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New Toys

A few weeks ago, I got my first smart phone. This week is proving to be great fun as I adapt to the new piece of technology in my hand.

I have sought out some of the most useful applications for my phone, one of the foremost among them for me being a WordPress app. I’m using it right now, actually. That’s right. I can blog right from my phone.

I have already been working on several more stories for sending out to various publications, and now I can manage that on the go as well, thanks to dropbox. Any stories I have in progress can now be modified on the go, via cloud storage.

I have downloaded a pair of mobile reading apps, one from Kobo, since I started an account through them back when I worked at Borders, and the other from my current employer, PPLD. Now I have mobile electronic reading, so I don’t have to bother with the old eReader debate. I will still focus my reading on paper books, as I have already said time and time again. In my new position with PPLD, though, it’s going to be very much to my benefit to have a more thorough understanding of the services we have available.

The final critical app I have found (all free, by the way) is a QR code reader. This lets me scan and create quick read bar codes from my phone, letting me quickly jump directly from my scanner to a url wherever I am. It’s fun and convenient.

Anyway, I know that I still have a lot of reading and writing to do, and I hear thunder in the distance too. I should wrap it up for the night.

Zombie Apocalypse (aka Bandwagon Day)

I woke up a few days ago and I found this in my twitter feed. Now I like good zombie fiction as much as anybody else (and probably a hell of a lot more than some of you), but the topic is one that I’d tried to avoid mainly due to the over-saturation of modern popular culture. Well, that and I’ve worked in retail over Christmas, so I’m pretty certain I’ve already had some first-hand experience with fending off zombies. NO! BACK! YOU CAN’T HAVE MY BRAIN! HAVE THIS DELICIOUS HOMELESS MAN WHO HAS BEEN CAMPED IN FRONT OF THE STORE ALL WINTER INSTEAD!

The zombie craze has been going strong for several years now, and I am pleased to say that I think the vampire sex fantasies are dying off slowly, as exposure to light generally shows how stupid that concept is. (Disclaimer: I have read the Twilight books, and once I was done, I found myself wondering if I hadn’t briefly been turned into a zombie… I got better once someone handed me a copy of A Game of Thrones, and I am fully convinced that this is a legitimate cure. If nothing else, you can use the hardcover editions for bludgeoning weapons and a layer of the paperbacks as a sort of lightweight but still nearly bulletproof armor. Thank you for saving me, George.) Not that vampire stuff can’t be done well. Bram Stoker’s Dracula give me chills, three readings later, and Anne Rice had a great thing going with her earlier work. Or there’s always the Sookie Stackhouse books. You might know them as those stories that Stephanie Meyer completely ripped off when she wrote Twilight, or like A Game of Thrones, you might know of the story from the sexy HBO adaptation (I’m still waiting for the HBO version of my own life to kick in).

This isn’t to say that the zombie fiction isn’t just as ridiculous as the vampire fiction. Far from it. However, it is technically a little more plausible, especially given recent events. People are even catering to the zombie apocalypse with “anti-zombie” ammunition, bladed and blunt weapons, and fortresses. Zombies are in our video games, our movies, our books, and even our news articles. Combine pop culture’s love of this kind of shit with the fact that some people are legitimately convinced that the world’s going to end because a calendar carved in stone around 2600 years ago is running out of room (oh, hey, look, my calendar printed on paper is going to end this year too, I wonder if that means that the world really WILL end…) and people start to get a little twitchy. I must admit, though, that I am curious as to how a civilization that has supposedly predicted the end of the world couldn’t have foretold their inevitable downfall… I mean, it’s not like anyone who’s ever predicted the end of the world has ever been wrong. Wait, what? You mean they’ve ALL been wrong? Oh man, I need to rethink my strategy… But I digress. In all seriousness, the zombie apocalypse could be a lot of fun. There are some great depictions of it. I just can’t help thinking that any disease or thing like that might likely just kill everyone rather than creating living dead. You can blame my recent reading of Margaret Atwood for this.

Anyway, I should get some sleep. Zombies are making me sleepy. What’s that sitting beside me, you ask? Nothing, nothing, just a little shotgun in the event that you start moaning and craving brains in the near future. Can’t be too careful.

The Door

The door was locked. It had been for as long as I could remember, and it would probably remain so until the day that I died. Maybe even longer than that. It wasn’t that I couldn’t unlock the door to find out what she had hidden away so carefully. It was that I made a promise.

The door stood at the far end of the hallway from the room where I slept. I didn’t sleep in my bedroom anymore at that point. It seemed futile to try to fall asleep in that bed after she was gone. No, the room where I now slept, where I had been sleeping for nearly ten years now, was my study. The overstuffed recliner next to the fireplace served as a better bed for me, and I had lost count of how many times I had nodded off while a fire roared to counter the howling wind and snow outside of my windows.

The door led to a room that had been intended as a nursery, but the children had never come. One day she had gone into the room, and stayed there for several hours. When she came out, her face was pale, but filled with grim accomplishment. She locked the door then, and made me swear to never open it again. She threw the key into the fire that night, and we sat together in the recliner and watched as it melted away.

For a time, we were happy again, and we ignored the door at the far end of the hallway next to the bedroom, when the bed was still shared and we didn’t need the fire to stay warm. The door stayed locked, and I never asked her the reason. We trusted each other with every secret but this one, and it eventually drove us apart.

I don’t remember exactly what happened on the day (or night, I can’t seem to recall the hour) when she left. I don’t know where she went, but I know why. The locked door seemed to torment her more than me, a reminder of the life that she couldn’t carry. I want to say that I plead with her that night, got down on my knees and begged her to tell me what was eating away at her, what this secret was, but I don’t know. I may have, instead, filled my heart with courage from an increasingly empty bottle and told her that if she couldn’t live with herself then she couldn’t live with me, and that she needed to get out.

I don’t remember when it was that I took every one of my books and my lamps and my blankets and my pillows from the room that had been ours and left every one of hers behind. I haven’t been back in that bedroom for years, but I’ve left it unlocked. I can’t risk doing what she did. I can’t leave the house, either. That’s not to say that I can’t go out my door to buy groceries or to find a new book, but I can’t move. I can’t pack up and find somewhere new to live. I’m held here by my promise to her. If someone else were to buy the house, they might open the locked door, and I cannot bear the thought of some stranger learning the secret that tore her away from me.

The door sits at the end of the hallway, on the second floor of my home. My kitchen is directly beneath the room, and some days I find myself staring at the ceiling in wonder. What-if’s fill my head, and I find that I lose my appetite until the next day, when another empty bottle of whiskey or rum or vodka has turned up next to my recliner and I have no memory of coming back upstairs. One morning, I woke up on the floor of the hallway next to the locked door, a screwdriver and a hammer beside me. I must have decided that I had to open the door, but I had passed out before I could put my plan into action.

It’s better that way, really. I don’t want to know what’s behind that door, or at least that’s what I tell myself. Instead I sit next to the fire, or at my desk, and I read, or I write, or I try to do one or the other and fail miserably at both because I remember how much she used to inspire me and remember that she’s gone and she’s not coming back. Occasionally a magazine calls and asks me if I can finish another story for them this month, and I tell them yes, because I still need to eat.

Once in a while, I thought about having a new key made, or having a locksmith come in and open the door, but I realized that would still be breaking my promise, and even now I am still a man of my word. I know what I’m going to do now, though. I’m not going to break my promise to her. I’m not going to unlock the door. I’m going to stoke the fire high tonight, and I’m going to leave my chair closer to it than usual. I’m going to have a drink, and I’m going to fall asleep, surrounded by my books and covered in an afghan that she made for me the winter after I proposed, one of the blankets that I took from our old bedroom after she left. I’m not going to leave a note. It wouldn’t survive anyway. I suppose that the fire will start slowly, kissing the pages of the books, blackening them and turning them to ash. It will start in the study, and make its way down the hall.

It will consume everything in its path. It’s fire, after all, and it will devour the house that was once ours and is now mine and mine alone. The hallway will offer little resistance. Likewise the bedroom we once shared and I now shun. It will burn, and the smoke alarms will attempt to wake me to save me from myself, but it will be in vain. The locked door will stand at the end of the hall, but it too will burn, and her secret will die with me.

Waldo Canyon Fire Donations

We all appreciate everyone coming together to help the evacuees from the Waldo Canyon Fire here in Colorado Springs. What’s really needed right now is more help for the remaining recovery. What can you do to help, you ask? Donate to the American Red Cross. Thank you.

Waldo Canyon Fire

My city is burning. I cannot sleep.

This is the sentiment shared by many of my fellow Colorado Springs residents. I’ll be completely honest, dear readers. I’m scared. I’ve looked disasters square in the face in the past. I used to stand at the front door of my parents house as tornadoes came dangerously close to the little town where I grew up. That never seemed to be as much of a threat as the Waldo Canyon Fire has become. 

Today at work, my coworkers and I gazed out at the mountains west of the city as the flames crested the ridge and came into view. This photo from the Colorado Springs Gazette shows an example of what we’re dealing with. 

"Firestorm of Epic Proportions" from the Colorado Springs Gazette, 6/26/12

Image source: http://www.gazette.com/articles/proportions-140896-waldo-canyon.html

 

Ash is falling. There’s an eerie orange glow on the west side of town, and it’s not a sunset. It’s 2 AM, but we have no reported injuries or fatalities as of this writing. Let’s hope that luck holds. Property can be replaced, folks, but everyone out there fighting this fire has friends and family. This is impacting all of us. If you can, see what you can do to help. Volunteer, donate, anything. Please.

Librarian

Since my physical dictionary is still in a cardboard box somewhere (ugh), I’ll have to resort to web sources for this one. Dictionary.com defines a librarian as “a person trained in library science and engaged in library service.” At this point in my life, the term does not directly apply to me. I’m a library clerk, merely a person engaged in library service. The training is still severely lacking, and there’s this piece of paper with a few words on it, like master, library, science, and my name that is still at least two years away. I’m not a librarian. Not yet. It’s a goal, though, and it’s one that I’ve grown more and more serious about in the last few years. One of my coworkers has described it as catching the “library bug” and wanting to get more involved.

My background is filled with books. My parents both read to me and my sisters while we were getting ready for bed. As I was growing up, I would frequently visit the local public library, a site that still plays into a great deal of my writing. We would have story time there, and my sisters and friends and I would always participate in the summer reading program. There was a small local bookstore owned by a couple (quite literally, as they were married at the time) of the teachers that we’d visit on occasion. When they decided that they didn’t want to run it anymore, my parents stepped in and bought it so that there would still be a bookstore in town. After that, the bookstore was my after-school hangout of choice, though I would still stop by the library on the way there. I couldn’t get enough books. I devoured everything that came into my reach.

That’s one of the few things about me that hasn’t changed as I’ve grown older. I love books, and I want to be around them whenever possible. That’s what drew me to work in libraries and bookstores. It’s why I interned for a literary agency, and it’s why I started this blog. I read because I want to read, and I write because I want to write. It’s been said that one should write the book they want to read. That’s very true. I’m going to bathe my life in ink and clothe it in parchment.

I’m going to become a librarian. There’s no doubt of that in my mind. Right now, I just need to be able to support myself and get signed up for the GRE. I’m not looking forward to the test itself, or to the couple of years of grad school that the advanced degree will require, but I am looking forward to finding a way to maintain libraries into the future. I want the world to be a safe place for readers and writers alike, and I want them to know that their work will always have some refuge. Besides, for a writer, what better day job could there be?

Renaissance Man

Sorry to have kept you all waiting so long for an update. Things have gotten a wee bit busy around here. First of all, my employment status has gone way up, so I’m not having as much time or energy for writing, and most everything as been focused on short stories rather than the blog. Anyway…

Each year, Larkspur, Colorado steps back in time and plays host to the Colorado Renaissance Festival. I’ve lived in Colorado my entire life, but it was only a few years ago that I first got the opportunity to attend. I immediately fell in love with the idea of spending a weekend wandering around what is essentially a small village. There are food vendors, musicians, merchants selling all manner of goods. Leather belts and boots and hats are available, as well as pants, shirts, dresses, and accessories of style and colour beyond counting. It really is another world once you step through those gates.

This year is the 36th Annual Colorado Renaissance Festival, and for the first time, I am a part of it. I was hired about a month ago to work at the front gate. I check bags to make sure people aren’t smuggling in contraband (alcohol and outside food, mostly), take tickets, and just generally welcome people. I’ve made it through two weekends thus far, each comprised of two ten-hour days. It’s hot, and I’m on my feet for most of the day, but I’m having fun. I’m in costume and interacting with people who are there because they like being there. I couldn’t ask for more for a summer job. My bosses at the library have been incredibly cool about it too, even shifting my work schedule around so that I wouldn’t have to find someone to trade days in order to work the Ren Fair. There’s not a lot of time to write during the day, but the experiences I’m getting are amazing.

Speaking of my library job, that’s about to change drastically. For the last year or so, I’ve been working with the circulation department at the Pikes Peak Library District. Next month, that will no longer be the case. As of mid-July, I will be leaving the circulation department, and all the wonderful ladies and gentlemen I work with. I won’t be going too far, though, only around the corner to the reference desk. I was hired to a position as an information services specialist, something that I have been striving for since I first joined PPLD. It’s going to be a nice pay raise, but more importantly, I’ll be taking the next step towards eventually earning a Masters of Library Science and becoming a librarian. I’m thrilled to be making the move, but I’m glad that I’ll be staying at the same branch, so that I won’t have to be too far separated from the people who gave me my first opportunity with the library.

5,000

I just hit 5,000 views today. Thank you all.

For Ray

Dear Mr. Bradbury,

I never had the opportunity (as some lucky individuals did) to meet you in person. I will not have the chance to shake your hand and say thank you for Fahrenheit 451 and the Martian Chronicles, and so I’m afraid that this will have to suffice. Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. I’ll never forget the worlds you showed me.

An Update

I have at least four short stories that I’ve gotten good starts to. These stories are currently sitting in a Moleskine, eagerly awaiting digitization. Most of these will not be published on here, not yet, anyway. These are the big ones, the stories that I’m going to be submitting to various publications in the hopes of getting noticed. Don’t worry, dear readers. I’m still writing some stuff that will be just for you. “Gateway Shuffle” will be coming soon, continuing my Cowboy Bebop-inspired sci-fi series. Additionally, I’m working on an update on what’s going on with Arsus and Rime as their journey across the Sand Sea continues in “The Swords of the Ancients.”