“Starting where Fred went out to pick up drinks, and George went with him?”

“Yes, if you would. That was two days ago, on the 20th.”

“Right. So Fred and George were heading down road 68, and they were having a bit of a disagreement.”

“Well, they were having more than a disagreement.”

“What’s that?”

“You told me they were having more than just a disagreement.”

“Right.”

“It wasn’t just that they disagreed–it was more than that.”

“Right. Whatever that means. So as they were going down the road, they were having a bit more than a disagreement. That make you happier?”

“No, I’d be happier if they were only having a disagreement, but you said that they were yelling and threatening each other.”

“Right. So in the middle of this ‘more than a disagreement’ Fred slams on his breaks because there’s something in the road, and, you know, he didn’t see it ’cause of his disagreement and more thingy.”

“And they ran into it.”

“And they ran into it, yeah. Thing is, they didn’t know what it was. They didn’t hit it too hard, but they couldn’t see it, you know, under the bumper and all. So they get out and go to take a look, and there’s nothing there.”

“But they definitely saw something.”

“Oh yeah. And they felt it kind of bump like, when they ran into it.”

“So they went searching for it under the car and behind, and on the sides of the road.”

“Right. What am I doing talking into this thing if you’ve got the whole thing down already?”

“Well, I’m recording your story, as you told it to me before.”

“So what do you need me for? Seems like you remember more than I reckon I told you.”

“No, no. I’m only trying to make sure you don’t leave anything out. I need to have the actual record of your testimony in this matter, and recording it is the easiest way.”

“Right.”

“If you really prefer, I can take your statement written out, with your signature to attest to it.”

“That’s all that happened. I already gave you what happened in this recording thing, unless you have more to put in.”

“Well, what happened after that?”

“After they didn’t find anything?”

“Yes, after they searched around.”

“They got back in the car and went to the store, like they were doing before.”

“And they didn’t see the thing again?”

“No, never seen it after that.”

“And were they arguing after they got into the car again?”

“No, they plumb forgot what they were arguing about. Couldn’t tell me when they got back. But apparently they had been pretty riled up about it before.”

“And was there a dent on the car, or any evidence that they had run into something?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Fred swore that the bumper bowed in the middle more than it used to, but I didn’t see nothing. They’ve tapped it into a few things already, so I don’t think they could tell one way or another where it came from anyhow.”

“Thank you, Frank. And just to conclude, you would certify that everything that we just said is true to your memory of what happened, as it was related to you by Fred and George when they go back?”

“Certify?”

“Well, just that everything we discussed was the truth–the way it really was.”

“Sure. I mean, it’s not like I can ask them again, since they went missing right after that, but I reckon that’s all I know about it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re not going to ask me about them disappearing like that? One moment there talking to me, and the next moment gone?”

“No, that’s a job for Chief O’Connor and Missing Persons. I’m just looking into the anomaly they bumped into that day.”

“The officer don’t think I’m just making up the whole part about them coming back and telling me this thing about running into something?”

“I’ve got 27 separate accounts of people reporting vanishing lights on the road or the field, and several that report that it knocked over crops or made tracks before it disappeared. Many of those witnesses disappeared abruptly, for known or unknown reasons. Either there’s something going on here, or there’s a lot of copy cats making up stories. Right now I’m just gathering up as much evidence as I can.”

“So you do think I’m making it all up.”

“No, I don’t think anything right now. You seem convinced enough to me, but I’ve still got more leads to track down before I can draw any conclusions. I appreciate your time.”

“Huh. Time is all I got now, seems, since we had to close the shop, and the cops won’t let me go nowhere.”

“Well, thank you.”

        

She paused and looked up for the sparest of moments, and then scanned her paper again, licking her lips as she found where she had left off.

Bryan looked at his own paper, in front of him on the desk, as she continued. It was marked with an A, of course. Technically, he knew it was very good. Every word and phrase weighed for meaning and place. Every mark of punctuation double checked. Every paragraph harmonized to the contours of his message, the flow of ideas and patterns. He always got the A in English class.

But these words of hers hung in the air like warm notes of light. This was something entirely different. Something so far beyond his field of expression that he could only listen in wonder.

“…the worth of one, I see, is small, so many others light the way, and borrowed brilliance deals so dimly in the subtle sight of day. By darkness, maybe lost, my strength to shine is tapped and spent, I falter at the cost of worthlessness, this broken soul of mine.”

Dr. Walsh had returned to her desk, but the professor was smiling, watching her student in front of the class, watching the class to gauge the impact of the student’s paper. The side of her chin rested on the back of her fist, propped by her elbow, and she seemed to nod at the rhythm and shape of the sentences being read.

“..so forth to finish, small and strong, with might unmustered yet, unmastered, yet I’ll raise my song to raise the next a little more. With all the growth I get I’ll give the light that lifted me, and finally be the one who came before.”

She stopped and looked up, tentatively, hiding behind her paper. The room was still.

“Thank you, Leslie.” The professor’s words got her started, and Leslie moved quickly to her desk in the second row.

Leslie. He needed to meet Leslie.

Dr. Walsh pointed out some of the rhythmic, alliterative, and ideological patterns that strengthened Leslie’s piece. It had been a freeform assignment, the first of the term, to introduce ourselves to our Freshman English Professor. Dr. Walsh was clearly taken with the piece. So was Bryan.

It was the top of the hour and class was soon dismissed. Bryan took his time gathering his stuff while trying to listen to the discussion Leslie and the professor were having two desks away.

“I’m sorry to embarrass you that way, calling you up. I hope you didn’t mind too much…”

Brian hoisted his backpack up onto one shoulder and then hovered nearby as their discussion turned from Leslie’s paper to the class syllabus and future assignments.

“All right, well, I’ll see you both next week.” The professor nodded to Bryan–they had spoken at length after the previous class–and turned back to getting her own things together.

They each said, “Bye,” and Leslie started to turn toward the door.

“Could I, uh, could I get a copy of your paper?” Bryan’s face was hot.

“My paper?”

“Yeah. It was…it was really good.”

“Are you sure? I mean it was only a draft, it’s not really…”

“No, it was great. I want to read it again, to understand it better.”

“Well, I guess. Sure.”

“Thanks.” They both went out the door and headed down the short hallway to the outside. “I’m Bryan, by the way.”

        

“I say this for you, because I like you. You are a good man. You say what you think and I like this because you know we are a practical people. We say what we mean and do what we have to.

“But still, we deal with others, and we do performance. You pull out a gun, yes, and you are ready to use it, yes? But you won’t, probably, no. You show your piece maybe how many times a week? And how many times do you actually use it? Not so many, right?

“Now this is the thing, showing it is performance. We show them what we mean by this. When you bring them here, it is performance, too. Here, in our home, we must do performance for them.

“So you come with your gun, and this is good, and this shows we are serious, which is good, because we are. And then I tell you to put it away. And this is performance, too. I say “No need for that,” but you know that you can pull it back out if you need.

“This makes people happy. This tells them we are on their side. We are on their side if they listen to us, if they do what we say. If I don’t say it, they think we’re both against them. You have a gun. I tell you to use it sometimes. They think we’re both against them.

“I tell you to put it away, and they see we’re on their side. Nothing changes, really. But is performance. We make a space, here, and they feel safer, and they talk, and maybe they do what we want. And maybe they see that we’re on their side if they talk a bit more.

“So I tell you put away, and you put away, and this is not against you. You are family, and you do right. Performance is not for you. Is for him. Yes?

“And we are here, too, in performance. Now he stands out there, and he thinks about things, and he sees how it is. We leave for a time and he thinks that maybe he should make choices. Important choices about how he leaves here.

We go back now and see what he chooses.”

        

“Which way?” I demanded, so softly, so proud. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t be loud.

“Honk,” the geese honked, and they squawked and they played in the water–they honked to me, standing unmade. I bent and I picked up a small, colored rock, and I skipped it along the shore, into the flock.

On she went, farther away from me still, as she had for the last several months past until she had now, I suppose, had enough of my face, of my voice by her side and my life in her space.

With the sun down now twilight was coming on soon, so I hurried on after her into the gloom of the trees on the hillside which climbed from the shore, and I called to her, “Wait!” but she waited no more.

At the top I just saw her climb onto her bike. With her helmet on, jacket zipped, mounted catlike, she had started the Harley and tickled the throttle before I could reach her and beg her to stop. Then a backhanded wave as she rode off in style, though I’m sure I saw briefly a little sad smile–

And that’s all that I know of my Susy McGee, who outgrew her father at age 17. Just a wave and a smile it had been back then too, as she boarded the bus to her college debut. Now I sat where I stood, in the damp unkempt grass, and I looked at the road as through old, wavy glass.

I knew little of where she had been for six years, when she showed up one evening, her cheeks stained with tears. Now the summer has passed and I know little more, though perhaps now she went with her spirit restored. And maybe she’ll write, but most likely she won’t, and I’ll wonder and pray that life’s tragedies don’t cloud her judgment and keep her from spreading life’s joy, for to live is to rise above all that destroy.

It is time to let go in the night as before, while my little one seeks her own future once more. On the scorecard of parenthood all is obscured; both the past and the future remain unassured. And yet still, in the dark, I can see my porch light, leading home for a family lost in the night, and I know that she knows, when all hopes have an end, there’s a father who loves her, forever. Amen.

        

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a birthday surprise if I called him up, would it?” James Arnet, Arnie to his friends, kicked a small branch out of the path of the cart, even though the over-sized tires would hardly have had a problem with it. He was a wirey man, like a watch spring forever in motion and strung with potential energy. The collar of his maroon polo was crumpled, creased down too short and folded back. His jeans were a bit too short, too, revealing black socks above his white sneakers. As it happened, they matched today.

“You could just as well have surprised him with your lab equipment if he knew you were coming.”

“Come off, now! You know better. Sharp as a tack, that man is. Sharp as a tack! He’d know I was bringing something as soon as I opened my mouth to say I was coming, and before I was off the phone he’d know all about the spectroscope without me ever saying a word no wise about it.” He was at the back of the cart now, leaning over to peer into the rear camera as if there were something to see in its dark lens.

“He might not even be there, you know. He could be off on one of his collecting excursions or even in town for a change.”

“Bah! He’ll be there or he won’t. The missus is right sweet and she’ll take care of us and his surprise.”

“Or perhaps she’ll be gone with her husband. Then you–”

“Then I’ll just have to set to it in the clean room myself!” He had already passed the cart up, walking some distance in front as if leading it.

“Arnie! You will do nothing of the sort. That is his work in there and you have no right to tamper with it!”

“Calm yourself, my dear. I’m not going to touch any of his work. With experiments such as his, I’d scarce know where to begin. And what with the guardianship keeping watch…” He stopped and frowned. “I just want to get this put into place and set up properly. Tuning and calibration could take days in a place like this and I’m not going to leave it in the dirt someplace anyhow.”

“Hmm.”

He sidestepped to let the cart pass between them. “‘Tis true, true blue. I helped him set up that chemistry set he uses for analysis, and the sequencer and even the satellite linkup, you know.”

“Which you never bother to use.”

“Oh, dear me. I fear I lost this argument in the second round and have yet to catch up.”

Lady Arnet glared at him as she continued walking alongside the cart, one hand lightly resting on the front corner. He looked straight ahead, with his favorite innocent, “who-me?” look.

Thus it was that they broke the treeline in the first silence of their hike.

        

But really, what could be easier than introducing a likable character and presenting an endearing detail, a tender moment, making your reader vulnerable just long enough to mercilessly slam your character into the pavement and grind his face on it? Who can resist the death of a child? The ultimate rejection of a character we identified with? The grand tragedy of human suffering, leading to meaningless death?

I’ve written my share of sadness in this world, and will probably pen a good deal more before I run out of stories and record keeping. Eventually, though, even the most obstinate of us have to graduate out of teenager-hood into the great world of responsibility, and then we have to ask “Why?”. No, not why the sadness in the world, though I’ll get to that in a moment. I mean, why am I writing at all?*

Sure it’s fun to toy with people’s emotions and bend their understanding of reality to my own version of history and events. But it really doesn’t take a mid-life crisis to get us thinking about purpose and intent.

Frankly, I want to have an impact on other people. Life seems rather pointless if you don’t make any difference doesn’t it? And if you’re making a difference, it seems that making a positive difference would be the way to go, right?

So, somehow, I’ve found that I’m not happy with my writing anymore unless I can forge good from my endless drivel. Suddenly there is the real danger of ascending from the contented darkness of happily achieved sadness to the despairing heights of unfound joy and ineffectual motivation.

Until you realize that my teenage revelation is a lie. Everywhere you see sadness, there you will find joy behind it. We knock down our characters so that we can cheer when they get back up. The fragility of life reminds of its inexpressible value, the incredible gift that none of us have done anything to deserve, but get to enjoy anyway, briefly or at great length.

Rejection brings meaning to acceptance; the chance of failure is the only thing that can possibly bring meaning to success. Suffering is required in equal amounts to our joy. Ultimately there is renewal, and life goes on, in all of its awesome grandeur.

So I take up my challenge to write the next chapter. The happiness that can grow out of sadness and hardship. The triumph that follows defeat. The renewal which inexorably follows collapse.

Even that hopeless teenager I mentioned before managed to find some wonderful friends, marry the woman of his dreams, and raise four beautiful children. Sure,  he’s still funny looking and his voice leaves something to be desired. With miracles and joy, I can truly say that he is happy.

If I can do it, anyone can. And they do, every day, in their own spectacular, quiet ways. That’s who I want to write about.

___
* Okay, I have to admit that I know why I’m writing. I write because I can’t stop the words from flowing out onto the page, the computer, the napkin I meant to use for lunch. I can no more refuse to write than I can take a vow of silence and never speak again. Some people can’t seem to speak without moving their hands about. Mine, like many others’, just seem to prefer a pencil or keyboard.

        

From time to time I attempt to track them all down. When, in the course of getting things done, I fill up a steno notepad, I flip through it page by page, typing up anything that seems like it might be potentially useful. Deconstructing the heap on my desk always results in a motley pile of mismatched paper products, from which I seem to be less successful in gleaning–perhaps because I mistakenly assign them more permanence than the notebooks that I’m about to entomb in neat paper boxes, somewhere in the garage.

Mining the creative pieces out of old computer system backups, however, seems to be the least dependable of my content collation routines.  Everything I’ve written in the last ten years is saved…somewhere.  I think.  If I could just find a SCSI-1 interface with a Centronix port to hook up my old SPARC drive.

Even when I know where information is stored it doesn’t necessarily do me much good.  I just purchased a 2TB drive for the purpose of short-term backup in my house.  That’s 2,000,000,000,000 characters of storage.  At this point the total data storage in my house is approaching the storage requirements of the Library of Congress (itself a unit of storage capacity).  I spend far too much time down in the stacks of my own personal research library.

So, for anyone who writes on a regular basis, how do you keep track of it all?

        

Sometimes it is like building a nest.  The pieces come from many places and are of various materials, woven into the written structure so each one depends on the next.  The developing form is built from experience and observation, but the shape is an independent creation; anecdote feeds analogies, and these service explanation and elucidation, but the integrated whole, while sustained by its members, resembles none of them.

Whether the piece I am working on is a research paper, essay, or creative fiction, I seem to require at least as much time on this particular step as on the actual writing itself.  No amount of later organization or revision can make up for lost time in pondering what I am writing, because the substance itself is weaker.

With all of the demands on my time, it is often the demands on my consideration which wreak the most havoc on my tortured writing.  While I can set aside a place and time to write–perhaps even escape the chaos of home and the clammer of work to set words on paper, if I have not expended the time and effort in thought then the product is shallow and leads no where that I care to go.

Chaos and clammer, though, are excellent materials for nest building.  With a bit more space and time for digestion, it could yet produce something interesting.  In the way of “hey, check that out,” rather than “ugh, what did I step in,” I hope.

        

Joy.

These are what life is all about.  We struggle with hundreds of important issues each day.  We win some, lose a few more, call it a draw and work on it tomorrow.  But really, peace and joy are what we’re after–they are the yardstick by which we measure our satisfaction with the world and ourselves.

Our success, building on this, depends on the degree to which we bring peace and joy to ourselves…and others.  As human beings we have a capacity for altruism which informs our own sense of self.  In helping or harming we help or harm ourselves.  Ultimately, as social beings, we rise and fall together, mutually building up or tearing ourselves down.

Our peace and joy must be built; we cannot rise while tearing down.

Physicians have an oath: to do no harm.  Unfortunately this is too broad for us, because in this world there are many who have mistaken what will bring them peace and joy, and they seek satisfaction from tearing down.  From these we require defense, and defense can bring harm to an attacker.  Sometimes patterns of anger and hate are so strong that much force must be exerted to remove them.  There is no glory in this, and no joy will come of it until we are once again able to lift each other.  Forever our joy is tempered by sorrow for those who reject it.

The world is wide, the variety endless.  The internet is overwhelmed by words, such that my few contributions seem almost meaningless in the vast torrent.  Perhaps, though, you, gentle reader, will find something to help you in your own building, for who knows the potential of a few gentle words?