354

Among her spiral notebooks, filled with drawings, lists, and taped-in movie ticket stubs was a note from herself.  Lyra had drawn it using colored markers, changing the color at every word and forming the letters carefully.  Some had pressed so hard there were dots in the corners where the markers lingered for a little too long.  In the colorful words was white-hot anger and frustration.

REMEMBER!!!!!!!
Remember what HE did to you with the footstool!
Remember the way you were treated!
Don't forget how he LIED!!!!!!!
NEVER forget and NEVER forgive!!!!!!!

The extra exclamation points were drawn with passion.  There were underlines and multiple colors and circles around capitalized words.  Lyra was screaming at herself from the past, begging her to remember and to hold onto her bitterness.  Lyra felt absurdly guilty: she didn't remember.  She knew the "he" was her brother, and she even vaguely remembered using her markers to make the note, but she had no idea what would have happened with a footstool to make her so angry as to never want to forgive Thomas, ever, for the rest of her life.

353

The bright orange motorhome appeared in the strip mall's parking lot overnight, and was an object of curiosity in a small town where not much was different.  Looking at it closer, it was not solid orange, but rather a pattern of intricate swirls of varying shades that gave the illusion of movement, even when parked.  The vehicle under the paint was an old box of a 26-footer, probably from the late 1970s, but any repairs were done thoroughly and smoothly so it looked new.  It stayed there, curtains drawn, all day on Wednesday, but towards evening, the entertainers finally emerged to walk the town.

352

Doug woke early, having to pee.  He peered myopically at his alarm clock, telling himself that if it was still before eight, he could go back to sleep.  It was seven.  Doug made sure he threw the covers closed again so the bed would stay warm, and he shuffled into his moccasins, crossed his small room in two steps and  opened the door to the dark hallway.  He was so glad to be back home and away from his crazy mother.

When his parents were divorcing, his mother had uprooted him from the city in which he had been raised and pulled him as far from his father as they could get, to his grandmother's house.  Doug loved his grandmother, but moving to a tiny town in rural Pennsylvania, being dragged out of school in the middle of his extremely awkward freshman year, and having his family torn in two was devastating.  The more he lived alone with his mother without his father's influence, the more he resented her and the more he understood why his father would cheat on her.  For three years he endured his mother's faint heart and weeping and bitterness.

Doug was what was called a late bloomer.  He was short, pudgy, and his voice hadn't changed yet.  He believed it was because of his mother, and lack of contact with his father, that had stunted him.  In his junior year of high school, he took the GED instead of enduring another year of mockery.  In a finally deepening voice, he announced his intention to move back home, to the city, with his father.

His mother wept, of course.  "Your father won't want you back," she announced.  "He loves his freedom."

"He already said he wants me back."  Doug stood, defiant.  He had been secretly calling his father and arranging it all behind his mother's back.  When he told her, she accused him of the same kind of deception as his father.  Doug was secretly proud.  His father picked him up himself, driving a new vintage Volvo.  They took the winding roads back home at top speed.

Doug had been back with his father for just under a year when he woke a seven in the morning in his old room, mattress on the floor and clothes in a pile simply because his mother never would have allowed it.  His eyes were only half open when he got to the bathroom door and found it closed.  He knocked lightly, "Dad?  Gotta pee."  Without an answer, Doug turned the knob and was only able to push the door open a couple of inches before it bumped to a stop.  "Sorry!"  Without a response, Doug blinked the sleep from his eyes and pushed harder at the door, shoving his father's arm and shoulder enough to poke his head inside.  His father lay on the floor, unmoving.  Cold.  Dead of a massive heart attack.

351

Lauren had always wanted adventure, but the fears instilled in her by her parents and the media kept her from pushing her life out of the norm.  As a child, she dreamed of hopping into the boxcar of a train and traveling the country, leaning back on a pile of hay and pointing her feet to the door to watch the world change.  She would eat beans out of a can and build campfires.  Lauren even tied a red kerchief to the end of her practice baton to see how it felt.  It felt good.  But news stories about how many people were killed by trains, and how you could easily fall under the wheels and lose a leg, or the other stories about women raped down by the tracks made Lauren wary of hobos.

She tried again with the romantic idea of hitchhiking across the United States.  She would get good walking boots and a frame backpack and a roll of toilet paper and a flashlight and a rain poncho and some granola bars and put out her thumb.  School films about the dangers of getting into cars with strangers put an end to that adventure, too.  Having all your money stolen, your carefully stocked backpack pillaged, and, yes, more threat of rape, frightened her away again.

Lauren lived at home while in college, but she contemplated moving in with her longtime boyfriend.  Certainly, that could be an adventure!  It was nearly enough to make her enthusiastic, even though her boyfriend was a bit too macho, a bit too loose with money, and a bit too...realistic.  Driving back to her parents from his place, the sky was darkening, making Lauren think of wet city streets and detectives following dark strangers, when she registered a man with a dog walking on the side of the thruway.  You weren't supposed to walk there, which is why she noticed.  The man's frame backpack stood just over his head, and he already wore an army-green poncho against the threat of rain.  His yellow dog trotted next to him on an old leash.  Lauren noticed the man was dirty, but that he kept his dog away from the traffic, which was thoughtful.  She saw the man wore a red kerchief as a bandana to hold back his long, greasy hair.  The man's beard, and how fast she passed them, made it difficult to judge his age, but he stood tall and seemed to move easily.  The man and his dog would surely get soaked when the ominous clouds finally opened.

It was far too late to stop and let him walk up to the car--the thruway was 65 miles an hour--but Lauren found her mouth was dry and she was sitting up straighter.  She put on her turn signal and took the next exit.  Lauren couldn't believe herself when she made her way around the cloverleaf to re-enter the thruway on the other side, and essentially make a figure eight to come back around behind the scruffy man and his dog.  Lauren was about to pick up a hitchhiker.

350

Up close, the reporter looked much older than she appeared in her fifteen minute videos, and her make-up was so thick, Jaimie wanted to scratch through it with a fingernail.  "Why did you decide to live without technology?"  The reporter leaned forward a little, waiting.

Jaimie glanced at the camera's lens, peeking through the middle of the reporter's teased hair.  The reported gestured with her eyes to look back down.  "Because," Jaimie tried to ignore the bug-like lashes waving their displeasure, "we have forgotten how to live without a filter."

349

I was going to be an archaeologist, but my father had a family friend talk me out of it.  Already a junior in university, I still hadn't declared my major.  My wide-ranging interests had me in classes like Descriptive Astronomy, Medical Anthropology, Philosophy in Literature, and Abnormal Psychology.  I was getting better grades than I ever did in high school, but not being clear about what I wanted to do after college was worrying my parents.  I suppose my love of Indiana Jones movies was not a great reason to want to become an archaeologist, but I thought it was enough until Mr. Baylor stopped me before he went back down to my dad's den to continue the poker game they had going.

Mr. Baylor leaned towards me confidentially, a green can of Genny Cream Ale in one hand.  "There are hundreds of starving archaeologists sitting around the streets of Greece, hoping some established dig will pick them up."  He shook his head sadly.  "Hardly anybody makes it nowadays.  My son saw them.  Students wasting their lives hoping for a chance at a famous dig.  It's not a viable career anymore."

I nodded and listened to Mr. Baylor's advice, urged on me by my father.  So I went to school the next week and declared my alternate choice as my major: English.  English major, with a goal of being a writer.  Yep.  Much more likely to be a viable career.

348

Hospitals made June sad, but old people going into hospitals made her sadder.  Not the ones being brought in for medical attention, but rather the old people going in to visit.  June slowed as she walked to her routine mammogram appointment in the imaging center of the hospital to avoid getting too close to an old man entering with a bouquet of flowers.  His life flashed before June's eyes, and she saw him visiting his wife who would never leave her room alive.  The old man patting her hand for the last time.  Kissing her forehead.  Going home and never seeing his love again in this world.  June clutched her purse to her chest and started to run.

347

There was no way I could understand what life was like for them, even though I had been shunted to the same segregary.  People outside called it Seg 5, but those inside just called it "Five."  I had been inside more than I had been outside, but I would never quite be a part of Five.  Five was for Denati, and I would always be Human.

346

Self-delusion is humanity's most dreadful superpower.  When truth is undesirable, humans cling to lies.  When reality is unpleasant, humans hide behind facades.  When change is inevitable, humans close their eyes and lay dead, unmoving, unmovable.  Strip away the delusion and bare yourself to the universe.

"Does it hurt?" asked Nicco.  Midway through the conversation with his Grandpa Frank, Nicco had dropped his Matchbox car, wheels up on the carpet.

"Yes."  Grandpa Frank never sugarcoated.  "Truth is worth the pain."

345

Outside, the insistent groan of an airplane, the volume passing believability and crossing into a little thrill of fear.  Knowing it's probably from the nearest base on a training loop, but waiting for the down-the-scale whistle of a bomb, or, perhaps, of the plane itself.  Picturing a path of destruction as it plows through houses and parked cars and fire hydrants.  Explosions rocking the neighborhood, windows shaking in their frames, car alarms adding to the cacophony.  Wondering what you would do if it was the first wave of an invading army.  What would you grab?  How self-sufficient and brilliant would you be as the hero of this apocalyptic adventure?

344

My projector stopped working again today, and I was forced to take it off.  I felt so small without it.  Disconnected.  I realized my partmental smelled like unwashed clothes and old food.  My head was throbbing because I had tried to use my projector far longer than I should have when it wasn't properly connecting to my neural input.  I still felt like there were lines scrolling up and up and up my vision.  I closed them and rubbed my head in gentle circles.  I ran my brain around in circles trying to find a way around it, but I had no choice: I would have to leave my room.

343

We watched from inside the house, my sisters and I, as people came and picked through the piles of garbage we had put out earlier that day.  It was expected that some would show up to go through what we had sorted and left on the porch as "good", but what we hadn't expected was that grownups would dig into the bags and boxes at the curb, stuffed with trash.  One man, cigarette dangling from his mouth and coughing into the frigid night air, loaded the garbage onto a tarp and dragged it across the street to his small house.  My younger sisters were horrified and wanted to yell at them to go away.  "Don't they know we put the good stuff on the porch?  Why isn't anyone looking up here?"  Annabelle was probably mad that all her hard work wasn't being appreciated, though she had done the least of the three of us.

342

"When you look back on the story of your life," said my mother, blowing her cigarette smoke out the side of her mouth, "what are you going to be able to say?"  She tapped off the ashes into her vintage, turquoise plastic ashtray using the end of her long, red nail.  "I played a lot of video games," she mocked.  "Will that be it?"  Mother leaned forward, the plastic kitchen chair cushion squeaking, "You need to do something with your life, Martin."  The smell of coffee and cigarettes are the smell of my mother.  I don't smoke and I don't drink coffee, and I never will.

341

The sun over the ocean was white-bright.  The waves, even at a distance, made a calming sound, not unlike breathing, as it washed inexorably up and retreated down the sandy beach.  The breathing water was punctuated by an even more distant heavy sigh against the heavy, black rocks.  In, and out, it breathed, a living force contrasting the changeable and unpredictable lives of the humans on the shore.

340

I despise keeping the secrets of my ex-boyfriends.  Invariably, they have each confessed something to me, and I hold it in my memory, wishing I could tell someone, but feeling some sort of loyalty to the promise implied by love no longer felt; the promise that I would keep the secrets forever.

I suppose it bothers me because they promised to love me forever, and, clearly, that didn't work out.  To whom should I confess these secrets?  Certainly not a new boyfriend, if there even were one.  He would not understand.  These secrets are big, not in the scope of the world, but rather in terms of their intimacy.  How can I stand to keep their secrets?

I can't.  I will confess two of them now from from the worst boyfriend I ever had.  He was abusive, and I barely escaped him with my self intact.  I was in high school and he was only my second boyfriend ever, so I hope you can forgive me for my idiocy.  We'll call him Peter.  Peter, I can see now, was a sociopath.  He lied, and lied and lied to everyone, and especially to me.  He lied to his mother, he lied to his step-father, and he lied to himself.  He was stupid, but oh, so clever.  He could manipulate.  He had no emotions of his own, but he could twist yours into knots.  He was without remorse, but he could make you feel bad about anything.  He was without conscience and would drag anyone down into the darkness with him because you couldn't believe anyone could be so evil.  He would hold me down when I said no and he'd do it anyway.  He would hit me in the leg, though I wished and wished he'd hit me in the face so I'd have a "valid" excuse to escape.  He followed me and questioned me and lied to the police and stole and lied and separated me from my friends and family.  You can see why I don't feel bad revealing Peter's secrets.

Peter has two related secrets.  One: he once reached into the toilet to squash his own poop with his hands to make it look like diarrhea, so he could get out of going to work at Burger King.  Two: he faked abdominal pain to get out of going to school, but he faked it hard and couldn't back down, so his mother, a nurse, took him to the hospital.  He doubled down on his lie and kept faking for the doctors who performed a needless appendectomy.  Peter was a committed liar.  Pity the poor high school girl, so innocent and desperate to please and be liked.  Pity her carrying the sociopath's secrets and her own hidden hurts.

339

It was a hot day, and people were lined up outside the Dairy Queen ten deep.  Suzie could see them, and she hated them all because she wanted ice cream so badly.  Last summer, she had made it a rule not to be seen eating outside, after that little brat pointed at her and bellowed for all to hear, "Mommy, look, that lady is making herself fatter!"  It was the curse of the overweight to be self-conscious public eaters.  It had been three years since Suzie had dared attempt a buffet, not wanting to see the sadness in the eyes of the slim, Chinese maitre d who saw his profits going down her gullet.  The shame staring.  The averted looks of horror.  The guilt upon her that made Suzie simply want to eat more until her blubber would flow and absorb all those self-righteous jerks who dared to judge her.

338

Jane stumbled into his arms at a business party and didn't see him again for five years.  The party was a stereotypical office holiday gathering.  The bosses wore their suits and generally stood together looking important and drinking steadily.  The bosses' wives stood in their own cluster, wondering who their husbands were sleeping with.  The secretaries dragged their awkward boyfriends or husbands, introducing them while hanging hard on to their arms.  A few oddballs hung around the edges, like Jim from the mail room; Dave, Jordan and the other Dave from IT; and Jane, the temp.

337

The world as we know it was destroyed in three days.  Less than half the time some people say it was created, and much less than it took to actually create it.  Humans have always lamented their smallness, some more than others.  Those who lamented more often strove to gather power.  They wanted to change the world; well, they did.  Would they be remembered forever, the way they wanted?  Would their children and their children's children carry on their name and their legacy?  Nope.  And why would anyone want to be remembered with such hate?

336

What is holding you back from the lifestyle you desire?  Money?  Health?  Job?  Family?  No matter your current situation, you CAN achieve your dreams, in less time than you think!  By making small, easily sustainable changes in your life, you will smoothly transition into the person you always knew you could be, with the money, health, job and family of which you've always dreamed.

How?

Your first step is VISUALIZATION.  You need to picture yourself where you've always wanted to be.  Make a list of your desires, and even add pictures.  Post it where you will see it every morning when you awake, and look at it before you leave your bed.  Visualize your ideal life for five minutes every morning.  Now you're well on your way!

335

Hesper's chain wouldn't let her move further than six feet from the basement wall.  She used the full stretch to the left, as close to the sump pump as she could get, as her bathroom.  She used the full stretch to the right for sleeping, her left ankle always pointed to the chain's end bolted to the wall.  The right side was next to the furnace, which kept her slightly warmer than anywhere else.

334

Hal was scanned and the lights brought to a low level as he passed through the opaque door to his apartment.  He stripped his coat and held it out sideways without breaking stride.  By the time he let go of his coat, a laundering arm had already grabbed it and pulled it through the wall and was currently removing all traces of pollutant, radiation, and ring around the collar.  Hal did the same with his boots, shirt, pants and socks.  At the end of what seemed like an unnaturally long hallway appeared shower heads, today arranged on three sides as well as above, having sensed Hal's stressful day.

333

The grey spring skies swirled with fast-moving clouds and it was the perfect day to test the Mylar balloon tube.  The tube was six feet long and ten inches across and it would inflate with the strong wind, crinkling and filling until it pulled itself free to sail through the suburban backyards.  Kate ran after her balloon to inflate it again.  No one stopped the eight year old from running over their grass, and there were no fences except for two, much further down the block than she would travel.  Kate snatched up the balloon to fill and release it again, but she paused to look around.  Though not exactly the same, the houses were similar and gave Kate a similar feeling of quiet.  The trees had yet to unfurl leaves, but the grass was a brilliant green.  Dark grey and light grey swirled above.  She felt excitement and adventure around the corner.

332

"Tessa Beneveau may be a beautiful woman," complained Decker McBide, "but she is no lady."  He finished cleaning his six shooter, refilling the chambers with his custom made bullets.

Winston James smiled, his feet crossed on the desk between them, "But Decker, she is very beautiful."

Decker clicked the gun's cylinder home and sighted his weapon before dropping it back into his leather holster.  "This time, I don't think it'll be enough."

331

Estate Sale - All Must Go!  No reasonable offer refused!  Some antiques, tools, jewelery and collectables.  Lots of nice items, furniture, housewares, clothing, nic-nacks, '98 Oldsmobile - super clean, 56K miles.  Books, books, books!  Kitchen, office equipment, toys, games, yard equipment.  Attic, basement and garage all full!  Too much to list.
Sat & Sun 9 am - ???
NO EARLY BIRDS


The ad wasn't completely professional, which was either good or bad.  Professional estate sale organizers tended to overprice, especially when "antiques, tools, jewelery and collectables" were singled out; however, private estate sales could be way overpriced if the person running the sale knew the original cost of the items.  I was leaning toward it being a good thing because the brand names of the items weren't listed.  Some sellers even listed original prices, and then the whole sale was useless to me.  Intriguing was, of course, the books and games, but also the fact there was an attic, basement and garage--those are the real deals.  People who put together estate sales tend to think the treasures are already on display, but I find them buried and dusty.  Even buyers shy away from dirt and mold, but not me.  I can't afford what they know is great; I have to find what they don't know.

330

The apprentice was much more upset about the latest training session than the mage, though he kept his hot indignation down to a simmer as he carried his master's supply cases back to their workshop.  Once inside, however, Obidiah's indignation boiled up.

"That was... awful!" he cried, being careful to set down the cases first.  "What a load of arrogant...self-centered...twits!  Why didn't you chastise that lot?"

Master Daniel smiled and shook his head, "It would do no good."

"But they need to know how wrong they are!"  Obi puffed, so outraged, it was difficult to find constructive words.

"They would not understand," replied Master Daniel.  "So far, you have attended me with groups where those who think they already know are outnumbered by those who wish to learn.  This group, however," he spread his hands in a gesture of inevitability, "was overly-concentrated with those of little skill and much inaccurate knowledge."

Obi growled in frustration and paced the stone floor.  "They were arrogant without any reason.  They were disrespectful.  They wasted our time!"

Master Daniel smiled and held Obi's shoulders, "Yes.  It is up to us to find those who are willing and able to learn.  We cannot let ourselves be frustrated by the, how you say, the 'twits'."

329

My mother always told me that a trailer park is only depressing if you let it be, and she did a very good job keeping our trailer fresh and inviting and well-decorated, inside and out.  We didn't have a lot of money, but Mom was a savvy thrift store, yard sale and estate sale shopper.  I already knew if we couldn't afford it, we didn't buy it, but my mom added, "If you can afford it, but it's junk, don't buy it."  Our trailer never had wood cut-outs or plastic gnomes or spinners or LED light-up ceramic cats.  We had an English garden.

When Mom passed, everything was depressing, especially the trailer park.

328

The enchanter bent low over his crystal bowl, concentrating on seeing images in the shallow water.  He was focusing not on the King nor any of the Royal Family.  Nor was he focusing on his enemies.  The enchanter was focusing on a seamstress.

327

It was Barbara's compulsion to lick the final set of silverware she set for the morning's breakfast before closing down the hotel dining room for the evening.  It was her secret and her control over someone's life, and it made her feel powerful and naughty.  She had been doing it for nearly a year when she was called to fill in for Sasha.  "I'm sorry to wake you, Barbara.  It's Millie, at Hilton.  Sasha called in and with the convention this weekend, we really need someone to fill in this morning.  I can give you the evening off.  I wouldn't ask, but it's an emergency."

That morning, Barbara finally got to see someone receive her secret.

326

The tiny town of Harborsfeld just wasn't the same after they attempted to execute Jacob Frier.  The townsfolk tried to comfort themselves with the fact that he wasn't dead, but the intent was difficult to overcome.  Some found limited comfort in repeating that the attempt was justified, given what they knew, and the circumstances, but it would take a mighty duplicitous mind to make that particular comfort stick.  No, the tiny town of Harborsfeld now held within it a collective guilt and shame, which would drive many away.

325

When you hurt yourself or become sick, your very first thought is to berate yourself for not appreciating the times when you felt fine.  "Why didn't I appreciate being able to sit without pain?"  "Why didn't I appreciate being able to breathe?"  "Why didn't I appreciate being able to concentrate?"

Take a moment now and assess yourself.  How do you feel?  Are you sitting comfortably?  If not, adjust your body or even change your seat.  Relax your shoulders and straighten your neck.  Take a deep breath, in and out.  In and out.  Are you good?  Sit back and appreciate your wellness for a moment.  Even if you aren't 100%, appreciate what you have.  It could be worse, right?  Always.  After all, the dead aren't reading this book.

324

Sitting in the passenger seat of a car again was freaking me out.  After only being able to walk or maybe hitch a ride on the back of an animal-drawn cart, the speed at which the scenery was streaking by was alarming.  Without wanting to, I was clutching the "ohshit" handle and my legs were stiff in front of me.  The smell, too.  It reeked in here, though I know I reeked to the driver.  I smelled like animal, but the car smelled like chemicals and it burned my sensitized nose.