Missing…

I miss being able to write poetry. It’s something simple but I’ve lost grip of it.

Some of my saddest moments logged many poems (that I no longer have). It was a way to unclog my mind when I needed help but wouldn’t ask for it. I have tried recently to write a simple poem – maybe I’m not sad anymore. Depression isn’t as strong, hasn’t been for almost five years.

Shouldn’t I be able to write about happiness? Write about love? I should be able to write about anything, right? But when I sit to write a poem, all I get is blanks. Unless you ask for a Haiku. They may be silly but I can write them all day long.

Haiku is actually the type of poetry that got me into writing when I was in fifth grade. After I wrote my first one, it opened my eyes to the beauty of words. My love for words has grown into a passion.

Writing – my first love. My first soulmate.

As I have aged, so has my writing. Has it gotten better? I’d like to think so, but that’s for others to decide, not me. I hope, just with any writer, that mine has gotten better – I at least know for certain it’s gotten better since I wrote my first poem.

All jokes aside – it’s been twenty years. Gosh… twenty years. Never realize how old you are until you break down the years. For example: my mother was fifteen years younger than my father. Fifteen years doesn’t seem much – until it’s broken down. My mother was born in 1962 – in 1962 my father was fifteen. At 18, my father enlisted into the military and had his first son – my mother was three. This was in 1965. Everything seems hunky -dory until it’s broken down.

Twenty years… writing has been my longest relationship. My best friend. The one thing I can turn to when I needed something that I couldn’t get from another person. I just hope one day that I will have something to show for it.

Like… a novel – or three.

But here, my darlings, just for y’all… a haiku:

I’m great! I’m awesome!
One day I will be published.
For now, I will write.

It’s not ‘traditional’, but I’m not from Japan. >.<

Goodbye 2018 : Hello 2019

2018 – was horrible.

I’ve noticed a lot of people seem to agree with me on how horrible last year was. I honestly cannot think of anything good that happened – just bad. Buried my grandfather && a close cousin. I watched as the days passed showing me nothing but grey skies and sadness.

But as I sit here, January 2, 2019, I am hoping for a better year. I would say it couldn’t get any worse, but that’s not true. It could get 10x worse, but I refuse to allow that. Hopefully.

2018 I made one resolution. One I honestly thought I could fulfill. I did not – so I am keeping it for this year too: finish Frost. Completely.

But for 2019, I am adding a new one: to get healthy. To be a better me. What it will take? Only time will tell.

For now, my top goal is my book. It may never be published through a big company, and be found on every bookshelf worldwide, but at least I can say that I finished it. Wrote it. Something that I have wanted to do since I began.

So, that’s where I sit. 2018 was crap. 2019 HAS to be better. 2018 I accomplished nothing. 2019 I HAVE to accomplish something. 2018 was not my favorite year. 2019 shall be the first of great many years to come. 2018 was not my worse years (that would be 2003 && 2011.) But it is up there. 2019 – please be better.

Night Owl to Early Bird…

As the alarm clock blares its music at four o’clock in the morning, I hit snooze and wonder how much longer I can sleep before I’m late for work. I have to be there by 5:30, so it doesn’t give me much time to continuously hit snooze. But I do – over & over again. The alarm blares again, I stare at the time: 4:30; crud! That’s all I think. I need to get up, I’m sure there is SOMETHING I have to do before leaving for work. Shower – maybe?

I fling the blanket off of me but I don’t move. My legs are glued to the bed with memories of sleep dancing around my head. I wiggle my toes trying to get the determination I need to get up.

I sit up and stare at the wall. My bedroom is still dark, && dark means sleep – so why am I not still sleeping? My feet hit the carpet and they begin moving around the bedroom and into the bathroom – I leave the light off, it’s still too early for lights. (At this point, I still haven’t put on my glasses, because glasses means it’s time to get the day rolling, &&& I’m not at that point yet.)

To move around my bedroom I have to pass my bed multiple times && each time it gets a little harder to not get back in it, cover up, and pretend the world doesn’t exist. But I tell myself – Barbara, you only work three days a week, that’s it! Three! You can do this.

Yes, that’s right. I work three days a week, Saturday through Monday – So I’m off Tuesday through Friday. Sounds great, right? It is! I love these days, I have been doing it since 2011, so I must like the job. I do like my job – would I rather be a full time writer that sits at home every day writing the next novel that people carry with them in their hearts/souls and tells everyone they must read it?

Well, duh!

But I have to be logical about this whole thing. If it’s something I want, then I have to work for it, and until I actually finish Frost, that’ll never happen. So it’s this job. I began working this job in 2011, but I worked nights. 5:30 PM – 6:00 AM. I’ve always worked nights. Never had a reason to not work nights. I was single, lived alone – it didn’t bother people if I came in at weird hours. But now – eight-ish years later, I’m not single and I don’t live alone. Nights still wasn’t a problem. But I recently changed my hours, this year – August. Now I work 5:30 AM – 7:30 PM. Why would I do that?

I’m pleading insanity. People do it all the time. Go to sleep around ten o’clock at night and wake up at four in the morning. People have been doing it for a long time. So why do I have such a hard time with it?

The boyfriend && I both work in the same department here. So we cannot work the same shift (I wouldn’t even if I could, wouldn’t be able to do it. I’m too much of a worry wart.) He was given the chance to go full-time, which means overlapping into my shift. Then an opportunity to go full-time led me to another shift.

Its 8:28 in the morning as I type this && I feel like I need a three hour nap. Maybe 12 hours.

But as I finish up getting dressed, packing my lunch, walking to the car and making my way to work – I’m already exhausted. So I drew up a sticky note to put on the computer screen I sit at to help myself make it through the day.

I find myself staring at it at times, hoping it’ll give me that boost. It hasn’t worked yet, but I’m leaving it there as long as I can. (All of the shifts share computers.)

Epic Journey…

The Boyfriend & I met in Yahoo! Pool when we were 18 or 19. We bonded over things, not a lot of things, just some things. Music. Movies. But mostly our love of writing. He and I realized that we both have a soft spot for writing poetry, short stories, or even EPIC STORIES OF GREATNESS!

After we found each other again (after losing touch) the first question he asked me, “Do you still write?” (Of course I do!)

A few years ago The Boyfriend asked if I needed anything from the store before he came home from work. I gave him my small list, which contained one item, and after a little bit I get tagged on Facebook and I wanted to share with the world (the few followers I have) what was wrote. It’s been hidden far too long and I feel like people need to read it.

*Please be advised that as I type it up I will probably change a couple things because I’m OCD when it comes to a few things.

**Originally wrote on December 10, 2014 by Christopher Graves.

Journal Entry 547:

It was a normal day in the kingdom as I was sent out to deliver supplies to the local barters to insure that justice and peace was being upheld. As I sit upon the horse drawn carriage I began day dreaming about a great adventure full of danger and caution; one the old ones wrote about. Suddenly, I was disturbed by the Queen’s dove. In its wing, it held a letter of great importance, since the dove only carries the most urgent letters. I reached for the letter and as my fingers gripped the parcel the dove quickly flew away leaving a small bag of coins, a key with no teeth, and a map. I unrolled the parchment and a grave message was written upon the page.

My champion, our kingdom is in grave danger! The flames of hell are approaching our doorsteps and only you, alone, can calm the flames. You must venture into the dark kingdom of Wal-Mart and retrieve the relic known as “The Tampons”.

I smile, as if my prayers had been answered. At once I cut lose my faithful steed, Malibu, claimed my possessions, and off I went to begin my epic journey.

Journal Entry 604:

The days drew countless as I drew near the dark kingdom of Wal-Mart. The grey sky started to turn black as I witnessed with my own eyes the twisted and hellish gates that housed this kingdom. As I drew near the smell of death and burnt flesh filled my nostrils. What lay before me? Creatures wearing aprons covered in blood and the crowns of dead men that cried “Merry Christmas… Merry Christmas”; fear set in as I placed my back to my steed. As I crept closer I notice a bucket full of gold – the coin bag! How would the Queen know?! I tossed the gold into the bucket and at once, every creature attacked the coin bag, ripping it into pieces sending the coins towards the heaven. I jumped on this chance and made my way into this hellish realm sending my steed back to safety as I journeyed into the kingdom – along and frightened.

Journal Entry 804:

I fear this may be my last entry as the kingdom has drained what sanity I have left. The map is of no use to me as it sends me in circles.

Has the flames of hell already taken my home and devoured all I know?

Journal Entry 805:

I found that the map wasn’t false as I had though originally, I just had it upside down. As I pass many relics and artifacts of wonder, I leave them be, since they are not mine to take nor do they pertain to my quest. I follow the map far into the back past “cosmetics, personal hygiene and the place known as Pharmacy”. I take the key with no teeth and insert it into the key hole of a large chest and once it opens I claim my price.

Content, I find a nearby entrance and make my way home… to my Queen… to my Kingdom.

I’m a strange cook…

Or so it feels. I don’t have many things in life I am good at, but cooking is one of them. Not only that, I actually enjoy cooking – a lot. It’s something I’d do for a living if it was ever given to me. I love standing in the kitchen and chopping onions, bell peppers, or carrots. I love to make pasta, ground meat, or chicken dishes. I love finding new recipes and trying them just because I can.

But with dishes I have been making for years some think they are strange – and after talking to some people, I am starting to see just how strange they are. &&& no, I’m not talking about “eating strange foods”, I’m talking about the fact that I make foods, that everyone makes – strange.

Let’s start off slow. Tuna salad.

Everyone I know makes it differently, whether it’s because they don’t like the taste of tuna so they have to have something in it that will overpower the taste, or for some that don’t like mayo. I put the normal stuff, can tuna, mayo, pickles… But then I add onion, tomatoes, && mustard. Sometimes, if I’m feeling it, I’ll add shredded lettuce. But the one thing everyone says is weird – I add scrambled eggs. Yes! I said it. Scrambled. Eggs.

I’ve had multiple conversations with people about how they make it and they all say, “Yes, I add eggs – boiled.” Then there I sit, speechless, because it’s me against the world.

Spaghetti. Everyone I talk to tells me their spaghetti consists of pasta, sauce && meat. I usually have a weird look on my face so I get asked, “what do you put in yours?” Pasta, meat, sauce, mushrooms, black olives, red/green/yellow/orange bell peppers and onions. Mix. Mix. Mix. Top with “foot cheese”. Serve with bread. Enjoy.

I’m not worried about the fact I make food weird, it’s not a big deal to me. I’m used to it, I like my cooking. (My waist size proves that.) I guess I just don’t know where I got it from. I spoke to my grandfather before he passed this year and he said that him and my mother both used boiled eggs, and he didn’t use tomatoes (my mother did). &&& I have only met ONE other person that puts vegetables in their spaghetti.

Most people learn recipes from their family, friends (mostly, apparently, grandmother), co-workers, siblings, aunts, uncles… but me? None of the above. (According to the boyfriend, I am a self taught bad ass.) I don’t remember my mom’s cooking. The only thing I remember is that she loved to cook, but I don’t think I could really tell you one thing she could cook besides tator-tot casserole, which I do NOT put corn in. My grandmothers, well, one lived six hours away, so I wasn’t around her much, && the other… well, let’s just say that her spaghetti had a whole tub of butter in it. I don’t want to cook like her.

I find it sad that I didn’t get recipes passed down to me, but I lost my mom a lot sooner than she had anticipated, so of course she wasn’t thinking about passing recipes down to me. What 40 year old mother to a 15 && 16 year old is thinking about death? So I’m at a point in life where I do not know how to make cornbread dressing, but I figured out a recipe I like. I don’t know how to make all of the Christmas goodies (divinity, peanut brittle…), so I just don’t bring it up.

My grandfather made a wonderful potato soup that I never got the recipe to. He passed away this year, a couple months after me asking for his recipe. Then there was his chili (which I don’t know how to make) and his salsa (that was so hot I’m sure it burns off taste buds).

I did teach myself to cook. I started around the age of fifteen or sixteen. It came down to I either learn or I have to eat bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life – I didn’t find that appealing. So I started out with soups, which I burned a lot of. But my dad ate it anyway. He always ate it, no matter how gross, or burned, or unappealing it was – he ate it. For me. (I also miss him).

I didn’t have much of a start so I started watching A LOT of food network shows. &&& when I say a lot, I don’t mean that as a small amount. If I wasn’t watching SpongeBob SquarePants, I was watching some kind of food show. I have continued to watch them, even now, without cable, I watch a lot of food shows. I look up recipes and redo them to fit my taste.

That’s how I learn. But I still have no idea where I got the smart idea to put scrambled eggs in my tuna salad. Please, people out there, if you use scrambled eggs rather than boiled eggs, let me know.

To be, or not to be Canadian.

Sitting here trying to figure out what to write about I realize that I have really never talked about me. Not the whiny, poor-me-I-cannot-write-about-anything-because-my-brain-is-broken me but the ‘actual me’. The person behind this contraption we call a computer, which brings me to this post. I figured, why not? Let’s write about the girl every now && again.

Today, let’s discuss in short about why people call a girl that was born in Amarillo, Texas, raised in a small Oklahoma town – Canadian.

There are funny stories about Canadians. That they are nice, wouldn’t harm a moose, loves everything, don’t have military because they don’t believe in war – I mean the Prime Minister cried on a televised event because people were being mean.

I’m called Canadian down here. Because I’m nice, wouldn’t harm a moose, loves everything, and I don’t have a military – I mean, I cry when people are being mean.

I’m mostly joking. Also, I realize that Canada does have a military.

Yeah, I know this post isn’t too serious, but I wanted to write something – write everyday – &&& I couldn’t think of anything else. So I figured a small giggle would help someone, somewhere. If not, well, know that I would make a great Canadian and I’m way too nice sometimes.

Heh. I’ll try & think of something smarter and more “grown-up” later to write about. But for now, this is it.

Been a while…

I hope everyone is still hanging around especially since it’s been a while since I’ve wrote anything. Whether it’s been a blog or just writing in general. Sometimes I get in slumps and cannot get anything to flow out of my fingertips. (At least that’s the excuse I’m giving as to why I haven’t been writing on Frost. The blog excuse is different…)

A few months ago we adopted two cats, a white one named Milo && a black one named Chang. (We lost Chang on Sunday &&& I miss him terribly.) The Boyfriend and I left for work and apparently the cats got extremely upset and went crazy in our bedroom knocking over a glass of water I had sat on my side table. The end result? Well, I just bought a new laptop, if that can give you any indication where the water landed &&& what it destroyed. Yeah. I had to wait until I had the money to replace the laptop.

o&&&& I would just like to say that I never realized how much I depended on my laptop when it came to writing. I bought it, got it home, opened the box and sat it up then I just sat there staring at it. My first thought? “What am I to do now?” I mentioned my thoughts on Facebook &&& everyone basically said the same thing, “You could write now?”

&&& they are right, I could write. I could write all kinds of things. But the part of my brain that has control over my writing is dead. Actually, no, it’s not dead – it just has so many ideas that I can’t keep up with it. Then there is Frost.

Oh Frost. Remember when I said that Frost was finished. The first draft, that is. It is, I didn’t lie. However, every time I sit down to edit the story I always seem to change things. Then I stop working on it for a while and when I pick it back up, I change things again. I can’t stop myself! IT’s like a bad habit. Almost like my own little drug.

My drug of choice? Changing my story over &&& over again. If only they had a meeting for that. Or an app. Maybe an app that would zap my fingers every time I thought of a new way to change it. (((I’ve also changed my characters names at least eight times since I started writing it back in November 2012.)))

How long does it take before people stop believing you about writing a book? I started this story in 2012, can still remember what I was doing, what I felt like and the fact I sat on my bed (didn’t have a desk) for six hours straight writing. I feel like I’m doing something wrong, most people finish books within a year, and here I am six years later.

I don’t know.

Off thought, I think I may like this new editing screen. I’m not sure how long it’s been different, but this… I like.

Today’s Thought.

I will get my novel, Frost, published.

Thoughts Crashing Into Each Other.

The other day, standing in the shower, for a brief moment – I seriously started thinking about stomach surgery. Packing up a little car, going for a ride, talking to a doctor, and having surgery to shrink my football stomach down to a lemon.

In that moment, I quit.

I quit wanting to try, wanting to prove people wrong, and wanting to be proud of my weight loss. In that moment I decided that I will never pull the weight off, and that I’ll be obese the rest of my life. (Even if I don’t want to be.) I decided that I was only fooling myself into thinking that I can do it. (Even though a few years ago I was doing it and a few months ago, I was doing it.) I decided that the journey was too long and if I got the surgery that it would help and take away half the battle. I’d go down one hundred pounds so quick that I would have the energy, and the oompth I’m missing out on. I’d probably be taken off some medications and have a different outlook on life.

I got out of the shower and stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself. I looked at all the extra that I have. I lifted my arms and looked at my sides, I turned and looked at my back. I felt tears, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t let the feeling overtake me and I didn’t let the tears win. I dried off, got dressed (in my black t-shirt and black shorts, which I wear all the time because nothing else fits and I cannot afford clothes that fit me), and sat on my bed – in the dark.

I started thinking about life and things I want to see, or accomplish, or feel, or live. I started thinking about complications, and possible outcomes after surgery. I started thinking about that conversation I’d missing out on when someone says, “oh wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight.” I remembered that I always wanted to say, “Thank you, it’s taken a lot, but well worth it.” I think about how the conversation would be different if I have the surgery:

“Oh wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight. You look great!”
“Thank you, but I cheated, I had the surgery knowing damn good && well that I could do it on my own.”
The look on their face will be priceless, their smile would falter and they’d have a look on their face that screamed ‘I’m sorry I asked’.
I’d walk away, hating myself, because deep inside I know I could do it without it.

A few days passed before I ever talked to The Boyfriend about it. We were standing in a gas station, I had just bought three egg rolls out of the hot box, and we were leaving to come home. It was early (my late) and I had just gotten off of work – I was hungry, but I didn’t want to go home and cook. Who wants to do that when you just worked twelve hours and had to get up in six hours to work twelve more?

The cashier had just told us that she and her husband had the surgery. Together. I scanned her face, her arms, body and I sighed. That look flashed through my mind. She’s older than me, but it briefly frightened me. Would I look like that?

On the way to the car I told them boyfriend, “I’ve been thinking about the surgery lately. Maybe it would help.” He was silent at first, like he usually is when it comes to my weight conversations, but then he spoke. He sighed, and told me that if I wanted it he wouldn’t stop me, but he doesn’t want me to have it. He always tells me, but sometimes after doctor visits and they tell me I’ve gained weight since the last visit, if a doctor tells me I have to have it or death will occur, that he would step aside and let it happen. But he doesn’t want me to get it – I understand that.

I told him, once we were sitting down in the car, that maybe if I had the surgery, it would give me the weight loss boost I’m needing (or think I’m needing) to get the rest off. His face fell slightly, and he just stared at me. I know what he was saying without him saying it. It’s not hard to figure out his feelings toward something he doesn’t agree with. I understand – I don’t agree with it, if it’s not the last option. (I don’t think someone that weighs under 250 pounds should have it.)

It’s been a few days since then and it’s been on my mind. The thoughts – the shower – his reaction – his look – that conversation.

What I’ve realized since then is a few things.
One. I know I can pull the weight off by eating better and exercising. I’ve done it before. (Some part of my body seems to start hurting after three months, and I stop, put all the weight plus more back on, and then hate myself.)
Two. I want to be able to tell people that I did it with hard work, determination, and a lot of blood/sweat/tears. (Surgery will not help me do that.)
Three. I think I love myself too much to put myself through it.

So what has all of this thinking made me realize?

I still want to work hard, take years and pull the weight off by myself. Not with help from a surgeon who is out to make a million dollars by fifty. I know it’s going to be hard, a long battle, and it’s going to take a lot of time.

But I can do this. I just have to get my butt in gear and stop making up excuses as to why I can’t, or wont do it.

The Cure : Part Six

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

Zaire stood on the outside of the fence of Quinn’s compound staring through a crack. From where he stood he could see three medium sized guards standing in front of the front door. He knew he’d have to sneak around them; there’s no way he could just bust in and survive. These guys were trained for one purpose: shoot to kill. Normally, someone wouldn’t look at him and think ‘I need to shoot that person’, but since he failed to bring in Josef, everyone was looking for him, not believing that he was killed in the process. Faking his death was completely out of the picture.

But he had a plan. One he was truly hoping wouldn’t fail him now.

First, before putting his plan to action, he had to find the nerve to step foot onto the premises. Where he stood now, outside of the fence, he felt fine, safe – but as soon as he steps inside – all hell will break loose.

Josef was eager to help as much as he could, which wasn’t much, but it was something. After Zaire walked out of the house, the butler came running after him screaming for him to stop. Josef had decided to send him off with a pistol, two knives, and a first aid kit. Once he found places to put everything, to hide, he made his way, on foot, back to Quinn’s compound.

To wait for the perfect opportunity.

He thought about nightfall, but not only does that make it hard for Quinn, and her people to see, it will be hard for Zaire to see. He tossed that out of the window. His best plan of attack is just to do it. Of course, he wasn’t planning to use the gun or knives; he wanted to do this as clean as he possibly could and shooting, or stabbing someone isn’t doing that.

The more he stood there, the more he wanted to run. He knew if he was going to do this – he needed to do it now. He looked up and down the large, long fence and decided that his best bet was to begin from the back. Her compounds sit on 87 acres, most of which were all trees. He knew that the trees would work in favor of him and against them. During his time of being sick he has lost a lot of weight and can hide behind a tree trunk.

Finding a way into the compound is where he foresees the issue.

Zaire didn’t want to leave anything for chance. He knew he was only getting one shot at this, and if he failed, he pretty much would fail at life. As he ran along the fence trying to find either an opening or a way to jump, his mind ran rampant. He knew there were many ways this could so south, but he wasn’t going to give up.

He needed to fight.

At the top of a small hill the fence turned, taking a corner. At the end of the corner was four tree stumps. It seems as if someone cut them down to build the fence straight, but then changed their mind and went around it instead. He stopped, measuring in his mind whether he could use them to jump the fence – safely.

He carefully stepped up onto the first trunk. Grabbing the top of the fence for balance, he lifted his leg and stepped up, almost a leg and a half of his, and brought his bought up. Before stepping up on the last trunk he paused, peeking over the fence he scanned the property. Looking left he saw the beginning of the trees, if he had gone any further he would have entered through the land that was covered in trees. He glossed over the idea of jumping down and going through them – but would he be able to find another spot with trunks like this? Did it want to risk it?

He scanned the yard in front of him and saw nothing but what looked like burned grass. Looking to the right he saw the building with blacked out windows – he paused, squinting toward the building.

“Are those claw marks? How did I not see them before now?”

His eyes were glued to the building as they darted back and forth – massively large claw marks looked as if it tried to shred the building multiple times. Some marks looked older than the rest. He tilted his head to the side and began wondering, is this why there are so many guards?

The thought was grand, but he didn’t want to risk being shot. He brought his head back, looking straight he saw two guards, approximately 100 feet away, looking in the opposite direction.

Something had their attention.

He knew if he was going to have the opportunity to get in, this was it. This – was his open door and he was going through it. With one quick, swift motion he jumped up onto the last tree trunk, and swung his body over the fence, landing on the other side a little too hard leaving a slight fuzzy feeling in his legs and feet. He stood momentarily, trying to get his bearings. Something caught his attention to the right – a guard.

“Shoot!”

He needed to get away and fast. He turned to his left and took a run, as fast as he could, to the trees. He found the biggest tree and stopped behind it – catching his breath. Cautiously he peered around the side of the tree. The guard was gone, but the two, who now were in a heated discussion – flinging their arms in all directions, were still over there.

His plan wasn’t working out. He needed a better one. He turned toward the mass number of trees behind him.

If I walk a little further into these trees, and then around the property itself, I might be able to get around those guards.

In his mind the plan seemed perfect. But as he crept further, light beginning to fade into the woods, he wondered if this was such a great idea. A cool chill formed, giving his skin tiny red pimples, and making his hair stand on ends.

The surrounding trees felt like they were going to swallow him whole. Birds no longer chirping, crickets nowhere to be heard – the only noise left for him was the sound of him cracking fallen branches, crunching dead leaves and his heart beat, which was a lot louder than he could remember.

Zaire never stopped moving, attempting to circle around the back of the compound. He still hoped that once he got far enough around he would be able to go around the two guards that stood in place, protecting whatever Quinn hid from the world. But as he continued onward, the forest never ending, he questioned himself on whether he turned too soon, and was now too far into the forest to find his way back out.

He turned around, determining that he should probably find the light. It cannot be too hard, right? He has basically been walking in a straight line, except for the one time where he turned to his right.

Walking back, in what he thought was the way he came from – he looked around and noticed things now that he hadn’t seen before. A wave of panic swept through him and he started zig-zagging through the trees. He wasn’t sure what compelled to do so, but the more he ran, the faster he began. His heart beating hard in his chest – maybe too hard?

What is too hard?

The panic didn’t ease up any when he heard the first crack of thunder. A flash of light caught him off guard and his foot missed a step, tripping over a large root in the ground, he fell to his knees and rolled, head over feet, down a hill and landed hard at the bottom. He didn’t move, a searing pain in his left thigh. Closing his eyes, he grabbed at the pain feeling something wet surrounding something large, and wooden. He cursed, pulling his hand away, he opened his eyes. His hand was now red, and his stomach heaved. He flipped himself over on to his side and vomited on the ground next to his head.

He groaned rolling back onto his back. “This cannot be happening.”

Zaire carefully sat up and opened his bag and pulled out the first aid kid that Josef had given him. Did he know what he was going to have to do?

He needed something to bite down on knowing this was going to hurt. He patted around on the ground blindly – but was unable to feel anything except leaves and hard, dead grass. He cracked his knuckles and placed a hand on the end, of what he thinks was a large piece of tree – counted to four and yanked.

He screamed.

The pain seared through his thigh and up into the rest of his body, throwing his upper torso backwards. He lay on his back heaving, his breath coming in spurts – his left leg limp, bleeding all over the ground.

Zaire knew if he didn’t move he was going to lay there and bleed to death. He needed to get up and keep moving. He needed to find shelter – there had to be something. He cracked open the first aid kit and grabbed a white bandage, tape, and Neosporin. He took his shirt off and ripped it in half, his strength surprising to even him, and cleaned off the spot as well as he could. Squeezing the whole tube of Neosporin on the wound he wrapped all the bandage around his thigh, taping it as securely as he could. Just for a good measure he took the other part of his shirt and tied it around the bandage.

Shakily and unsteady, he stood up. He wobbled a bit before he got the feeling back into his feet and began walking.

After a couple minutes he felt rain drops on his face. He closed his eyes and kept walking, his irritation obvious. Thunder rumbled above him, and a flash of lightning flashed before his eyes. His eyes freaked for a second before trying to focus back on the dark surrounding.

The rain began to pick up making it completely impossible for him to see.

He needed to rest, especially since he couldn’t see where he was going anyway. Stopping, he found a large rock nestled closely next to a large tree. The rock was still dry – the tree must have enough leaves yet that it is basically a roof. He slid up, as well as he could, and sat, curling up against the tree and began waiting for the storm to stop.

He knew he hadn’t been sitting there long but it felt like a million years the rain led up a little. It was a crucial moment, he couldn’t stay there forever, so he jumped down off the rock, his sore leg bending slightly off kilter – he fell.

This fall, however, wasn’t as bad as the last and he stood back up. Just as he got completely straight, ready to take his first step – a noise, behind him, got his attention and he paused.

His heart thumping hard in his chest.

A deep growl rumbled around him. He swallowed hard, remembering all those crazy stories his mother used to tell him when he was a kid about things that live in the forest. He slowly turned, wanting to face whatever it is that was behind him.

Whatever it was stood, on his hind legs, another growl flew from his lips. The only thing that Zaire could see in the dark was huge, angry eyes blaring into his soul. His mouth dropped open, and turned as quick as his sore body would let him and sprinted. His feet flying, hopping over tree trunks, and dead plants. Rushing through spiky plants and down through bushes.

A long, loud clap of thunder rumbled through the sky, as streaks of lightning lit up his path. If it doesn’t get worse, he figured he would be able to make it out.

Another flash – blinding him for mere seconds, unbalancing him forcing him to slow down, he struggled, but eventually picking up a stride, getting away from the figure behind him, lightning flashed around him striking the ground. He dodged a strike just as a bolt of lightning flew just passed his face, pushing him over onto his back. He rolled underneath a broken tree and flung himself forward, getting back to his feet and without missing a beat he continued to run. He could feel his heart beat in his toes but pushed forward hoping to escape. But where exactly was he? The scenery around him was all brand new so he couldn’t tell.

He was scared, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time, but tonight as he made his way through a forest trying not to trip, he felt it. He didn’t waste time by stopping and looking back to see if he was out running them, or try to find things to hurl at whatever may or may not be behind him. He didn’t like the chase he was in, but he must keep going; had to let it keep following him to get to where he needed to be. The scariest part for him was the lack of knowledge. He had no idea what, who – or even how many were behind him. All he knew is that he had to move faster before it caught up with him.

His breath hitched, and he came to a complete stop as his body encountered a large oak tree. Falling backwards he slammed hard onto the ground, a tiny puff of dirt flying up around him. His head was groggy, but he could see the figure standing above him. It didn’t move, instead it just stood there staring down. He felt the thing’s eyes bore deep into his soul. A small growl rumbled around him as his eyes fluttered shut.

I’m dead. I messed up and died way too soon. It wasn’t even the disease that killed me. I killed me. Now what?

Zaire sat up on a large cot and looked around. IT was dark except for a small light peaking in through the bottom and top of the door, the smell of urine overtaking his senses. He touched his lap making sure it wasn’t him.

Dry. Well, that’s a good sign, he thought.

He looked around the room trying to see through the dark. He couldn’t tell someone why, but when he is in a blacked-out room he attempts to use some ability, he doesn’t have, to see around the room. Is this even a room? He had no idea if he was underground, or on top of the ground. For all he knew he was correct and he was dead, and this is hell.

Someone bandaged my wounds?

His attention was stolen from thoughts of himself to something outside of the door.

Are those… footsteps?

He listened hard, trying to make out anything he could. But his spider senses just weren’t kicking in.

The noises stopped, and it was quiet again. His heart rate started to settle just in time for the door to swing open, slamming hard into the wall. His eyes widened at the figure of a woman standing in the doorway illuminated by the lights around her.

“Zaire, did you think it was going to be that easy?”

He sighed – Quinn. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she is the one who would trap him in a small, dank room and cut him off from the world. What would make this any different?

“Did you really think you could just walk back onto my compound and take what’s mine?” Quinn’s voice grew louder, almost heavy. It was if she didn’t care who heard her – that everyone on Earth new what she was up to.

He stood up bracing himself for whatever she was about to throw at him. His body hurt, but a part of him knew it was going to come down to this. Her and him.

He took a step backwards putting more room in between them.

“You should have known how this would end. You fail with the mission and then you try to get back onto my property. Did you really think you’d get the cure from underneath my nose?”

“I had to try.”

She scoffed. “You had to try. Bravo Zaire, bravo! You try and fail. Do you try and fail at everything in life? Or am I just seeing the special guy in front of me?”

“I told you to begin with this isn’t how I wanted to do things. I didn’t want to do this.” He waved his hands around in the air. “I just wanted to be left alone in my house to die. I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to be another one of your puppets.”

Quinn took a step into the room, just as Zaire took another step backwards – his back touching the wall. “You have nowhere to go, Zaire – you’re trapped.”

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.”

“Oh Zaire, no, no, no. You don’t understand how all of this works.” She took a couple more steps toward him before dropping her head, almost in thought, and putting her hands behind her back. “I had no plans of ever killing you. I had hoped you’d kill my Uncle, so I wouldn’t have to. But I guess it’s time I just do it myself.”

“Yes, Quinn.” A deep authoritative voice behind her startled her. “Yes, I think it’s about time you finally just come at me yourself.”

Quinn didn’t turn around, “Josef, Uncle, it’s nice to see you. It’s been too long.”

“I’m sick of the games Quinn, your mother wouldn’t want this for you.”

“She also wouldn’t want my only Uncle, her only brother, to treat her niece like this.”

Josef shook his head and flicked a cigarette onto the floor, stepping on it. “How am I treating you? I offered you many positions to work with me. TO help me. To live with me. But you turned them all down saying you shouldn’t have to work. I should just give you stuff for free.”

She turned to face Josef, a light lit up her face – anger in her eyes. “I shouldn’t! I should just be loved by you enough that you would just give me things. You were supposed to give me the world. Don’t you remember that when I was younger?”

“I still want to give you the world, but not like this. Not the way you want it. You cannot just kill me and pretend that I never existed and attempt to take over my world.” He stopped, his voice dropped to almost a whisper, sad, “You cannot be me.”

Quinn was quick, probably too quick. Before Zaire had noticed she was across the room at Josef. She grabbed a pipe that was beside the door and swung, connecting with his face. Josef wobbled slightly before gaining his composure. She took another step toward him and kicked his calf, knocking his feet out from underneath him.

Josef fell landing on his stomach. He stood and looked down at Quinn. “I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to fight you.”

“Then I guess you’re going to die.” Quinn jumped, swinging her right leg up colliding with Josef’s face. His head jerked, unbalancing him, until his whole body slammed into a wall.

“Quinn, stop!” Zaire heard the words escape his mouth, but he had no idea why. Why does he care what happens between these two if it didn’t involve him? If Josef killed Quinn, he would be safe and would be able to go home. If Quinn killed Josef, she would finally get what he wanted all along and maybe, possibly she’d let him go.

So why is he telling her to stop?

Quinn looked back eyeing Zaire, “stay out of this Zaire, no need for you to get hurt because of it.”

Just as Quinn turned back around to face Josef, he was gone. She looked behind her, her head turning back and forth, and then in front. Without realizing it, Josef was standing behind her brandishing a gun pushing it into her back.

“I’m sick of this. Do you hear me, Quinn – I’m tired of your games and you thinking you can get away with all of this.” Josef spoke quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Uncle, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you shot me.”

“Quinn, you don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of doing.”

Zaire spotted the gun and backed himself up into a corner. Now he absolutely didn’t want to be a part of this family drama. When guns get involved, he tends to get out of the way and away from the whole thing. Sadly, for him, tonight, he cannot do that.

Quinn elbowed Josef in the stomach, turning, she grabbed his hand that held the gun. They wrestled for a moment before Quinn shook his hand. He lost grip and dropped the loaded gun onto the floor. It hit just hard enough it fired.

They both stopped.

I knew I was going to die, Zaire thought to himself. But I always figured it would be because of the illness, not because of careless, heartless people. Both Josef and Quinn have no idea what they’re doing to the people around them and probably never will. As for me, I’m kind of glad it happened like this. At least I know that I was taken out by accident rather than purpose. I’m not sorry that I didn’t kill Josef when I went to his house and I’m glad that Quinn wasn’t able to remove his life. She doesn’t deserve anything – ever.

Fin.