Chapter 1 (minor editing)

Thanks again for your responses from the last post, and enjoy!





Working story title:  A Sudden, Unexpected Blow to the Head.




                    ---now as you turn around and see her, you recognize her.  A wink, and she says,“But remember this: wisdom can only be learned, never taught.”  Then the knife is in her hand and----


Chapter 1.

6:32 AM.

Not the way you wanted to wake up today, rolling on the ground and clutching your head, but it’s taken you time to adjust to the new room.  More  specifically the slanted ceiling and the eastern facing window directly across.  At your all-to-recently abdicated room at your parent’s house, the window faced north, allowing the sun (and you) a slow,  peaceful morning wake up.  Bright sunlight to the face means late, and these days, late means fired.  Not as slow to wake up as your brain, your body brought your unfortunate forehead into contact with the slanting roof above your bed with what felt like a speed in excess of 200 mph.   More wake-up power than Folgers or Starbucks could ever hope for.

A second pounding, discordant to the death metal beat thrashing through your poor impacted cranium, adds its staccato rhythm to your emerging consciousness.  If the cannonball impact of your head didn’t wake them up, the sailor-worthy stream of profanity still gushing from your mouth surely did.  You manage to force your mouth shut around the pain, and roll to a stop facing the ceiling, your hands still grasping the oh-so-generous fountain of pain from your skull.

Only a week in this crappy little room, and you’ve already managed to injure yourself, and bug the neighbors to boot.    Why, oh why, did you have to push it so far at home?

Live in the moment, the tiny Buddha in your head tells you.  The bit of your brain still functioning is amazed he wasn’t forcibly ejected due to your recent concussive altercation.  Still, his voice is enough to bring your mind more or less up to par with your body, and the blood you feel on your hands kicks your old Boy Scout training into gear.

Come on now.  Apply pressure until flow has ceased and you can check the wound.  No loss of consciousness; concussion unlikely but still possible.  Do not move the subject unless necessary.  Clean out wound, first with water, then with antibacterial.  Apply poultice.  Check throughout day, and clean / replace as necessary.  Easy.

The lamp and alarm clock on your nightstand fight to the last staving off the invasion of your groping hand into their territory.  Though their foe be injured, their effort is all for nought as they fall, defeated, to the floor (your lamp with a crash that brings another irritated thump from below), and your hand closes on your now defenseless spectacles.  The world clears a bit, and the bed (more sympathetic to your cause, it would seem) aids in helping your upright.

The impact must still be reverberating through the house, judging on how hard it is to keep your balance.  At least the metal band seems to have finally taken a breather.  You remember to duck before entering your tiny bathroom closet, and it only takes a few seconds for the rusty fluid issuing from the tap to transform into something resembling water.  Though the site of your reddened hands causes a momentary spike in your heart rate, it’s clear that the bleeding has stopped already.  It probably wasn’t so bad a wound; it just bled a lot, as head injuries tend to do.   Your conclusion is proven after a quick wipe of the grungy mirror brings your bespectacled mug into view.

If one were to describe you in one word, that word would be ‘skinny.’  Not ‘thin’.  Not ‘fit’.  ‘Svelte’ would be doing you a favor.  No, you’re far too skinny for that.  Despite your best efforts at the gym, despite all you eat and your less-than-healthy lifestyle, you haven’t gained a pound since senior year in high school.  You know (hell, you’ve been told on a near daily basis where you work) that some people would kill for a body like this, but, as per usual with this kind of thing, to you it’s been nothing but irritating.  Hundreds of hours of sports and workouts, and strangers can still count every bone in your body at a glance.  Oh, and they try.  Hoo boy, do some of them try.  If you hadn’t had to live with the looks before now, you’d be even less secure than you are already.  Mr.  Universe you ain’t, but at least it’s made you decently athletic.  The searching grey eyes staring at you from the mirror carry accusations of a lifetime of vanity, and, sheepishly, you return your attention to your wound.

Steps one through four completed, you finish and step back into your room just in time for your alarm clock to kick off your inner-cranial thrashers’ second setlist.  Clearly unsatisfied with the rapid fire wake up screech, your downstairs neighbors add their own polyrhythmics to the mix.  Between the two of them, you can tell the mosh pit’s here to stay.  At that moment, the weight of the world is quite nearly enough to tip you back over onto your bed in the customary ‘fuck the world, I’m going back to sleep’ position you practiced to perfection in college; it's only the sight of your freshly emptied wallet on the ground near yesterday’s jeans that keeps you, however unsteadily, on your feet.  You rub your eyes, and the headache lessens a hair.

See?  The day's looking up already.A few deep breaths later, and you’re back.

Come on.  New job.  Got to focus.  Get breakfast.  Get dressed.  Acquire car keys.  Acquire coat.  Leave, lock door.  Head for steps.  Return.  Unlock door.  Go inside.  Acquire shoes.  Leave, lock door.  Head for stairs.  Quick nod to the nice girl who mans (womans?) the lobby desk, and you’re out to the parking lot and on your way.

You poor bastard.   You were so close to avoiding it all.  Blame your father for giving you his punctuality.  Blame your mother for bequeathing unto you her perseverance.  Hell, blame anyone you can.  But now the course is set, and there’s no way out of it.

Good luck.  You're going to need it.

____________________


She woke up exactly where she remembered going to sleep.  That’s a relief.  The opposite case was rare, but one could never be sure.  She slid up the wall behind her and stretched before contorting her body in a practiced set of movements. Luxuriously, she began cracking the knuckles of each her fingers, followed by her toes, her knees, and the base of her spine.  (A cat bearing the scars of local fire-cracker wielding children screeches in post traumatic terror and takes off into the early morning gloom.)  Then she reached up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Left.  Left again. Right.  One more right.  She stretched the muscles in her legs and arms in rapid succession.  A quick combination (two straight lefts, duck to one more low left, right hook, quick side kick to low sweep and rise to axe kick) and she’s satisfied.  Breathing lightly, she leaned back against the wall again with her arms folded across her chest.

The sun hadn’t yet risen enough to reach this part of the alley, and though it is still quite cold, she didn’t seem to feel it.  Traffic is light, and besides the occasional far-off siren, the city was remarkably serene.  She took a sip from a bottle of water she found in the pocket of her thin black coat, and ran a hand through her  hair, before throwing the empty bottle into the closest trashcan with a sigh.  Briefly, she wondered how bad she smelled, and scratched the side of her nose in quiet contemplation.

It’s been a while since I’ve eaten anything, she thought with a shrug.

She bent at the waist, stretching her legs one last time, and tapped the toes of her sneakers against the pavement.  Each of her toes could clearly be seen under the threadbare surface, and the soles left a bit more of themselves on the ground with each tap.

A quick nod.  First things first.

She carefully rearranged the refuse she had moved the night before, and scuffed out the prints her morning routine had left in the grime.   With one last quick glance over her temporary settlement to reassure herself that she wouldn’t be followed, she moved silently to the mouth of the alley.  She checked left.  She checked right.  She checked left again.

Old habits die hard,  she thought, and began to run.

"We open on a lone soldier walking through the desert. The year 1861, the place... Mars."

"Write what you know."  It's always been good advice, and everybody likes talking about their own interests.  But what do I know that anybody else would want to know about?  Video games?  Too small an audience, and too likely to just end up as bad fanfiction.  Work?  Well, maybe some short stories about the eccentricities of thrift store clients and employees, but I want something I can make into a full story, or even a series.  Philosophy and ethics?  Plenty to write on, but tricky to mesh with a story that anybody would actually want to read.  Sure, I may love talking about the moral debates revolving around globalization, but I suspect very few people who were not already philosophy majors would want to read a book about it.  Or a thin, vehicular plot for my own views on the subject, for that matter.  Living and growing up in Northern California?  Not something about which I would like to write an entire story, but perhaps a good setting. 

Anyway, this is all just filler.  Ideas to throw around mostly for reactions.  More importantly,  with the help you have all given me in the last posts, I think I've got it something.  A plot, that is.  And a singular character to make it tick.  Both are still in the rough draft stage of course, but for the moment they're the top of the list.  It took a while, and one heck of a lot of deleted and altered .doc files, but I think I might have scratched up a winner.  It'll include just about everything I've written about in the first paragraph, and a fair bit more. 

Now, the questions to ask everybody.  And please, PLEASE give me an answer to these if you can.  I suspect these will be the most important I ask for some time, at least until I can start posting bits of the actual story.


This story will likely deal with at least one major moral issue that is of great importance to the world right now.  With this in mind, do you think it would be too distracting or constrictive to write from the first person?  Or do you think the thought process and mental exercising that the first person allows will help set up the problem and the relevant points-of-view enough to overcome it?

Do you think it is justified to use graphic descriptions of violence to reinforce a plot point?  Do these scenes tend to draw you in to the action more, or just turn you away from it entirely?  If such scenes would not be necessary, but arguably improved or broadened the impact of actions the characters take or the situations they find themselves in, would it be better to leave the violence in, or find a 'cleaner' way to work around it?

What about (less graphic, but still clear) depictions of sex?

Lastly, this will probably be a realistic work set in the modern day, with entirely fictional characters.  Would it better to:
Take a location that already exists and modify it only very slightly?
Create a new location based on a place that already exists, such that people who live there could probably figure it out?
Or, create a new location entirely?

I'll likely have a few more questions next time, and, Lord willing, an introduction draft to give you.  Wish me perseverance, y'all!

But I need your help!

Hey y'all.  Inspiration has struck, and struck hard.  I've been writing a lot, reading a lot, and generally going nuts.

BUT!  There's a lot that needs to be done to get any of it together into something unified, much less decent.  I don't want to say much yet, but, Lord willing, I'll have something to post in the next few weeks.

In the mean time, I've got fun questions for people!  I know that's not really the point of a blog, but I think it'll be fun, and it will certainly help me with the process.

First off, characters.  As I've written before, I love making them.  It's my favorite part of the whole process.  Thinking about how they got to the point of the story, how they'll interact with each other, what personality traits and mentalities each will have and how they developed them through their lifetimes...it fills me with writing chutzpah like nothing else.  And, like anyone, I've got my preferences, both in the characters I read about and in the characters I create.  At the moment, this is what I am focusing on the most.

So, what I'd like to ask you all is, what characters (literary or otherwise) have left the greatest impression on you?

Seriously, I'm looking for anything here.  Have a general character types and attributes you like or hate?  Any specific characters that you remember that just captured your attention from the moment you were introduced to them?  Any that you grew to love over time?  Any that you despised immediately, but grew to like (or hate even more?)  Heroes?  Villains?  Sidekicks?  Rebels?  Monsters?  Even one-word names will help with the wonders of the internet on my side. 

If you've only got a minute, a tiny little description is all I need.  Enjoy reading from the perspective of cynical martyrs with speech impediments?  Cool!  Imperious overly philosophical villain-turned-antiheroes?  Sweet!  Cute animals with funny hats?  D'awww!  

Anything you've got.  It all helps. 

Thanks a lot, and back to it!

Irritation and frustration

Underrepresented in literature.  It's kind of funny, but it makes sense.  There's a place for literally just about every other emotion somewhere in the vast echelon of literature.  Most pieces out there can make you happy, or sad, or confident, or angry, or lustful, or confused, or even fill you with hatred.  The point is, these pieces usually do so with purpose.  That piece of propaganda was meant to make you angry at the injustices of the world; that bright little romance was supposed to make you feel happy, and perhaps a bit wistful.  But there are a few emotions that, generally, are avoided like plague.  Specifically, I'm thinking of frustration and irritation.  Most often if a reader feels these emotions while reading a piece, it's either because the author introduces a character meant to be a foil or a counterpart to the other characters, or (much worse) the author has unintentionally written something that genuinely irritates or frustrates the reader.

Now, I'm not talking about the kind of frustration that comes from short-term denial, like if two characters that are clearly meant to be together continuously find themselves in situations that push them apart.  It's just anticipation and denial, a common tool in the writer's handbook.  There's even something to it if the characters don't actually end up together for one reason or another.  This can be just as frustrating, but it's not quite what I mean.  The reader, despite their frustration, kept with the story long enough to see how it turned out.  Even if they don't like the ending, they were hooked, and looked forward to seeing how it would turn out. 

Similarly, neither am I talking about irritation created from poor or confusing composition.  If the reader has trouble with the story because of mistakes in the way the story is written, or because the reader has a difficult time keeping track of what's happening, it's only natural for the reader to become irritated.  But such stories, unless written improperly on purpose to prove a point (Flowers for Algernon, for example) are incomplete, and, I would argue, should not be judged against a complete, perfectly edited story.  The plot is lost in the mistakes and confusion, and the emotion is was meant to impart is poorly communicated if at all.  The potential, however, still remains, and a bit more work may reveal something new. 

No, I'm talking about a piece that is actually written with the sole intent of irritating the person who reads it.  Not accidentally, not subjectively, not improperly: just flat out meant to turn what the reader is currently feeling into unbridled irritation.  I wonder, what would such a piece be about?  Irritating people doing irritating things?   Nothing at all?  Is it even possible to get someone to read something irritating without the promise of something better to come?  And then, perhaps most difficult of all, have it be written effectively enough to rekindle these feelings each time it's read?  Could such a story even escape the comfort that comes from familiarity?

I mean, it's pretty clear why these pieces, if they exist, are rare.  Why would anybody want to read something like this?  Just about any emotion, any emotion out there, is preferable.  People don't want to feel irritated, so they lash out and get angry, or meditate to regain happiness, or avoid the source of irritation entirely.  It's not painful, or even really debilitating, but we just can't stand being irritated.  Frustration is a bit different since it necessarily carries expectations, but generally I think it works the same way. 

Well, enough rambling.  I've been trying to branch out in the kinds of emotions I try to evoke in readers, and it just struck me as interesting that, unlike just about every other emotion out there, there's little point towards evoking pure irritation in others through writing. 
Anyway, I'm still looking into it, so in the spirit of investigation, what about y'all?  Anything you've ever read that's just purely irritated or frustrated you?  Something that still irritates you even to think about?  

What's your writing problem?

This is idea number two, and one hour into writing this piece.

The first things I wanted to write about were creation and destruction, but as is often the case with this kind of thing, it got waaay too convoluted and stopped making sense.

It was crap, and I tossed it.

So, here we are.  I felt inspired and wanted to write a piece tonight, and once again ran out of fuel and enthusiasm. 

So, have a short story made up on the spot.

She woke up with a terrible headache.

...Wow.  You know, it's a bit disturbing how many of my stories start out with something like that.  I mean, in media-res, with a female character.  It's just what my mind defaults to, apparently.

Some of you know this, but for the rest of you who don't, I once created a character for a game my friends and I were going to play that had a background that was about ten pages long.  For a professional writer, I'm sure this is probably not particularly ridiculous; but considering that not only was this character only vaguely important to the plot, but also not likely to show up for more than two sessions at the most, this was the definition of overkill.  I started out writing a little chunk meant to introduce her (yep, her), and ended up writing well into the night.  Since I jumped back and forth between quick description and in-depth profile, and more than often dipped into narrative, it was pretty terrible.  Exhausted as I was, it was also completely unedited.

She's also almost, but not quite, the biggest Mary Sue character I've ever created.  (For an in depth description of what a lot of people on the Internet think a Mary Sue is, click here or here; for the moment, just rest assured that making one in a story is a very, very bad thing.)  It wasn't on purpose; it's just what ended up happening.  Thanks for putting up with that, Max.

Every single damn time I create a female character (which is a lot), she  pops into my head, and I go on a spree of furious rewrites and character examinations.  The result often turns out to be a character with too many flaws, who gets scrapped anyway.

Anybody else have this problem, or something like it?  Some problem that just cuts to the core of what you're writing, and makes you just instantly rethink the viability appeal of the entirety of everything you've just written?

I mean, I don't mind it.  It certainly means a lot less shitty work, or at least I'd like to think so, and I tend to be quite satisfied with the characters I create, gaming or otherwise.  There are common patterns and tendencies (tragedy and wandering, anybody?), but I still love them.  Without stopping for more than a minute, I could write a decent story involving literally any single or group of them right here, right now.

That's how much I like them.

In fact, "She woke up with a terrible headache" is a pretty decent descriptor of most of them.  Just switch 'she' for 'he' in some cases, and you get the whole travel-worn, tragic lot.  Repentance, you see, is a fascinating concept to me.

But yeah, anybody else have a common problem they find with what they write?  Even if it's more about grammar or spelling than plot?  I love talking about that kind of thing.

I won't leave you hanging either.  Have an actual chunk of a story I've been drafting lately.

"Black Out."  (Detective version)

I could tell it was coming, the moment her eyes went dark.  See, a lot can be told about a person from their eyes.  The lines and wrinkles around them; the shine and liveliness of them, and how healthy they are; the way they move when one lies, or cries, or smiles.  To a lesser extent, even the color and shape of a person's eyes can give you insight into what kind of person they are.  Learning to read a person's eyes correctly, particularly the most subtle nuances of motion, can take several years to master.  Some people, particularly those who know their own ticks and how to read them, can manipulate this eye-borne transference to their own ends. 

Sometimes, however, a person's eyes might as well be screaming at you.  I'm no coward, but the look in her eyes was something I had never seen before.  When her eyes darkened, mine went wide; for her eyes, once so kind and honest, now radiated malice unimaginable.  In this place, in the middle of nowhere, there was no chance of the authorities making it in time.  I do not know what he said to her, or what problems she had been dealing with to bring her to this place.  All I know is that, even as her hand moved to the knife on the table in front of her, I was had already begun running for the door.   This knowledge, gleaned from years of experience in criminal psychology, was the only thing that saved my life. 

The first chapter of this story is more or less already done, and I'd be happy to send it to you if what you read above has peaked your interest.  Or link it if you have a Deviant Art account.

Self-Help, among other things.

A young man, out of college with a degree in Environmental Ethics, writing from the warm expanses of rural Northern California.  Thanks for stopping by.  Call me koricature.  Nice to meet you.  Have some tea.

This blog was created with two major points in mind.

First, within the space of this blog, I hope to finally bridge that gap between being a writer and being an author.  Currently, writing is still just a pass time for me, and most of my characters and plots only passing interests.  As much as I care for them, most I could take or leave, and of the many I have created, I am proud of only a few of them.  It is a distraction, a fun hobby at most.  With practice, care, and, God willing, some criticism and feedback, I hope to develop something worthy of making me an author.  As much as I'd like to write for a living, I know the odds are against me, and while I don't think I'll ever give up trying, I don't hold any false hopes.  Doesn't need to make me rich.  Hell, doesn't even need to be circulated, much less published.  It just needs to be something of which I can be proud, something that brings even a bit of happiness to those who choose to read it.

Anybody can write a story.  Some can write it well.  Only a lucky few can instill purpose into the formless, and push it through into reality.

Second, just about everything I've written up to this point has been a series of short stories.  I don't really have a problem with this, but I think it's important to develop talents in both quick writing and creating a progressive plot, and I have been seriously neglecting the latter.  Similarly, I find that my writing tends towards the tragic.  While this is related more to personal motivation than it is technical skill, I still need to round out my abilities.  The process is easy enough; just practice until carpal tunnel and beyond, and swallow every bit of criticism I can prod and beg from you.

Anyway, without further ado, a short piece I wrote not long ago as a sort of stress relief exercise.  It's only partly autobiographical, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't have some of my daily life in it at all.  Enjoy!

"Self-Help" (9/22/11)

While I was driving to work today, slightly late as per usual, I noticed the large SUV behind me was not tailgating me.  I raised my eyebrows in surprise, but nothing else.  Beside me, my computer played a song called Dissociative Identity, from an old game I love.

After I arrive, I think about ways I can cover up my being late.  I remember it was recycle day yesterday, and walk back to the entrance of the parking lot to start wheeling in the big blue canisters.  I find myself biting my lip.  Above me, a crow looks down inquisitively, and comments on my progress from the telephone lines with a caw!

I make it a point to greet everyone as I come inside.  All of them respond, many with a smile.  They know me as a happy person, a good worker.  Those that don’t smile have their own ideas.  But this is not my concern, and I only turn away with my smile intact.  The radio is only a hiss of static at this point, before anyone has tuned it.  No one has touched it since last night, when it was working perfectly.  What has changed?

Later, the phone rings, and I am the closest to it.  I pick it up, with the programmed welcome I have memorized as per the manager’s request.   The woman on the other end is very polite, and asks if we take doors.  I have no idea, but I know from experience that it is better to accept.  As long as they are in good shape, and have all of their parts, I say.  She assures me that they are, and we hang up. Something I don’t recognize is playing on the radio, which has been set to a modern pop station. I wonder what all the elderly volunteers are thinking as they hear it.

The first car arrives soon after.  It is an old beat-up van.  I walk towards it, and it stops about halfway down the back drive, fairly far away from the table where I sort through the donations.  It stops, and a man with a mustache turns the car off and steps out.  I greet him enthusiastically, and he responds in kind.  I am happy that he is in a good mood.  It makes it much easier if I have to turn something down.  But he only has a few bags of household goods.  He asks for a receipt as I ask him if he wants a receipt, and I leave to pick one up.  He thanks me as I thank him, and he pulls away. I look at the dishes in the garbage bag he gave me.  Some of them are quite nice.  I wonder who bought them, and why. His breaks squeal loudly as he stops to pull onto the street.

The older man who works outside with me is working too hard again.  He was injured earlier this year, and had to miss work for over a month.  The administration has said in no uncertain terms that he should not work outside, and under no circumstances is he to do any serious lifting.  He is putting together a bed frame out on the concrete, which the sun has already pushed above 100.  I worry that [The Manager] will be angry with me for not doing the work instead of the old man.  Then I catch myself.  [The Manager] wouldn’t do anything like that. Beside me, the powerful old radio we always have on outside starts playing Crazy Train.

Later, the older man tells me a story.  He’s on his break.  I’m not, but I stop working to listen to him.  He talks about a house he used to own, somewhere in California.  He assumes I know the place since I went to school near there, apparently.  The story ends with him divorcing his wife.  By my count, this makes two, maybe three.  Behind him, I hear his dog panting in the heat as it chases after something in the dirt near the old televisions and egg crates. 

The furniture outside in the front of the store is filthy with road dust and dead bugs, especially what was left under the lights.  A few swipes with a cloth make a big difference.  I stop when I feel a familiar light brush over my face near the exercise equipment. I step back carefully and look up.  The reaper in yellow and green looks back down at me.  She is no threat, but she is big, and she must go.  I wrap her in a paper towel, gently, and carry her through the back passage so as not to frighten the volunteers.  Inside the store, I hear them talking happily about the things they found.  I make a mental note to stop by the front soon.

After lifting a recliner into the back of an old woman’s car, I returned to the back to find that my place has been filled.  The man greets me enthusiastically, and I return the greeting with a smile.  He is wearing a policeman’s uniform.  He is a good friend, and I know him well.  But it is only with dismay that I see him begin to work.  He is much faster than I am, and I will need to find something else to do for a while.  As I turn to go back inside, I hear him curse loudly as he trips over the wrinkle in the rug.  I wonder where his temper comes from, and hop that none of the other volunteers complain it.

Hours pass, and a large truck pulls up.  A woman steps out, and, before I can greet her, she says she has some doors for us, and that someone on the phone said we would take them.  My smile widens, and I move to the back of the truck.  The doors are in awful shape, and none of them have all of their parts.  I carry them one-by-one over to the table, where I lean them on a metal rack.  I ask the woman if she wants a receipt, and she says she does.  She thanks me, sincerely I think, and starts her truck.  As she pulls away, I hear the rack behind me collapse under the weight of several doors.  Oh no,  says the older man working on another bed frame, Right through [The Manager’s] windshield!  Despite myself, I snort in laughter, and say something back.

The table is empty.  My friend has cleared it out.  The older man is putting together a large hospital bed.  I have nothing to do.  There are bins inside to sort, but one of the none-smilers is there.  I start dusting the higher shelves inside the store, the ones only I can see without a stepladder.  The framed art is up there, away from destructive children and glass-smearing fingers.  I clean each piece, and run a wet cloth over the shelf underneath them.  Startled dust bunnies make a desperate dash for the ground, and I sneeze once, twice.  Behind me at the counter, the kindly old volunteer at the checkout counter says, God bless you!  I don’t know a thing about her, but I know the days when she is supposed to work.  She is one of the smilers.

The shelves and glass display cases are clean.  I start to work on the counter tops when the other woman working at the checkout counter asks if I can cover for her.  She is nice, a smiler also, and I agree.  She tells me she has a doctor appointment, and that she hopes to be back by the time we close.  I nod with a smile, telling her I don’t mind.  The checkout counter is a nice place to work.  There are a lot of people to talk to, and it is air-conditioned.  The time goes by fast in the front of the store. As I sit down behind the counter, a young boy looking at costumes shrieks at his brother while wearing a werewolf mask.  I wonder what it would have been like to have an older brother.  My smile widens.

I am needed in the back again, and another volunteer takes my place at the counter.  It is time to move the hospital bed to the front of the store.  I will need to wheel it around the outside, down the street, then back in through the front gate.  It has it’s own wheels, so I need to be careful going down the hill and over the potholes in the road.  In the front lot, a nurse from administration next door offers to help me.  I politely refuse with a smile, and she helps me anyway.  Along the road to my left, a fire truck blares its siren as it passes by.  My smile fades slightly. 

An hour later, my good mood has collapsed.  I’m not sure why.  The day hasn’t really been much different than any other.  A few more donations come in, including one with several large kitchen knives.  I enjoy looking through knives, for workmanship, quality, and sharpness.  One of them is very good.  As I suspected, it is from Japan.  The best knives I find always seem to come from there.  I cover the edge with tape, and take it inside.  My mood does not improve, though nobody can really tell.  A toaster being tested on a nearby counter pops up with nothing in it.  My smile does not change.

It is almost time to leave.  There is a half-hour left before I will be needed at the front counter. I am working on the bins inside, with the none-smiler.  Silence reigns, as per usual.

I close the car door, and simultaneously place and turn the key, pull my seat belt on, grab my computer from the back and open it, and roll down the windows.  Don’t ask me how I do it.  I have no idea.  I turn to look over my shoulder to back out, and see one of the volunteers in her car getting ready to pull out.  I smile and make exaggerated hand movements, and she waves at me and continues to back out.  The back window of her car is covered in bumper stickers and decals, all of them either patriotic or Christian.  She finishes backing up, and carefully pulls forward to move through the back gate. I like her.  She is a smiler.  The older man sits down on his motorcycle with a See ya later, and starts it with a roar.

My check is deposited. My shopping is done.  I back into my usual spot in the driveway.  I don’t see any cats, which is a surprise, even though we only have two.  I turn the car off, and open the door, my arms full with my keys, my groceries, and my open computer.  It is still hot, and my mood hasn’t improved.  I lean against my car briefly to catch my balance.  My computer is playing one of my favorite songs, from an anime where young people kill each other from their paranoid delusions.  My smile widens.

I turn off my music.  I walk inside, my parents’ enthusiastic greetings in my ears.  I greet them back, and sit down on the couch.  They seem to know something is wrong, and do not speak much.  They know I like my silence, especially when I am in a mood.  They are wonderful people, both smilers.  Dad only asks me if I’d like to help him cook hamburgers in an hour.  I nod my head, smiling lightly.

I begin to type.