, it’s Jim."

Silence.

"I’m shipping out tonight and I need a favor."

More silence, which lasted five beats and then finally he said something. "Yes?"

I wanted to put my hand through the wires and throttle the son of a bitch. It was always like this, always this hard and I hadn’t even begun to ask the favor. I came damn close to putting the phone down, but then I considered my options and got on with it.

"I need help—well, I have a friend who needs help—he’s a little slow and I need someone to look out for him until I get back—maybe find his family."

I waited for the shock, the questions, the protests, the "I’m William Ellison and I can’t believe you want me to expend time and energy on your behalf" speech. Not that he ever said that in so many words, but that was generally the message.

"Is he your lover?" I hadn't been expecting that, but I should’ve been, knowing my father. His tone was dry, almost amused and now I was really getting pissed.

I reigned in my impulse to set him straight and just answered the question. "No, dad, we’re not lovers. He’s a kid. He lived across the street from me and—look—if you say yes, I’ll give you all the details, but if you’re going to say no, I have to get off the phone and find some—"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes. I’ll look after him—or more accurately, Sally will, and I'll search for family. Give me your address, I'll be there in two hours." I did and he hung up, just like that. Yes, address, he hangs up.

Now I had to get Sandburg awake and hope I can make him understand what’s going on.


My men were strapped in, the equipment stashed. The sound of the cargo engine was loud, and all of us sat silent, knowing it would be useless to be try and communicate until we land in Peru. I looked out the window as Seattle became invisible, wondering if Sandburg was in my room right now with Sally fussing over him.

I told myself he’d be all right until I got back.

Sitting in the belly of the plane, surrounded by twenty men, the vibrations and noise created a sense of isolation that I welcomed. A smile tried to surface, and I tamped it back down. There was something about the kid, a sort of infectious wonder he carried with him, which surprised me. Touched me. I wondered what he'd been like when he'd been "the whiz kid". Obviously smart, but what else? Was he serious or funny? Boring or charming? Straight or Gay?

Where the hell did that last thought come from? What difference—I mean, he's beautiful, sure, but—I can't think about him that way, he's a child.

Well, not a child. A boy. Even without the damage, possibly underage, though clearly his hormones had kicked in and he was well on his way to becoming a man.

A man who had the mind of a child. I sighed, and Mack looked sideways at me. Shrugging, I leaned back and shut my eyes, indicating weariness. I didn't need any of my men tuning into the fact I had something on my mind. That would be disturbing enough as they needed and expected a commander who was totally focused. It would really freak them out if they knew what was on my mind.

So I was curious about his sexual orientation—curious was all right, interested wasn't. I clamped down those thoughts and moved on to others. It shouldn't be hard to find Sandburg's people—if he had people. It was damn odd that he'd been in Jack and Dick's keeping and no one seemed to be looking for him, and when I got back, I planned on getting to the bottom of that mystery.

As the hours wore on, and I thought about the kid and his options, something became clear to me. If I couldn't find his family, I'd petition the court to be his guardian. My tour will be done in three months and I'd planned on re-enlisting, but if the choice is some institution or me, Sandburg was going to get me.

___________________________

Part 2

I watched Jim through the back window, watched him get small and that scared me. I knew things looked small and smaller the farther away they got. I don't know why, but I know that's the way it is. But seeing Jim grow smaller and smaller felt real, like he was getting smaller and smaller and I didn't want that. I liked Jim being big. Big and strong and sure. If he got small he'd be like me. Scared. Because when you're small, anything can happen. Course, if you're small, hiding is easy—but Jim wasn't not a hiding kind of guy.

Jim had introduced me to his father as Chief Sandburg. He was asking me questions and it was weird to hear someone call me a name, even if it's not my name.

"So Chief, how did you meet Jim?"

I thought about Jim pulling me out of the wall, and thought maybe that would sound really weird and I didn't want Jim's dad to think I was weird. "We're neighbors." That was true.

"Neighbors, huh?" Mr. Ellison looked at me quickly and then looked back at the road. "Known him long?"

"No."

Mr. Ellison seemed to want to ask more questions, but he didn't and the rest of the ride was quiet. He pulled up in front of a big house, a mansion, I think, heck, maybe a castle, and a lady opened the front door and stood there, waiting. Mr. Ellison gestured for me to go ahead of him and I did. It was a really nice house—mansion—whatever.

"Chief, this is Sally, my housekeeper. She looked after my boys when they were young and she'll be looking after you."

She smiled and came close to me, taking my hand in hers. "It's nice to meet you, Chief. Let me show you your room."

Mr. Ellison nodded when I looked at him, so I followed Sally up the stairs to the room. It was huge, all different shades of blue, and the bed was huge, with a fat, fluffy, white blanket and about ten pillows.

The lady who was to take care of me asked, "So, Chief, where's your suitcase?"

"Suitcase?"

"Or a box with your clothes and belongings."

"I don't have any."

"None?"

"No—" I started to shake my head, then realized I was trying to say yes and nodded my head. "I mean yes. None, I have none." I felt confused.

Sally didn't look confused. She was looking at me with her eyes narrowed. "You look close to Steven's size, just a few inches shorter. I'll see what I can find for you. The pants will be a little long, but they'll work until we get you some clothes of your own."

"Okay." I didn't understand why she would worry about my clothes but clean clothes would be nice. I was still wearing Jim's sweat pants and his t-shirt and they were pretty big on me.

"Are you hungry?" I shook my head no.

"Tired?"

"Yeah, sorta."

"Why don't you take a nap?" Sally said, as she pulled the cover down.

"In the bed? Under the covers?"

"Well, of course." She said, as she sorted through the pillows, tossing some to the side and choosing two for me. "Take your shoes off and get in."

I kept watching her face as I climbed in, waiting to see if she would realize this wasn't a good idea, but she just nodded and pulled the covers up over me.

"There you go. Have a nice nap and I'll wake you before dinner." She closed the curtains and the room became full of blue shadows. "Sweet dreams, Chief," she said, as she closed the door.

The soft bed made me feel like I was lying on a big cloud, and soon I was almost asleep. That was a dangerous time, that just before sleep time. I saw things then. Bad things.

Not memories, not dreams. Maybe half-memories, half-dreams, I dunno. Flying, falling. Blood, screams, the smell—swimming in blood, screaming in the water, and the water comes in my mouth, and in my lungs and I can't breath…My eyes flew open. The shadows were very dark blue now and moving in towards me, about to suck me in and carry me away. "jim,jim,jim,jim.jim…" I repeated his name over and over and it worked. The shadows backed away as the door opened.

"Jim?"

"No, sweetie, it's just me." Sally crossed the room and opened the curtains. Orangy light from the sunset came in. "How was your nap?"

I didn't want to lie to her so I didn't say anything. She kept talking. "Are you hungry? I made Chicken Pot Pie. It was always one of the boys' favorites."

"A pie with a chicken in it?"

"Yes. Haven't you ever had one?" She didn't wait for me to answer and I thought I liked that about her. "It has chicken and carrots and onions and celery and potatoes and gravy."

"I'm hungry," I admitted.

"Good, we'll soon have you fattened up."


***

Last week Jim's dad called me downstairs. He looked—different. His tie was all crooked and his hair was messy like he'd been sleeping or running his hands through it.

"Sit down, Chief."

I looked at him closely to see if he was mad at me. I worried that he'd found out about me…but he didn't look mad, he looked sad.

"Tell me about my son."

That seemed like an odd question. He was Jim's father, he would know all the important stuff about Jim already, wouldn't he?

"Well," I said, "he's tall and his hair's real short. He—" What else did I know? "He can cook and—" I almost blurted out that he snored, but I didn't, cause I said I wouldn't tell.

Mr. Ellison looked disappointed. "No, I mean, tell me about you and my son. How did you meet him?"

Jim had told me he'd take care of things when he got back and not to talk about my brothers, or that I had done something terrible that would send me to jail. "Um, well, we were neighbors."

"Yes?"

I nodded my head, but he seemed to want to hear more. "And he—" I couldn't think of anything to say except the truth. Jim's dad leaned forward as if I was about to say something really important.

"Go on, son. Tell me how you and Jim became friends."

Mr. Ellison called me son, and he looked so sad as he asked, that I decided to tell him "I lived with my brothers, Dick and Jack. In this house. Across from Jim's house."

"I see. So one day you and Jim met."

"Yes." To explain how Jim and I met, I had to tell Mr. Ellison about being in the wall and why Dick had made me hide, but I didn't want to tell him. But I had to. I looked away and pressed my hands together.

"I did something bad and the police want me to go to jail, so my brothers put me in the wall to hide and nailed it shut. But then they didn't come back and I was in there a long time and couldn't get out. But then Jim found me and got me out."

Mr. Ellison didn't look mad at me or very shocked. He looked kind of surprised. "What did you do?"

I let out a long breath. "I don't know," I admitted. "I can't remember and Dick and Jack wouldn't tell me."

"Hmm…" He pursed his lips together and hummed, looking like he was thinking hard and he reminded me of Jim right then and I felt a bang in my heart, wanting Jim back. "Did Jim tell you I'm a lawyer?"

I shook my head no.

He got to his feet, looking like he was in pain and came over to me. Sitting down next to me, he said, "Well, I am, and a darn good one." He smiled a little and took my patted my hand.

"So you don't have to worry." His head dropped down and he sighed, then looked back up at me, "I know Jim told you he'd be back soon, but—" Mr. Ellison closed his eyes and shook his head and I could see him swallow hard. When he opened his eyes again, there were tears in them and I knew.

"He's not coming back, is he?" I whispered.

Mr. Ellison didn't say anything for a long time. "I—don't know. It doesn't look like it. The helicopter he was in—well, they just don't know."

Jim dead? Jim couldn't be dead. Couldn't. No way. Not Jim. Not dead. Jim wouldn't die, he said he'd be back. He'd be back. He'd be back. Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim come back come back come back come back come back please come back.

Mr. Ellison shook me and then pulled me to his chest in a hug. "Shhh, calm down Chief, we don't know, he might have survived. We just have to wait to hear."

__________________


William Ellison sat in the Physician's Lounge waiting to hear the results of the MRI. His son had left the kid in his care, and now that Jim was gone, it felt like his last link to him. Putting his head in his hands, William rubbed his temples, trying to release the headache from the cage of his head.

He knew this might happen—that Jim might go off on a mission and not make it back. Jim's choice of professions had been putting him in the line of fire for years, but for some reason he'd always thought someday his son would come back to him, they'd talk and get all the old stuff squared away. But Jim was stubborn. And so was he.

And so now here he sat looking out for someone else's son after not looking out for his.

William felt a familiar surge of anger at Jim, at Jim's choices that had taken him away from the life he'd been born into and into a life of danger. His decision to join the army had come out of nowhere, shocking them all.

There had always been something—off—different—about Jimmy. It had made William uncomfortable and had been one of the things he and Grace had fought about. She had wanted to have him tested; she thought Jimmy was special.

William had known where that would lead. If people had tuned into what Jimmy could do back then, his son would have become a guinea pig, a freak, something to be dismantled to see how it worked.

He'd been relieved when Jim quit saying he heard things no one could else could hear, or saw things no one could see. But Jim had not only shut out his freakish abilities, he'd also shut out his father. At the time, he'd put that down to Grace leaving and Bud dying. He'd thought time would heal those wounds, but they never had healed and now it was too late.

Getting up, William walked over to the window and stared down at the traffic. Jim was gone and the young man he'd befriended was now William's responsibility. He didn't understand what had inspired Jim to take "Chief" under his wing, but he had and William took his promise to Jim to watch after the kid seriously.

It was the last thing he could do for his son, and he planned to do it to the best of his abilities.

________________


We were crashing, free-falling to earth and the shrill sound of ripping metal and screaming men filled my ears. My men were flying through the air, and I had no sense of up or down. Blood, body parts, guns and equipment spun around me, and I knew I would soon be dead. Suddenly I was sucked out into space, falling into green arms that held me for a moment, then tossed me down to earth. I hit hard and blacked out.

I opened my eyes to see sunlight filtering through the trees, and I could hear the birds singing again. The bulk of mangled helicopter squatted twenty feet away, with pieces of it scattered carelessly everywhere.

I could see Miskin laying half in and half out of the skewed door. I tried to get to my knees, but my body refused the command and I lay where I had been thrown.

"Sarris!" I yelled, but there again, my body maintained its insubordination, and my yell came out as a choked croak. I tried again, "Peters!" then listened, hoping to hear a voice, a grunt, even a whimper, but heard only the raucous voices of birds.

I drifted, pain taking me to the edge of consciousness.

________________________
.

The darkness gave way to gray as I inched up out of the paralyzing hold of anesthesia. Slowly, knowledge seeped into me. I realized I knew my name. I was Blair Sandburg. I knew my mother. She had been Naomi Sandburg.

And I remembered what I had done. What had happened. I think I screamed. I know I ran back to the infinite darkness that stretched behind me. I knew I had to wrap the unknowing around me again, had to bury myself deep. Or I had to die.
________________________


William Ellison shuffled the papers in front of him, looking at the pieces of Blair Sandburg's life. The surgery had gone well, and yet Blair had been in an inexplicable coma for two weeks. William despaired, as each day passed and the boy's condition remained the same. It seemed there were to be no happy endings after all.

Focusing on the page in front of him, he read the details Mother: Naomi Sandburg. Father: Unknown. No siblings. Mother currently living in Los Angeles. Blair had been home schooled by his mother, entering the university at fourteen, receiving his Bachelor's degree at seventeen, beginning his graduate studies at nineteen after returning from an expedition in Indonesia.

Richard Hanlon and John Warner were third year graduate students who lived in the same apartment building and had disappeared on the same night Blair had vanished. Naomi Sandburg had been found at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, her skull fractured, left arm broken in two places.

William paged through the notes on the mother. She'd had surgery in Cascade, but two days later had been airlifted to Los Angeles. A lawyer named Daniel Nowack had authorized the move. William's detectives had discovered that she was living in Dunlap Sanitarium on West Boulevard.

According to the report, she had suffered some brain damage, which manifested in disorientation, agitation, some slight speech aphasia and lack of coordination. Nowack paid the bills and made all medical decisions. The only reported visitor was Daniel Nowack, who came once a month to check on her condition.

Reaching behind him, William pulled out the Directory of California Lawyers. Nowack was a partner in the Williams, Hibrook and Taylor law firm, a law firm that specialized in estate planning, asset protection, and trusts. He'd heard of them; they were reputed to be dogged Pit Bulls when protecting their clients accumulated wealth, taking on probate courts, disinherited heirs and the IRS. They rarely lost.

His detectives had been unable to find a connection between Blair's mother and Nowack, but he had presented a legal power of attorney. William speculated on the possibilities. Naomi's estranged and very wealthy family. Blair's father. Perhaps he was her current (married) lover who had kept to the shadows. William looked down at Nowack's listing. His date of birth was 9/14/1959. A bit young to have been her lover, but possible. Much too young to be Blair's father.

It didn't make sense to William that Naomi Sandburg had been moved to a Los Angeles nursing home when there were plenty of excellent ones right here in Cascade. He didn't want to leave Blair, but William felt he owed it to the boy to find his mother and reunite the two. Disorientated or not, she'd want to be with him.

Ahhh, you guys....I didn't really expect anyone would be paying attention to this blog after all this time. Than  you for waiting patiently for me all these years.

Nowhere Man-Part 2

Yikes!! !

2004 was my last post? Very bad.

My only excuse is that for these last few years, my head has not been in the fandom world. 

Bowing to outside pressure,  (i.e. my husband) I've been trying to write in the real world and finding it--way hard. My beginnings are rollicking, but then I lose steam and flounder as I peck at the logic and fabric of what I've written. I keep hoping that one day it will all suddenly make the same kind of sense that fanfiction does to me and that writing will become a joy again.

In the meantime, my rights to a zine story came back to me--Nowhere Man. Before I post it, I wanted to dive in and clean it up a bit.

And so was reintroduced to the lovely pleasure of writing fan fiction. Sigh. 

Makes me want to get back to work on the Alchemy and Second Chance Series.

I thought I'd post Nowhere Man here before I get it to Susan's site or the archive.

So here's part one:

NOWHERE MAN
by Calista Echo

 

 

"He's back." Cynthia said, peering out the window. It was hard to tell if she was scowling at the grey drizzle or the young man shambling their way.

 

Margaret stepped closer to the window and studied the approaching boy. Head down, he seemed to be mumbling to himself. He wore several layers of clothes, all of them dirty and ragged. Hair fell about his face in matted curls as he shuffled along, hunched over.

 

Poor little nowhere man, she thought. How did you get so lost?

"You really shouldn't encourage him, Margaret. He scares away the other customers." 

 

Margaret didn’t respond—they’d had this conversation before. Looking through the window, the boy caught Margaret's gaze and a slow, brilliant smile lit his face. That's why I let him come in, Margaret admitted to herself, as she absently stirred a generous dollop of honey into the cup of hot tea. To see that smile.

It was a dazzling smile, full of intelligence and shy joy, and it replaced the boy's usual expression of uncertainty and confusion. But his eyes dimmed almost immediately, as the window to that other self that lurked slammed shut once again.

"Morning..."

"Morning, ma'am," he mumbled, edging in through the door as if afraid the cold rain might follow him in.

 

Pressing the tea into his trembling hands, she made sure he had a good grip on it before she released her hold.

 

Eyes closed, he inhaled the scent. "Mint with…" he paused, then opened his eyes and stated confidently, "orange."

 

"That’s right. Do you like it?"

 

He sipped, smiled, and said, "It's good. Hot. Sweet. Hot."

 

Handing him a gingersnap cookie, she gestured into the store and told him, "There's a new book about the Inuits that just came in that I think you might like." She'd noticed how he gravitated toward books about other cultures. She wasn't sure what all he comprehended, but clearly he loved books. He approached them reverently, as if they held a holy power.

 

Which they did, she silently agreed, but you have to actually open the book.

 

Wandering up and down the aisles, he would stop to read the titles, study the covers, and occasionally took one off the shelf to look at the illustrations. Cynthia insisted he couldn't possibly comprehend the kinds of books he looked at, but Margaret was convinced he could.

 

Cynthia kept her distance, tucked behind the till; protecting the money, with one hand on the phone in case she needed to call 911. As soon as the boy left, she would once again tell Margaret that the punk was coming in each week "to case the joint," a phrase she'd picked up from reading every crime book in the store.

 

Margaret remembered the first time she'd seen him. It had been a dreary day, rainy and cold, much like it was today. She'd been crouched on the floor, unpacking a box of books to stack in the window. When she stood up, she'd dropped the books, startled to see a bum pressing his face against the window. Then she’d noticed the expression on the bum’s face.  He’d looked like a kid who’d just stumbled downstairs at Christmas.

 

Despite the fact he looked nothing like a paying customer, she'd felt compelled to go outside and invite him in. That had surprised her. She'd always been a practical woman, one who bypassed soulful-eyed beggars rattling cups, confined her charity outreach to writing checks, and had never been particularly prone to feeling maternal.

 

Coming in diffidently, he'd acted as if he’d just entered a church. She’d half-expected to see him genuflect any moment. Rain had dripped from his sodden hair, pooling on the wood floor and he'd smelled a bit like—well, he'd smelled a bit. Through the scruff darkening his face, she'd seen fading bruises on his jaw and cheek, and a healing scrape on his forehead. His clothes had been dirty, his hands had shook, and his balance had been off.

 

These days his hands didn't shake as much, though his coordination still seemed erratic. His beard had grown in, his hair had become even more matted, his clothes were the exact same ones he'd worn every week, now even dirtier. He was thinner, and every once in a while she spotted fresh bruises and once a black eye.

 

Margaret had tried to get the police interested, but they had no record of a missing person matching his description and the streets were filled with mentally and emotionally disturbed people. She'd been informed that unless she thought he was a danger to himself or others, there was nothing they could do.

 

“He is in danger.” She’d protested.

 

“Maybe, but from what you describe, not from himself,” the desk sergeant had said, not unkindly. “Our hands are tied by the system, lady.”

 

 

                                                          ***

           

I'd been living in the "Fringe" for nearly three months.  The neighborhood has a mix of people in it; some working their way up, and some on their way down, plus the senior citizens who sat in their front windows and watched the parade go by.

 

I'd found this house a week after I'd been discharged from the hospital and had rented it for the duration of my rehab. Although a dump, it had a few things going for it. Being a rambler, it had no stairs, which had been an important feature at first. It was also quiet, cheap, and furnished.

 

I’d replaced the bed, the rattle in the furnace, and settled in.

 

I’d found living on base after my injury unexpectedly unbearable—too many people, too much noise, too many smells. I had no appetite and I couldn’t sleep. My C.O. noticed and suggested a few months off base might do me good.

 

It had been awhile since I'd lived alone, and I’d looked forward to it. I’d lived alone in college after the first semester and that had suited me very well.

 

I still had some duties on base and physical therapy every day, but I soon found myself bored and restless. I realized how much I'd come to depend on the structure and action of the army to create context for my life. There was an order in the army that went beyond tidiness. A sense of purpose permeated everything, even the simple, repetitious actions, even exhausting, stupid, and seemingly pointless actions.

 

The hierarchy of command made relationships clear and simple. We worked together, we fought as a team, we had absolute trust in one another and at the end of the day, we drank a beer and went our own way.

 

I say all this to explain the interest I started to take in the house across the street and the people who moved into it. I'm not normally nosy—hell—I actively avoid knowing anything personal about the people around me, not wanting to get pulled in to their dramas.

 

But I was used to processing information and taking in details, so I couldn’t help but notice the Infinity SUV parked in front of the dilapidated house across the street. I started seeing two young guys go in and out, but no one else, so I figured they weren’t pimping or dealing drugs and didn’t pay too much more attention.

Then a week or so after they moved in, on a freakishly warm February day, I caught sight of someone leaning out the second story window. Out of boredom and curiosity, I got my binoculars out and trained them on the stranger.

 

He was looking down at the old tomcat stalking a Blue Jay. Long dark hair hid his face at first. But when the jay escaped with a screech, he looked up and I saw an angular and beautiful face framed by a disheveled riot of curls. As I looked closer, I saw that the beautiful face had a black eyes and a bruised jaw.

 

I also saw the look I'd seen on the faces of men coming back from a certain kind of mission. Missions that had gone wrong, and in the process, had ripped a piece of their soul out.

 

What had happened to that kid to make him look so shell-shocked, and what—no, who—had put the bruises on his face? His roomies? Or were they sheltering him?

 

I told myself to stop that line of thought. He wasn't a child, and it was none of my business. The neighborhood was filled with sad people and their sad stories, and I didn't have a magic wand to wave over anyone to fix their lives.

 

But that night, I found myself thinking about the kid as I chopped onions and carrots and wondered again what he was doing living with those two men.

 

Calling them "men" pushed the definition—but at some point age had tipped them into that category, even when it was clear no actual maturing had occurred.

 

I’d seen a lot of punks like that enter the army. They usually signed on when they were drunk, or in response to a dare.

 

You could tell the guys that had been brought up with expectations. They swaggered in, full of assumptions about the army, life and themselves. The army was good at shattering them. It didn’t care if your daddy had money, you were handsome and charming, made straight A’s, won the big game or had fucked Amy Sue in the boy’s locker room.

 

It didn’t care if you’d been drunk and made a mistake by signing up and then found out that you hated bunk beds, mess hall food and grunting men.

 

Men like that joined, got the tattoo, tried every charming trick that had ever worked with mommy and daddy in the past to get out of doing what the army demanded and when that failed, they got mean. And drunk.

 

They picked fights, shirked their work, and generally fucked up everything they touched until daddy’s money got them honorably discharged as a nut case or they really fucked up and even daddy’s money couldn’t save them from having their asses thrown in the brig.

 

I hated them being in my army. Hated the noise they made and the mess, hated the havoc that got left in their wake. And now I had two of those yahoos living across the street from me. With a damaged kid—one I suspected they had damaged—on the second floor.

 

I found myself watching them carefully for a few days—noting when they came and went, what they brought in and took out, their body language and demeanor. They often came home late at night, drunk and loud, but the kid was never with them. Then one day I realized what I was doing was reconnaissance and made myself put the binoculars down.

 

Who the hell did I think I was? Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window?

 

If so, where was Grace Kelly when I needed her, bucking up my spirits by pulling scanty negligees out of tiny purses?  But forget Grace. The woman I really wanted was Thelma Ritter. She didn't take any nonsense, was steady in a crisis, could knock back the bourbon, and gave massages.

 

I worked hard not to think about the house across the street and got some help on that from the difficulties at work. Though I was temporarily living off base, I still reported in every day.

 

We had a mission coming up and there were plans to be studied and revised, equipment to be ordered and tested, and personal to evaluate. And true to form, Miskin was using my injury to make a play for command.

 

One night sleep fought me, despite my exhaustion. Giving up, I’d gone into the living room and poured myself a scotch. And so had a front row seat when the Frat Boys rolled in drunk

 

They slammed the car doors loudly, which was usual for them. Then they added a new routine, staggering around the yard, singing a college fight song at the top of their lungs. For percussion, they kicked the garbage cans. Lights went on in the houses up and down the block and five or six dogs joined in the chorus, yapping and barking.

 

The bozos were so loud this night they even managed to wake the nearly deaf guy up who lived next door to them. Mr. Johansen shuffled out of the front door, shaking his fist, his white hair standing on end. At that point, I opened my door and stepped into the shadows to watch.

 

"Didn't your mothers teach you any manners? People are trying to sleep!"

 

Early on I’d started thinking of the two as Beevis and Butthead. Now the one I’d dubbed Butthead careened toward the old man, sticking his chin out pugnaciously, as he said, "Can it, Pops. You can sleep all day, so what're you complaining 'bout?"

 

Johansen stood his ground, pulling his skinny shoulders back and standing straighter. "I don't want a can of pop! I want you to be quiet and respect your neighbors!"

 

“Beevis” '' zigzagged his way over to join Butthead and said belligerently, "Whataya gonna do 'bout it, old man?"

 

The old man frowned. "You've been drinking,” he said, as if that hadn’t occurred to him before.

 

"S' wat? Ish there a law 'gainst it?" “Butthead” thumped the old guy's chest, hard enough to make Mr. Johansen totter back. He managed to keep his feet, but as soon as he regained his balance, he did a stupid thing. He put his fists up.

 

I moved, and before Butthead could deck a senior citizen, I rushed him. Grabbing the fist he'd cocked back, I spun him around and yanked his arm up behind his back.

 

"You want to deal with someone's complaints, deal with mine. You've been waking all of us up long enough.” I jacked his arm up just a bit more to help my complaints register.

 

He tried to fight my hold, but soon found how much worse that made the pain. His screams had brought out a few more neighbors in bathrobes, who watched with open mouths.

 

“From now on, I want you two to come home quietly, close your car doors softly, and you keep your mouths shut until you get inside. Is that understood?"

 

He whimpered, but didn’t answer, so I repeated, "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" I pushed his arm up a fraction, knowing I had it right at the breaking point.

 

"YES!" he yelped and I let up on the pressure while still holding onto him.

 

"That's 'YES, SIR!'" I informed him.

 

"Y-yes, sir," he sobbed. I let him go. He whirled around and glared at me, cradling his arm.

 

“You gonna behave now?’

 

He looked at me stubbornly, so I took a step toward him. He immediately said, “Yes.” Then quickly added, “Yes, sir.”

 

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

 

The gathered crowd applauded, Beevis and Butthead glared, but went inside. Walking back across the street, I found myself wondering about the kid in the window. Was he there while all the commotion was going on? Why hadn’t he appeared?  Would they take out their frustration with me out on the kid? That question nagged at me all night and into the next day.

 

 

                                                                ***

 

 

Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.

—Jack Kerouac

I missed seeing a lot of the door decorations this year--and there were fewer than last. Felt like there were fewer people as well, just less denisity everywhere you went.

It was worth going just to take in Cindy Walker's panel on writing. She is a delightful teacher--funny, quick, smart, and liquid energy that goes down smooth. I'm envious of her students.

The plays were back and Brook was in one so I went- not expecting much, and I was ever so glad I did.

Written by Paula and using Cindy Walker's Man From Uncle crossed with Escape From New York, AU--it was great--it even had songs. The woman playing Snake was played by Spencer ---(I'll have to track down her last name)and Lucy played a bunch of different characters.

Lucy and she both act professionally and I loved how they stepped so forcefully into their characters.

Spencer said Sofi and could come to LA sometime and crash at her place, which is good, since Steve has kind of withdrawn his welcome mat.

I've come to realize I'm a visual facist. For someone who spends no time at all on what look like, I could probably spend 40 hours on tweaking the way this journal looks.

And don't even get me started about overhead lighting.

That may explain why I like certain actors--their utter visual watchablity--and how much information they manage to convey with the slightest of muscle movements.

The master is Jeremy Brett in Sherlock Holmes, but Callum, Garret and Richard all have finely honed skills, not to mention undenialable beauty.

 

Just back from MediaWest. Brook (Henson --writer of the lovliest Jimcentric h/c and angst in all the world) and I roomed together again, but my dear and vital beta, (as well as friend), Sharakh, was not with us this year, alas, and we missed her.

I started out in a grim hotel about 10 miles away, but as I waited for Brook to arrive, someone announced they had an extra room and we got in.

Thank goodness, as the con would not have been at all the same. There's just something about being in the thick of everything and calling it home for those 4 days...

MediaWest is a funny place--it's a Shangri-la that has a door that opens only 4 days a year. (or is that Brigadoon?)

You walk through the glass doors of the Holiday Inn South in Lansing and yippee! find a land where people are a lot like you--(or at least a lot more like you than the rest of the world).

A land where people invest emotionally in fictional characters, get caught up and ponder the health, wisdom and significance of those relationships, then share their thoughts about them as if discussing best friends, lovers, and themselves.

For instance, some of the panels that took place this year:

Starsky & Hutch: How do you separate them from the time in which they lived for fanfic characterization, was it their nature or behavior simply appropriate for the 70s? Free love, etc. (/)

Stargate SG-1: The hair!! An inane discussion on the constantly changing hairstyles (for better or worse), make-up horrors, and other nitpicks. For fun only!

Sentinel: The Advantages and Disadvantages of a challenging childhood a. Why Jim and Blair are the way they are. (/)

I learned some really cool things.

Like:

...there's a drug you can take for restless leg syndrome and it works. (Thanks, Lucy!)

...soy helps hotflashes and can be taken in a pill. (Thanks, April Valentine!)

...about gems and healing and divination. Which so far, in my limited testing—has been accurate.

Back to Martha(who writes in Sentinel and Stargate) , Katherine (who reads) and Saleri (who writes Stargate). Brook and I met up with them on Saturday and Sunday night in the hotel restaurant—The Hummingbird and the craic was very fine both nights.

(Craic-an Irish word—pronounced crack, meaning—hmmm, there's no exact translation, but--atmosphere –but in my mind it's more like atmosphere that is especially conducive to a high old time.)

There's no doubt the fun was fueled in part by Saleri's consumption of Cosmopolitans—which she was already well known for imbibing at the Hummingbird, but also, there was a rare chemistry afoot among all of us—but especially between Martha and Saleri.

It was the kind of chemistry that made me think they had been childhood chums. But no. They had been emailing for some time, but had only met on Thursday.

In fact, I'd say, that was the very most fun I've ever had with girls. Maybe the only real fun I've ever had with girls.

I've been having a week's worth of insomnia and last night I double dosed myself with Nyquil and had hot milk with honey and whiskey.

And I slept.

I woke up at 7, wide awake, but all day I've been on the edge of sleeping and utterly unmotivated to do anything--which just about never happens.

I'm working on Nowhere Man--and get sort of close to being done. And I really need to get writing again on the fourth chapter of Alchemy. It's over 100 pages, but I feel like there's so much more to get to.

And then I need/want to write the next story in the Second Chance Series, because man, I have a lot to write yet.

Maybe I'll post Nowhere man here as I shake the wrinkles out of it.

And hey, four days and I head to MediaWest!

Due South was my portal into fanfiction. That was--hmmm, four years ago. And started writing, something I had resisted and believed I'd have no aptitude for. And fell in love with it. It went on to wipe out nearly all other loves. I stopped wanting to do anything except write, including reading and watching TV. Every moment away from writing those first 18 months or so, was torture. Gave up Kato Tomato cards mostly to free up my life to write.

These days I'm a little less obsessed. I can once again enjoy doing other things besides writing, though it would be nearly always my first choice of how to spend time. I kind of miss the passionate obsessional high I was on, but mostly I'm glad not to be in pain if I'm not writing and to have some balance back.

So I got out my very first story--The Fall and its sequel, The Winter and submitted them to Bast to be published in a zine. I had rewritten The Fall once, but when I went back, was shocked at how much work it needed. I think I spent--easily--80 hours rewriting those 2 stories.

Hopefully, I wrote/rewrote something that people will get caught up in.

I was going to paste the cover here, but the LJ won't let me. So how do people put photos in their LJ's?

Bast's cover is intense in a scary kind of way. Elena An, who helped beta it as well as a some of other stories, did a marvelous cover for it--which I would paste here if I knew how. It's much more emotionally satisfying.

Ben's been out of town since Wednesday. Which has been nice, though I haven't written much. I don't know why--I think the Adderall and Effexor has a little Stepford Wives componant. I find myself cleaning a lot, making order. But I do love the focus they give me.

I got the dorky icon thingy to kick in! Why am I using it? It always sort of annoys me when I see them. There's something about the implied reduction --and the fact that on the whole, I don't do moods. That's right. I'm one of the least moody people on this planet--as can be testified by my children and husband. Which isn't such a great thing, really. No one ever quakes in their boots around me. And the older I get, the more I'd like to be able to cause some quaking.

First post and boy, I have no idea what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. I have a heck of time believing anyone would want to hear about what I'm thinking...and hey, maybe no one will, and this will be my own private playground.

I think I actually like the idea of the set-up and the graphics and the dialog more than I like the idea of me saying something. But I have no idea how to make the icon thing happen--I can't even figure out how to make those goofy mood icons to kick in.