The exercise:
Write about: falling.
Spent most of my day with Max. We played in the park for a while, which mostly involved kicking his soccer ball back and forth across the field. But also included some time on the swings and slides. One of which had a rather steep ladder. Which he managed perfectly well going up.
But then he surprised me and wanted to go back down the way we came up, instead of taking the slide. He was already on the first step before I realized what was happening and I thought it was safer to tell him to hold the railing than make a grab for him.
To his credit, he was holding on to the railing when he slipped. It didn't stop him from falling the rest of the way down though. I endured a minor heart attack as I climbed down after him, but he was surprisingly okay after a fairly short cry and a big hug. Just a little bruise on his left arm and a little bump behind his left ear.
And of course he wanted to go right back up there again. I told him I had to come down first, so that I could catch him if he slipped again, and he agreed. But then he got distracted by some rocks on the second step and we eventually just came back down and went back to kicking the ball again.
Parenting a toddler, you guys. Jesus Christ.
Anyway. We went into town and got some groceries and hung out at our favorite coffee shop before I dropped him off at Kat's parents house for an hour or so while I got the barbeque going for dinner. I got him to sleep tonight and ended up falling asleep beside him for about an hour before Kat came in and woke me up.
Right, picture. This is him with the nest we built at the park last week:
He was very proud of it and wanted to use my phone to take some pictures of it. Twenty'ish shots later I had to take my phone back.
Mine:
Slipping,
Losing grip.
Fall in
Slow motion;
Breathing
Comes full stop.
Terror
Grips my blood.
Landing
With a thud.
Silence
Follows and then
Screaming...
His or mine?
Descend,
Hold him tight
Until
The tears stop
And then
Words return,
Followed
By the smile
That brings
My heart back
To life
Once again.
The exercise:
The Colony. Installment nine. Let's go.
Pretty mellow day off, featuring family time for the most of it. First thing this morning there was some smoke in the air, yet again, but thankfully that cleared up before lunch time thanks to a light breeze blowing in the right direction.
Remind me to share a picture of Max tomorrow. It's a good one.
Mine:
We hogtie Patrick and Melina and drag them into my quarters. Robbie almost looks like he wants to give each of them a kick but we leave them on the floor untouched as we continue the search that I had begun before hearing those two yelling and pounding at my door.
Within minutes we have confirmed what I had already begun to suspect: everyone else is still locked in their rooms. Patrick, Melina, and Vassily are the only exceptions.
Which means Vassily is the only member of our crew whose location is currently unaccounted for.
"Do you think he's still in his quarters?" Robbie asks, his voice muffled by the breathing mask. It's difficult to read his expression with that thing on. He could be scared or excited. Both, probably.
"Seems like as good a place as any to look for him." I turn my head to look in the direction of his room but otherwise remain still. "You up for this?"
"He was going to kill me in my sleep." I don't know how true that is but I think that, for now, I need it to be true for him. "Yeah, I'm ready."
We move slowly, stopping to listen at the closed doors of the kitchen and showers and conference room. Just in case. When we reach the final corner that will take us the last twenty feet to the Commander's quarters we hesitate. Okay, I hesitate. Robbie bumps into me.
"Sorry," he whispers.
"It's okay."
"Are uh... are you ready for this?"
Ready for what, exactly? Are we going to kill him? Is he armed? Are we waltzing straight into a trap?
"Of course."
My heart is racing as we tiptoe down the hall. I blink away sweat from my eyes, suddenly wishing I was carrying more than just a coil of rope. Weapon options are surprisingly limited when nearly everything is bolted down and you're packing as lightly as possible when departing your home planet.
Unless you're a traitorous Commander, that is. Then there's always room for extra equipment. Weapons, too?
Five feet to go. I'm about to tell Robbie to let me do the talking when the door to Vassily's quarters wooshes open. My heart feels like it tries to escape from my chest. My brain tells my body to raise my hands but I'm frozen in place. We are going to die. We are going to die. We are g-
"I don't think he's in here," Robbie says. Somehow he is standing in the doorway ahead of me. How did he get there? Shouldn't he be behind me?
"What?"
"His breathing mask is gone." Robbie looks disappointed. "He could be anywhere."
"He could be... I'm an idiot." Robbie looks confused but before he can say anything more I speak the words I should have spoken precious minutes earlier. "Computer? Locate Commander Vassily please."
The nearest monitor lights up and moments later green text appears like magic.
Commander Vassily is no longer in the compound.
The exercise:
Write a four line poem about something or someone that is: caught.
It was a cold, blustery start to the day. I think it was 12 degrees out when I woke up at 5 this morning, but the wind made it feel much colder than that. It continued to blow for most of the market before finally dying down just before noon.
I'm sure that contributed to the slow start to the market. Things eventually got steady but I don't think I was ever really busy. Ended up being a decent market either way though.
My brain is ready to sleep. In fact, it may already be asleep. So... here we go.
Mine:
Uh oh - we're caught!
Will you let us out?
Or do we have to
Yell and scream and shout?
The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: the stone.
Pretty sure I picked berries for the last time this morning. I only got a pint of raspberries for the market, plus a partial mixed pint of raspberries and blackberries for us (well, Max, really). A little sad, but mostly happy to have that behind me now.
Other than that... cherry tomatoes, bigger tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, cucumbers, corn. Kat's parents got me Aurora apples and plums. I've got some Gala and Macintosh leftover from last weekend. That's about it, I think.
It's Labour Day long weekend here, so hopefully it'll be a busy market. Either way, I should get some sleep now.
Mine:
Lurking in a dust-covered box at the back of an unused bookshelf, you could be forgiven for thinking it forgotten. It is not. Everyone in the village knows precisely where it is.
For it is the first stone, and one day it will be cast.
The exercise:
Write about: Hellpig.
I was at the park with Max this afternoon and overheard a woman telling someone else the name of her dog. It took me a minute to realize I'd misheard her, but Hellpig stuck with me anyway. So now... uh, do with it as a writing prompt what you can!
Oh, I'm thinking Sunday for this month's visit to The Colony. I've got a few vague ideas running around my head about what I want to do with my portion. We'll see what sticks come the weekend.
Mine:
"I'm sorry, what did you say her name is?"
"I think you heard me, madam."
"Oh! Oh. Well... that is quite the name!"
"Isn't it?"
"However did you come up with it?"
"Oh, I had nothing to do with it."
"Then how...?"
"We let the kids name her."
The exercise:
Write about: the wrestler.
Spent most of the day with Max, as Kat had a client late morning and I generally hang out with him in the afternoon. We hung out with his cousin and aunt for a good portion of it, and also ran a couple errands in town.
Ridiculous how tired that's left me.
Mine:
I have a job to do and I do it well. Maybe it's not the greatest job in the world, but if you're only gonna be happy with that distinction then there's only one person on the whole planet with job satisfaction. The rest of us just gotta be okay with what we do to pay the bills I guess.
Some guys are paid to win. I'm paid to lose. I'm a jobber - I do the job for the guys the promoters decide need to win and look good doing it. I'm a little guy, so they usually stick me in there with their biggest guys. The seven footers. Sometimes the six foot six guys they bill as being seven feet tall.
They toss little old me all around the ring, looking all powerful and unstoppable like. My fight with them isn't the point. I'm there to build up their next fight, usually against some other big fella. Everybody knows I'm going to lose. The trick is to make the other guy look as awesome as possible in the few minutes we have together.
It's not like I've never won a match. Back when I was starting out I got my hand raised a time or two. But then I started losing and it just sorta... never stopped.
I'm getting on in years now. Maybe not in most professions, but this one ages you real quick like. The human body can only take so much punishment, even when it's "fake".
So, sure. I wouldn't mind one last win before I hang up my boots. But there ain't a promoter around who is going to pay me to beat anybody. There's no money in that. Sure, it would be a nice gesture, a big thank you for all the blood, sweat, and tears I've left in their rings. There's just one problem with that though.
This ain't the sort of industry that believes in nice gestures.
The exercise:
Write two haiku that have something to do with: September.
No reason.
While Kat took Max to gym time at the community center I managed to get a few things done around the house this morning. Some accounting, cleaned out the fridge, collected recycling (for an afternoon trip to the depot with Max), a load of laundry. So, yeah, pretty much screw weeding the garden at this point.
Ran a lot of errands in the afternoon with Max, who was surprisingly cooperative for the whole deal.
It was a rather cloudy, windy, rainy kind of day. Quite... fall like.
No complaints here.
Mine:
The days grow shorter...
for some. Longer for others.
Welcome back to school.
* * *
Soothing rain returns
to parched earth as summer cries
its way out the door
