Story-A-Day #428: Pathways

PATHWAYS

It's not like it used to be.  These pathways used to be wider, and much easier to navigate.  Now they are overgrown, crowded with limbs, and leaves, and other obstructions that have grown up over time.

When I was younger, these pathways were my paradise.  They meandered through the forest behind my parents home and directed me to new adventures, new secrets waiting to be discovered.  I would wander these pathways and expect the unknown on an almost daily basis.

Sometimes I would discover a pond, and plumb its depths for hidden treasures: maybe a painted turtle, or a slime encrusted plastic boat left behind by some other wayward wanderer.  Other times I would stumble across an old fort or cabin and pretend that it was mine; a secret hideout where I would defend myself with a wooden sword from an onslaught of deadly foes.

I had many great times exploring those forgotten trails, seeking out new adventures both on, and off the path.  But that was a long time ago, decades.

Today, I stare up the steep incline and know that most of what I once marvelled at would be gone, reclaimed by the nature from whence it first sprouted.  I know that those ponds would be long since dried up; the forts and cabins, long since collapsed upon themselves.

I start up the trail regardless, knowing that those shining moments from my past would have long since faded, but that there might be new discoveries to be found.  Surely the new generations of kids could not be so glued to their televisions and gaming systems that they had not built their own hidden refuges?  Surely nature had not continued to grow and develop in weird and marvelous ways?

The strangest thing about life is that it is full of pathways.  Some of them become worn and familiar as we wander their ways throughout life.  Others become regrets, the path left unexplored that could have resulted in so much more, or less, than what we know about life today.

The great thing about pathways is that they are yours to be either taken, or ignored.  Sometimes you choose the right pathways, and sometimes you take the long way to get to where you need to go.

These may have been the pathways of my youth, but sometimes it is good to return to the well of nostalgia to see if there might not be more to learn, more to be told, more to be discovered.  Sometimes it is just nice to know that childhood is what it was, and remains what it always will be: a past lived to its fullest.

Story-A-Day #427: Rainbow's End

RAINBOW'S END

Sometimes you just have to go for it.  That's what her parents had always told her.  They wanted her to be an achiever, a go-getter; someone who would not take no for an answer.  For the most part, it had worked as well.  She was not afraid to take risks, and would always push hard to achieve her goals.

That constant strive for excellence had brought her to a few unique realizations about her decision-making process.  Sometimes, you had to look at the bigger picture.  Sometimes, you had to look beyond the normal to try to figure out how to achieve your goals and dreams.

It was a warm Wednesday afternoon in September, and she was out in her backyard watering the garden.  As she wafted the gentle mist from the hose back and forth across the flowers, plants, and wooden slat fence, she noticed a rainbow slowly ebbing in and out of sight.  It was like a dream: there, then gone, then back again, with each passing sweep of the hose.

It dawned on her then, that a rainbow is a rainbow, so maybe she should start digging.

Sometimes you just have to go for it.

She noted the spot where the proverbial end of the rainbow would be and ran off to grab a shovel.  When she returned, she placed the tip into the moist grass, and used the flat base of her sandal to help wiggle the shovel into the soft earth.  She levered the first scoop up and dumped it nearby, then quickly angled in for another.

She had dumped out a few loads before something unexpected happened.  She hit something solid.  She got down on her hands and knees and slowly unearthed the treasure.  Once it was clear of the earth, she found a smile spreading across her face, a warm and glowing smile that was not unlike the morning sun peeking up over the horizon.

It was no pot of gold.  But it was actually better; a small tin coffee tin, the brand still distinguishable under the grime of dirt and time.

She brought the container into the house and sat down at the dining room table where she popped the lid.  The container contained a small treasure trove of notes and nick knacks from a past resident of the house.  Diary entries and small porcelain figures filled the tin, and they were in remarkably good condition.  It was no pot of gold, but it was a fascinating representation of days, and people, long since past...

Sometimes you just have to go for it.

Sometimes you have to seek out the rainbow's end.

Story-A-Day #426: Where the Silver Ferns Grow

WHERE THE SILVER FERNS GROW

I'd always believed it was a myth, a place that existed in the darkest, most fanciful corners of legend.  I figured it was no different than El Dorado, Atlantis, or Shangri-La...  As it turns out, I was wrong.

I grew up hearing the legends of the great lost treasure that was hidden in the depths of the wilds where the silver ferns grow.  Hell, it was right here in my backyard according to those legends of my childhood, so how could I not have heard of it?

When I was younger, I grew to figure that it was probably something like Oak Island, a huge lost treasure that remained forever lost in time, and disclaimed by the doubters and scientists.

It was cool to think that there could be some weird treasure out there, some weird treasure located in a long-lost Mayan temple in the depths of Northern Ontario.  It seemed unlikely that a Mayan temple could exist in Northern Ontario, impossible really, so it was not entirely impossible to write the whole thing off as a big fabrication; like our very own Klondike, only without the actual gold to sustain the rush.

Northern Ontario has a wealth of resources, but the conundrum with this particular one, was that the stories and murmurings always promised wealth that was somewhat ... obscure.  Some tales talked of gold, others of silver and gems.  There were other whisperings as well, secret sighs that spoke of something bigger; and at times, something darker.

When I finally found the place that the silver ferns grow, I realized that all of the stories contained at the very least, a grain of truth.  Unfortunately for you, the only truth I can communicate was that the ferns do in fact grow with a silver hue.

It was almost an accident that I found the place at all, but it was no accident that I forget where it was...

If you had seen the things I saw, you would want no recollection either.  That kind of beauty and terror can only co-exist in the strongest of minds.  Mine is not that type of mind; it is one of curiosity, and dreams, and hope.  It is one that requires mystery in life in order to maintain function.

Story-A-Day #425: Pattern Recognition

PATTERN RECOGNITION

There are undeniable patterns in each of our lives, moments where random becomes concrete.  Throughout each waking moment, there are instances of circumstance that are too randomly perfect that they become hard to ignore.

I am intrigued by the effect that the random has on the routine...

There are moments where you encounter nothing but green (or red) lights while driving along a single stretch of road.  Is that because you are meant to arrive earlier (or later) at your destination, or is it simply chance?

Have you ever had a day where a singular reference seems to arise on a supernatural basis?  Maybe it is a number, or a colour, or a person - whatever the instance is, it is always a little off-putting.

When a specific number comes up periodically throughout your day, you usually won't notice.  That is our nature...  But if you pay special attention, you will start noticing these random moments becoming a little less random.

You find yourself sitting in a cafe one day, talking to a friend about someone neither one of you have seen in ages.  At first, you think nothing of it, because you were simple reminiscing.  But when you encounter that person the next day, you can't help but wonder how weird it is that you were just talking about them.

There are infinite patterns in life, from the routes we take through our daily march, to  the more complex machinations.  We are the result of our choices and movements, but we are also affected by that which we can not control.

We are susceptible to days full of the number three and people named Paul.  We are susceptible to the same movie or song repeating ad nauseum throughout our pilgrimage to tomorrow.

There will always be patterns that are beyond our control, but until those patterns dictate us, it is all just a game.

Be aware.  Look for those patterns, and allow them to expand your current horizons.  The best way to deal with the random, is to make it mundane.

Story-A-Day #424: Strange Fruits

STRANGE FRUITS

There was a potted jungle on the back deck, one full of aromatic, exotic fruits in varied shades of bloom.  The greens, yellows, oranges, and reds gave off a multitude of scents, from the earthy waft of cherry tomatoes, to a more potent curl of peppers in the humid summer air.

There were other smells too, lingering amidst the more familiar and mundane essences of grass, earth, and late summer fade out.  There were hints of curry, bitter sweet rhubarb, and extra sweet berries; and exotic memories of Italian dinners in the multitude of fresh basil, oregano, thyme and rosemary taht mingled into a perfect airborne pasta sauce seasoning.

He took a step down into the backyard and the scents intensified; so many strange fruits, spices, herbs, and more mingling into a delicious pot pourri of ingredients.

He paused for a moment by a thick, black tub and leaned in towards a tree that bounced gently under the weight of its heavy burden of scotch bonnet peppers.  He took a deep breath, but the intense heat of the peppers was apparently more linked to taste than scent.

He plucked a few peppers off the tree, then snipped some rhubarb stalks from a nearby patch.  Over the next few minutes he added a cornucopia of herbs, spices, fruits, and peppers to his small basket and slowly felt the night's meal coming together.

His favorite part of cooking was always the fusion of flavors and tastes that went into a good meal.  Those flavours were always better when fresh ingredients were used.  He plucked a couple handfuls of tomatoes, green, yellow, and bright, ripe red and slowly made his way back into the house.

These strange fruits would be a beautiful fusion.  Dinner would soon be served.

Story-A-Day #423: Blurs

BLURS

Your head snapped up quickly, a violent jerk back into reality.  You realized that for a moment, you had faded out; literally faded out, of all that was right and real around you.

For a brief moment, your world had disappeared and you had travelled elsewhere.  It might have been astral projection.  That would be nice; but it was more likely just a simple case of exhaustion and delirium headbutting into your left and right temples.

Instant knockout...

You felt your world convulse, and slowly it all started to come into focus.  Slowly it all started to make sense again.

There was a haze of fog, but it was starting to clear.

You could see actual bits of your surroundings, and with them, the sounds that accompanied; although each new sound felt like it was coming to you from some far off destination.  It was almost like you were underwater.

You raised your right hand and snapped your fingers next to your right ear.  It was like a bass drum going off.

You knew that things were slowly spiralling out of control, and that you were at risk of losing everything, but you could also see the clarity through the sudden storm.  You looked up, and somewhere out there, through all that murky uncertainty, there was a form that you recognized slowly coming into place.

You shook your head, trying to clear the clutter, and the image became a little more clear.

You smiled, knowing that all would be all right.   You could see her now, slowly coming into place.

She was your rock, your anchor.  The fact that she was there, standing in front of you, meant that whatever you were passing through, would indeed pass.  She was your rock, your anchor.

She was your lighthouse guiding home through the blurs of the storm.

You blinked, and thought for a moment that she would disappear, but when your eyes fluttered open, there she stood; your proud and welcoming beacon through the storm.

Story-A-Day #422: The Rough

THE ROUGH

A cool breeze blew out of the west, carrying with it a soft kiss of moisture that cut through the pressing summer heat.  It would probably bring rain before too much longer, but for now it was just a sweet relief.

I stepped up to the fourth green and lined up my shot, pushing the tee gently down into the dry surface of the green.  It had been a hot summer so far, the hottest I could remember, but that didn't keep me off the course.  I was a golfer after all, and a horrible one, so the more practice I could get, the better off I would be.

I lined up the shot, my eyes focused intently on the ball, then quickly glanced towards the distant flag fluttering in the soft breeze.  It was a little over 250 yards, but it was also downhill.  I could conceivably get on in one, I just needed to remember what I had been taught.

I lined my feel up, toes lining towards the distant pin.  I kept my arms straight, and my head down and took a few confident, and comfortable, practice swings.  It was feeling pretty good.  I nudged forward a bit, lined up the shot again, then wiped the back of my hand across my sweaty brow.  This was the big moment, the chance to get on in one, and hopefully a birdie.  I was only two over par, and this would get me caught right up.

I lined up the shot, raised the driver, and swung.  It was a big miss, but I was able to pitch it to my friends as a practice shot; fully intended for sure.

I made great gestures to pretend that it was all as planned, that I had wanted one last practice swing.  I stepped back up to the tee and repeated my mantra: arms, knees, feet, focus.

I swung the driver down again, and heard the satisfying 'ting' of a well-connected shot.  I realized too late that the only problem with my shot, was that I had an eye on the ball already.  I watched as it slowly swung off into the trees to the right of where I wanted it to go.

I was in the rough again, where I played my best game, if only by default...

Story-A-Day #421: Tear The Night Sky Asunder

TEAR THE NIGHT SKY ASUNDER

He waited patiently all day, watching as the hours slowly rolled over each other in their inevitable march towards the infinite.

He waited out morning and sat through the blazing afternoon heat, drifting languidly in the lake like the lily pads that surrounded him.

He ate a big meal up at the cottage: steak, potatoes, beans, and other complimentary culinaria, and washed it all down with a few glasses of earthy red wine.

He watched as the sun slowly descended behind the trees, spreading morning ever forward and leaving darkness in its steady westward wake.

The moment was approaching, his patience steadily paying off.  He stood on the large weathered wooden deck of the cottage and looked down over the pink-purple mirror of the lake's surface.  He placed a finger in his mouth and slowly raised the moistened tip towards the sky.  No wind at all.  Ideal conditions.

He nodded to the others and made a silent march down towards the lake, swatting his hands at a couple of tenacious flies on his way towards the beach below.

He eased himself into a plastic lawn chair and stared out over the lake's mirrored surface, admiring the shimmering sky that rippled gently across to the distant shore.

The bonfire next to him shifted into itself, sending a spiral of sparks on an upward pirouette into the night.  A loud pop erupted from one the logs, and the fire resumed its slow and steady hiss, crackle, pop.

A chorus of crickets sounded off, eager for the main event, but he had been patient, and he would patiently wait a few moments more.

Tonight was the night he would tear the sky asunder...

Story-A-Day #420: Shattered Symmetry

SHATTERED SYMMETRY

She was always a big fan of the patterns in life, the random moments that lead to new revelations - seemingly through no more than chance.  She relished the moments when she would hear a cover song by a band, say Faith No More performing "Easy" by Lionel Ritchie, on her satellite radio then change to a random channel and hear Lionel Ritchie singing whatever he was singing.  It didn't matter what Lionel was singing on the other channel, the fact that the two totally separate channels could be so close always made her smile.

It was the same feeling she encountered when she would randomly recall a conversation or moment spent with someone long since forgotten, only to run into them later that day at the grocery store. It was fascinating happenstance, and it got her excited every time.  It made her think there was more to life than the mundane routine she sometimes felt trapped in.

She found though, that after a few years of fixating on random butterflies flapping their wings to create new realities in her world, that nothing much mattered anymore.

She was bored.  She wanted more.  She wanted the unknown that existed within the known.  What she wanted most, was to be able to see the patterns that so clearly existed just beneath the surface of what was plainly perceived.  Everything clearly happened for a reason.  There was no fate or destiny, only that which had been preordained.

Her dilemma became how to plot the inevitable without a solid definition, and it remained her elusive goal.

It trickled down over a span of several years, and it seemed the harder she sought the patterns, the more elusive they proved to be.  Eventually it got to a point where even the most obvious patterns blurred into an indistinguishable smear of the recognizable.

Perfectly set tables, place mats aligned and cutlery squared immaculately, would blur and shimmer into an unknown smear that was almost unrecognizable from the arrangement she had originally sat down before.

She would look to the stars at night, and the constellations would realign because there could truly be no constants in life...

That is what she often felt, and how she always viewed the world.  And then one day, she walked into the ocean expecting it to part and reveal a passage to Europe.

The ocean did not part.  The ocean pummeled her with its warm salty fists and sealed her stinging eyes to a new reality:  That which is random, is random by its very definition.  There can be no seeking out the random patterns in life, for those patterns is what makes life random by its very nature.

Random is not something which can be truly be defined in nature, nor in life.  Just as symmetry can not be reduced to the equal parts of a whole having an equal representation, it is something much harder defined.

As she sputtered to the surface of her shattered reality, and gasped for life, she realized the error of her ways.  There are no true patterns in life due to the very nature of life itself.  Life is a random assortment of moments that happen to be immaculately structured throughout time, only for those moments to drift apart throughout the very passage of that which gave them essence to begin with:  Time.

In that single moment of salty sputtering she realized what was true, and honest, and essential in life...

Time.

Story-A-Day #419: The Hunter

THE HUNTER

He didn't do it for the kill, he did it for the thrill.  It was strictly catch and release, and as much as it was about the thrill of snagging those little crustaceans before they shot off to a new place of shelter, the hunt was usually for something even bigger.

He would wade through those waters, turning over rocks as he went.  A gentle lift or role, to not stir up the sandy bottom of the lake.  He had been a crayfish hunter for as long as he could remember, and the process hadn't changed much over the years.  A lift or a role and hopefully there one would be one of the beady eyed critters staring up.

Typically they would freeze for a moment, perhaps wondering how that heavy hiding spot had so suddenly disappeared.  Their little claws would lift up, almost like they were reaching for the rock, or maybe shielding their small black eyes from the sudden bright glare of the sun.

The best thing to do at that point is angle an open hand behind the crayfish and wait for it to scoot backwards into the trap.

He flipped the new rock over and spotted the yellow-brown crayfish hunching inwards on itself.  He lowered his other had into the water and looked down at the big snuffling bulldog next to him.

"See that buddy?"

The crayfish scuttled backwards and he quickly scooped it up.  They were not nearly as mobile out of the water, and while they did wield two lobster-like claws, the clamp was a mere pinch.  He held it in front of the dog's snuffling nose for a minute, then dropped the tiny creature back into the water.

He smiled and ruffled the dog's ears, then stared up into the clear summer sky.

He wasn't really hunting for crayfish.  He was hunting for that most elusive of treasures: the innocence of youth.  Life tends to obscure the simplicity of days gone by, and the greatness of a long summer's day to a twelve-year old boy.

Sometimes it takes no more than a simple act to revert ones self back to those simpler times.  Catching a crayfish, tossing a baseball, climbing a fence or a tree.  These are the experiences that he was truly hunting...

Story-A-Day #418: Oiseau Blanc Ciel Bleu

OISEAU BLANC CIEL BLEU

She stared at me, her face a mask of frustration and confusion.  She shifted from foot to foot, then licked her lips and pointed to the skies.  I glanced upwards, following the direction of her slender, pointing finger.

She glanced back at me, then back to the sky and I heard the strange words repeated once more:  "Il y avait un grand oiseau blanc dans le ciel bleu, juste par là-bas!"

She looked back at me, and I in turn glanced at the others who were with us.  They all shook their heads, just as uncertain as I was.  I could see our friend's frustration deepening.  She had just moved here from Quebec and was trying very hard to assimilate.  She stared straight at me and pointed over her shoulder, her finger thrusting angrily to the distance blue skies behind her.

"Ciel bleu.  C'est le ciel bleu."

"The sky?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied in a broken english accent, her face lighting up.  "C'est le ciel bleu!"

I nodded and repeated her words.  "See-el blue."

She scrunched her face up and made a fifty-fifty waving motion with her hand then paused for a moment.  I could tell she was deep in thought and I couldn't help but smile at the valiant effort.  After a few fidgety moments, her face lit up again, sending her eyebrows into high arcs of surprise over her big chocolate brown eyes.

She took a step back on the wooden boardwalk we were all standing on and motioned to me, her elected translator, to pay attention.  I nodded my head, letting her know I was.  I found a slow smile spreading across my face as she wound up, and the smile erupted into full blown laughter as she started flapping her arms and making cooing bird noises at me.

She scowled and I raised my hands apologetically.  "A bird, right?" I asked.  "You saw a a bird in the see-el blue?"

She nodded her head.  "Votre Francais est horrible, mais..." she paused.  "Yes, a bird in bleu sky."

I smiled, and nodded my head, pointing up to the sky.  She turned to follow my finger, staring up into the bright, blue summer sky.  Once she was facing the opposite way, I commented in the most casual manner I could,  "Vous avez vue un grand oiseau blanc dans les ciels bleus toute là-bas," I pointed out.  "You saw a big white bird in the blue sky over there?"

She spun quickly on her heels and I knew better than to wait around.  I could hear the laughter of our friends echoing in the distance as I sprinted off along the boardwalk.  Ahead to my right, I could see a large white bird circling in the clear, blue skies, and I would have paused to watch its lazy drift, but I could hear small, angry footsteps hot on my heels.

Story-A-Day #417: Seeker

SEEKER
They told me it was a fool's errand, a wasteful pursuit of the unattainable.  I told 'em they were probably right; and then I told 'em I didn't care a lick either way.  That's always been a part of my nature.  Some'd call it a surly disposition, others'd just say I carry a stubborn streak a mile wide.  I just call it what it is: bein' me.

I never had no pursuits on bein' different.  I always been just this one person.  I always been what I reckon is a type o' person best sorted as a seeker.  Thing is though, I ain't never been all that certain 'bout what it is I been seekin'.

I reckon my way with words might paint me as an uneducated man, but truth told, I'm well aversed in the ways of language and sciences.  You gotta be to be doin' what I do.  Mostly within the pursuits of science...  Or at least in the rules of science.  I'm a seeker, and I still be seeking what it is I search.

That makes no sense to many, and I don't even know you; thing is, it's always been the same with me.  We as a people ain't got no clue what it is we looking for.  I ain't never felt bad 'bout been a little "without purpose" because it sends a wee bit of adventure into the boredom of the search.

Ain't always an easy thing to seek out the unknown, but I am a purest, and the purest pursuit is always that of the unknown and undiscovered.

Truth be told, I mostly put on a facade to help get rid of unwanted questions.  I am a highly educated individual, but in  the wilds, with my big, rusty excavator, it's a far simpler process to plead ignorance and put on an official front of stupid simplicity, than it is to try to explain that which has no clear explanation.

I apologize for the subterfuge.  It was not my intent to mislead you today...

The thing is, you seem to have a pretty good head on your shoulders, so let me turn the tables.  What is it that you are seeking?  Not an easy question, because we all have different things we seek, and at the end of the day, you - just like me, might not really know what you are looking for.

Where I have a slight edge though, is in my machine.  It may very well be a rusted hulk to you, but to me, it is a tool to facilitate my search.  Think about what it is you seek, because we all seek something.

Some seek comfort, or true love, or financial security.  Some seek solace, redemption, spiritual peace.  Some seek a quick fix in a dark alley, or a moment of seedy sexual gratification.

It doesn't matter whether you strive for Olympic gold, or acknowledgement for the simple things you do on a daily basis: we are all seekers.

You see now why I put on a front; why I paint myself as a simpleton seeking.  You see now why what I seek is better left a mystery.  I seek many things in life, and in this particular bog, I seek the unknown.  Maybe I will find the ancient remains of some long expired species.  Or oil.  Or gold...

Maybe all I will find is peat moss.  Layer upon layer of peat moss.  That would still be a sufficient treasure for its burning potential alone.  The best part of seeking is not the search, but the eventual find and I am quite content knowing my goal has yet to be discovered.

The quest of this simpleton is a simple one that revolves around the hunt, but my quest gives me an advantage.  You know what it is you seek, and for most of us, that is a daunting prospect because we don't know where to find it.

I'm a seeker.  I been digging up a swamp to find unknown riches or resources.  You been digging up the past all along hopin' that you gonna find that which you ain't yet defined.  With that, I wish ya luck... 

A Thousand Words...

MAKING A COFFEE TABLE BOOK

It seems like just the other year, mostly because it was, that I decided to start a little project I fondly (and quite ambitiously) referred to as my Story-A-Day project.  What some of you may not realize was that I only ever intended for that project to last for a year, at which point I would turn to you, the reader, to vote for the best stories produced.

My goal from there was to take the top stories, and turn them into a coffee table book called A Thousand Words.  It was, and is still, my vision that the top voted for stories would be expanded into exactly 1,000 word versions of their initial blog version and printed next to their accompanying photo.

I am still working out the printing logistics and fees to bring this from the dream realm into reality, but I have tackled my first requested short story and expanded it to exactly 1,000 words (title excluded).

The original story was feature way back at 300 and was called Totem.  It was, in its original draft, 282 words, and yet, even in its expanded version, it maintains the same tones and them - only expanded upon and improved.

I think this is a good example of how this project could succeed, but I don't want to spoil anything by giving you the revised 1,000 word version.  I think that if this is something you might be interested in backing, you should tell me which stories most struck home with you a reader, and we can go from there.

Please, read through the copious amount of stories there and let me know which you prefer on Facebook, or by email at mikebhumble@gmail.com

Thanks for reading, and hope to hear from you soon...

Story-A-Day #416: The Old Crooked House

THE OLD CROOKED HOUSE

When I was growing up in my old neighborhood, there was a house we always avoided.  It is not uncommon to hear this from people, but this house was one that no one went near.  Not even on a dare, or a double dare, or a triple dog dare.  It was just something that none of the kids in the neighbourhood would do.

The house existed in the shadows of the escarpment, a darkly shaded monstrosity that was all crooked angles and ominous groans.  Walking past it, you could often hear strange noises drifting from the creaking, hulking mass of the old crooked house.  We would hear groans sometimes, almost like it was sagging into itself.  Other times, there would be a soft, low, whistling that drifted out toward the street almost daring us to venture forth.

We never would though.

There were stories about that house, dark and evil stories filled with blood, torture, torment, and despair.  Even with the wanton recklessness of youth on our side, we knew better than to tempt the fates.

In our adolescent years, we grew a little bolder, but our brazenness was limited to sipping home brew beers stolen from our parent's cellars and staring in at the old crooked house from the pool of light cast down by the streetlight above.

We would talk about sneaking through the shadowy yard and knocking on the door.  We would talk about standing there and waiting for someone to answer the door.  Inevitably at that point, the conversation would turn to who would answer the door.

Sometimes we would hypothesize a dark, demonic force; other times a radiant half-naked succubus who would drag us into her lair and have her way with our nubile teen aged bodies.

But it was all a farce.  The closest we came to that house was the stones we kicked in its direction.

The fact that I had never summoned the courage to approach the house always loomed over me, even after I moved to the big city for my big job.  Even after I fell in love with my big love and we started our big family.  All those big accomplishments only served to reinforce the fact that I had never been big enough to knock on that door.

One summer, I drove back home with my family packed in our big minivan.  I had made up my mind to go and knock on that door.  With age and maturity on my side this time, I now imagined an elderly gentleman answering the door and greeting me with a smile that told me how happy he was to finally have someone stop by for a visit.

I excused myself after dinner, claiming a need for fresh air, and slowly wandered down those familiar old streets towards the old crooked home.  When I finally arrived there, I was greeted by a vacant lot filled with scraggly grass and charred tree stumps.

The house had burned down two summers before under mysterious circumstances.  I would not have my moment.

As I slowly turned to head back home, a soft groan drifted out from the lot.

It was enough to put a little extra pep into my step.

Story-A-Day #415: A New Year

A NEW YEAR

This is typically a time for revelations and resolutions, a time where we reflect back upon the year just passed and celebrate our successes and mourn our losses. It is a time where we look to the present and opt for change; for betterment.

It is typically a time to get drunk and ring in the new year, but sometimes it is just as well suited for quiet moments in; time spent peacefully reminiscing with family and loved ones.

Don't just think of the past year; think further back to some of the moments that got you to the place you are today. Think of the choices you made and the paths you took to get to the place you are tonight.

We have all experienced ups and downs on our journeys through life. We have loved and we have lost. We have experienced unbridled passion, and unparalleled heart break. We have been to weddings and to funerals to celebrate both new beginnings and sorrowful ends.

We have families: parents, children, brothers and sisters. We might no longer be the same people we were back then, but our essence, our place in the hierarchy of family is the same.

We grow, we learn, we change and evolve. We try to do it for the better, rather than devolving into lesser versions of who we hope to become.

Tonight brings a new year, which is not to say that it merits change. Maybe the only real change we need is to commit more time to being with those closest to us. Maybe all we need, is to commit to pursuing our dreams, chasing those things that will bring us the right amount of stories and success to have something to say in one year's when your family asks what is it that you are happy for this year?

This year, I am happy for my family and friends. I am happy to be where I am in life, knowing that where I am will facilitate what I will become.

That is a good thing, a great thing even. I am happy...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone. Please excuse auto corrected errors!

Story-A-Day #414: Frost Giants

FROST GIANTS

The reports were vague at best, most of them revolving around strange occurrences throughout the city.  There was no real evidence that something mysterious was happening, but there was no denying that weird things were happening.

It started with a power outage due to a downed line.  Eyewitnesses at the scene reported a strong and offensive aroma that lingered heavily in the air, almost like burnt hair.  That was the catalyst for what was to come.

There were other power outages, other downed lines, but there was also a rash of damaged property throughout the city.  Cars were found with their roofs caved in, garbage dumpsters crushed like tin cans.  Tree were found cracked in two, large sturdy maples.  It could be expected during fierce wind or thunder storms, but it was an anomaly on calm summer nights.

The media had been chalking the occurrences up to teenage vandals.  They even justified the crushed garbage dumpsters up to hit and run scenarios, drunken teens losing control of their joyrides.  Only thing is, there were never any reports of stolen vehicles or smashed cars being brought into local garages.

Like most people, I assumed that the media was probably telling a variation of the truth at least.  They only had certain privileges after all so it was quite likely that they would be developing their own theories and conjectures and expanding upon those.  Knowledge is power and if the police had no leads, then obviously that was not something they would want to communicate to the public at large.  I was sure that they were just as baffled by the occurrences as everyone.

Hell, I was baffled until one day I discovered a strange...something in the snow.  It looked like a footprint, a very large footprint.  I wore size twelve boots and this particular print looked to be about twice as long as my own.  It dawned on me then that there might be more to these occurrences than any of us had imagined.

It dawned on me that our little town might have a problem bigger than any of us had imagined.  A giant problem, at that.

Story-A-Day #413: Tramping

TRAMPING

Days like this come out of nowhere sometimes.  When he left for work, it was a cool, sunny day; one that seemed with of promise and potential.  It seemed like all would end as it began.  By the time he stepped out for lunch, the skies had turned grey, and fat, heavy clumps of snow swirled to the ground.

He ducked around the corner and into the bistro where he found himself chowing back on his bagel and soup with a little more urgency than usual.  He took the coffee to go, and scurried back to his office through the strengthening blizzard.

Three inches had fallen within the first hour, and it didn't look like it would be letting up any time soon.  When he got back to his desk, and shrugged out of his mid-length pea coat, he logged back into his computer terminal.  The weather website was calling for at least a foot of snow.  Not good at all.

He tried to get back to the report he had been working on all morning, but he found himself distracted by the swirling white outside.  When he glanced out his office window, he couldn't even see the building across the street through the swirling eye of the blizzard.

His eyes drifted up to the ticking wall clock above his desk for the third time that hour and he cringed.  It would be a long wait until the end of his shift, and an even longer trip home if this weather kept up.  He buckled on and focused on the report.

His shift finally ended and he made the slow inevitable moves towards heading home.  He pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and slowly made his way out towards the lobby.  Bracing himself, he stepped out into the blizzard and started the long walk home, tramping through two and three foot snow drifts and feeling exhausted after the first ten minutes.

He stopped to help four cars out of the drifts they had been captured in within the first twenty minutes and then succumbed to the inevitable neon glow.

He stepped into the pub and ordered a pound of chicken wings and a pint of Guinness.  He needed a time out and a little strength before he continued home.  On a day like today, it just made sense.

Story-A-Day #412: The Follower

THE FOLLOWER

I don't mind that you follow me through the night.  You actually make me feel a little more safe than I would otherwise, without you watching over me.  Sometimes I can feel you all around me, but usually I just catch a glimpse of you reflected in a passing window, a sheet of ice, or even the large mirror in my bedroom.

On some nights, it is just your smile, a small crescent that peers out at me through the night.  I catch a glimpse of it smiling at me from the window of the pub, or the convenience store where I stop for coffee on the way home.

At other times, I see your full pale face beaming at me from behind the treeline, a warm and welcoming presence in the night.  Knowing that you are there almost lights my way home.  At the very least, it provides me with a sense of security when I see a group of rowdy drunks approaching up the sidewalk.

Even when I am at home, safe in the comfort of my own sanctuary, I don't find it creepy or comfortable knowing that you are out there, waiting.  Sometimes I will even leave the curtains parted so I can watch your face slowly drifting across the school playground across the street.

I like knowing that you are out there.  I like knowing that you are watching over me, that you are out there in the night making sure that I am safe.

I like knowing that you will be there for me in my darkest hour ensuring that my way home is illuminated.  You are great that way.

Story-A-Day #411: White Mist

WHITE MIST

It seemed like a short cut.  On most days it would have been, a quick cut through the parking lot.  It was clear now though, that on a night like today, there were no short cuts.  Just longer diversions through the same familiar territory.

With each new step forward, I felt a little more trapped by the last step I had taken.  The world had become encompassed in a white mist; a particular kind of winter storm that results in pure white out conditions.  I didn't see this one coming, and now I had a long hike ahead of me through the white mists of this sudden, aggressive winter blizzard.

I popped my collar, pulled down my toque, and cursed the fact that I was a smoker.  My right hand was frozen solid into an icy claw.

It burned with the cold...

I stumbled forward through the cold and squinted my eyes into the cold blast of winter.  I had places to be, and nothing would stop me from getting there.  I pictured her warm smile greeting me upon my arrival, and to be honest, it was almost enough to get me through on that fact alone.

I stumbled through the tire-rutted, snow-filled parking lot, and onwards.  At the rate I was traveling, I would be there within the hour.

The wing whipped around me, sucking the heat from within my core by the few exposed bits of flesh that the conditions were able to carress.

I could hear a howling behind me; most likely the wind picking up again.  This howling kept growing closer though, until eventually it was upon me.  I didn't even realize it wasn't the wind until I was suddenly hammered face-down into the parking lot from behind.

I floundered for a moment, then realized it was hopeless.  I had been bested in the white mist.

Story-A-Day #410: Boxing Feint

BOXING FEINT

December 26th is supposed to be the day where you bid farewell to Christmas, call an end to the over-decoration of every surface of your home and property, and yet, this year, I want this day to last forever.  Just because it's Boxing Day doesn't mean we have to pack this all up.

I don't want to take down the lights outside.  I want to give them a chance to glow again and light up the night with their incadescent splendor.  I don't want to tear down the tree and throw it to the curb, or pack up all the decorations and pretend that none of this ever happened.

I definitely don't want to deny the miracle of the season...

There was no real miracle that occurred, not in the biblical sense at least.  But that doesn't mean a miracle didn't happen.  That doesn't mean we should be so ready to pack up the season and head to the mall for great deals.

To me, the real miracle of this time of year is that I was able to spend relaxed time with my family and friends and not have to worry about the crushing oppression of oncoming work obligations.  It is the first time in a long time where I feel like I can safely relax and not worry about all the things I typically do on a day-to-day basis.

This is not the day I choose to spend packing up the holidays.

This is not the day I choose to sort through my gifts and find homes for them all.

This is most definitely not the day that I choose to head out to the mall and face the hordes of people who are not already happy with what they have received.

Today is a day where I decide to extend all that is important by one more day at least, to enjoy the time I have been allotted and to spend it wisely.  I choose to spend today relaxing and enjoying this moment in time; with my family, my friends, maybe just a good book or a movie.

Consider this my feint, my dodge.  Consider this my piacular moment for all the time throughout the rest of the year where I have only focussed on my work.

Consider this my miracle day...