This is a 4-part insert I did as a birthday present for my buddy Mike Cummins, another former bouncer at the Copper Tank.  I wrote, drew and printed the pages and then glued them to the inside of the actual Comic by Frank Miller so that they looked like they were part of the whole thing.  He told me this was the best birthday present he ever got and for that, I was thankful.

 The scene takes place between the page where Marv walks into the bar and the one where he is escorted out by the soon to be deceased hitmen.  It was a seamless transition and I have to say that this is some of my best work.

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I don't claim to be an expert in this matter.  Not one tiny bit.  My knowledge of writing is based solely on my own personal activity in the medium mixed in with a very tiny bit of nuance provided me by the written advice of a select few authors waxing poetic on the subject.  Granted I have written more words than the average person and consider myself to be one with something to say, (A very key ingredient to the art of writing) that alone does not make me the final word on the subject.  I have, however, in my delving into the medium noticed subtle differences in the different types of writing I tend to gravitate towards.  I have written short stories, graphic novellas and a very short book.  None of these have been published as of this writing but I have walked away from these experiences noting how varied my approach is in attacking each of the mediums, thus bringing me to put these differences down on paper.  This will come as no surprise to anyone who has written anything like I have done, but this viewpoint is not meant to be educational for them.  They already feel my pain.  This is for the rest of you who wonder what it takes to put paper and pen together and create people where none existed before.

When writing a short story (I have found that these to be the easiest by far) it is essential to have a solid idea.  A hook, if you will. I have had the easiest time in these when the idea is clear and focused.  I tend to start with a few sentences and let the narrative guide me where it wants to go.  I very rarely outline this type or plan it too far in advance and almost never know how it will end until I actually GET to the ending.  It normally takes me about an hour to sit down and write a 15-17 page story of this type (all provided the idea is clear in my head) and I will do 1 maybe 2 rewrites on it before presenting it to the masses and calling it complete.  Total time invested is about 1 day.  These come so easily to me it honestly amazes me that more people don't do it themselves.  In this type of writing, you really don't have time to get too deep or thought provoking.  It's a lot like telling a joke.  Use the setup as long as it takes to get your audience on the edge and then deliver the punchline like a missile.  Boom.  Sometimes it works, but sometimes it fails miserably.  The quality comes in the setup.  If you can get the reader to put themselves in the mind of your creation for just one second, that payoff at the end suddenly affects them as well.  The writers who are successful at this are the ones that can craft a story that in the first 30 words has you dying for more.

When writing a graphic novel (comic book for those less well versed on the medium) there are quite a few extra steps involved that stretch the process out indefinitely.  The first and most important one is that I draw the stories as well.  This adds an incredible amount of time to the creation of the story in that I have to draw each panel one by one in addition to designing the dialogue around them.  Think of it in these terms, I am making a movie.  Each panel and advancement of the story requires its own shot, its own framing, lighting, camera angle, and its own props.  Each of the characters in the story becomes an actor, gifted with nuance and expression that when written take one line of copy (He wrinkled his brow) but when drawn take on a whole new level.  This is just in the initial gestation of the story.  Generally I have these stories blocked out a little firmer than the short stories and the freestyle writing happens, albeit a lot slower.  I will rewrite these once, maybe twice.  The actual sweatwork involved in drawing 18-25 pages of story at 5 panels per page on average for about 100-125 individually framed and setpiece drawings makes wholesale rewriting almost impossible. I take my time on these so that I don't have to redo it.  I may tweak, but that takes a lot less effort than cutting off a chapter and redrawing 8 pages to blend the story back together.  This means that while I can crank out the written word at a fairly speedy clip, the drawn page takes a bit longer.  I will work on a 22 page story for months until it feels right enough to share.   This makes the drawings a lot more meaningful to me in that so much work goes into each and every single panel.  I feel like a visual Hemmingway after a fashion.  Where he trimmed the unessential words from his story until all that was left was the absolute core, I do the same to the panel.  Every picture is worth a thousand words.  I put nothing in my picture that doesn't have meaning, down to the graffiti I draw painted on an alleyway wall.  Sometimes I dig deep into my past and put a wall I have seen (or, let's be honest here, actually painted) into a panel.  Sometimes the headline on a newspaper on the ground says something important.  Sometimes the movie playing at the multiplex also is a story in its own right.  The point is, the graphic novella as a writing medium is much more complex.  I'll leave it at that.

It is the novel or book that takes the longest of the three to craft.  This one I start with a short story and grow it into a full-blown tsunami of words.  When I get an idea I like, if it has legs and could support itself over 200 or so pages, the first order of business is outline.  Normally I do not outline my work.  I have found through my experience that the outline robs something from the creative process.  I have seen many a good story in my head turn to rubbish on paper because it bumped into the walls of the outline I had set down in stone. The writing of a novel however dictates that the story be written over a long stretch and fleshed in where necessary.  In the short story, Boy meets Girl, Boy marries Girl.  In the Novel, Boy is born, Boy has a history, Boy moves on and through his travels meets an incredible Girl, etc.  There is just a little more that goes into it.  You are eating take out with the short story whereas in the novel, you have time for appetizers and desert.  These take a long time to craft and I generally rewrite them many, many times, eliminating wholesale chapters and crafting brand new ones where needed, adding and deleting characters like some enigmatic God. 

There are other manner of writing out there such as poetry that I am not ignoring, just overlooking for the sake of my point which is this.  More people would write if they had any inkling how easy it is.  It's a lot like playing make-believe.  I realize there are those of us who are really good at living in fantasy worlds and thus are ideally suited to writing, but with a little inspiration, anyone can write a good ghost story.  Even if it is something as simple as their own description of an actual event.  The more practice they get at it, the better the telling becomes until before they know it, they are making little warm rivers of yellow stream down the pantsleg of a total stranger while they describe the cold waves of nausea that swept over them like chills from a fever that's about to break as the whispy yellowey-eyed apparition before them suddenly stopped drifting aimlessly about and began creeping right towards them with a broken-glass whisper that hissed through the smoke and said, "Please don't bother running.  It will do you no good."

Or Should Ann Coulter be given a Code Red?

I have taken the tack with this woman in the past of ingoring her.  It always seemed the best way to legitimize her opinions by actually paying attention to them.  But this time I think she has gone too far and I have to pull Old King Henry's line out of the air and hope for once someone takes her to the woodshed.

I refuse to attack her personally.  That's her angle.  Her favorite manner is taking a nuance or quirk and pick at it until a scab forms.  Then she picks at the scab until it gets infected, eventually hoping Gangrene sets in and she gets the troublesome limb amputated. But I will take it upon myself to go for her verbal throat.  The woman is a MeMeMe Vox Populi. Every speech she writes, book she scribes and interview she gives seems aimed at drwing as many fisheyed eyebals her way as possible.  I know with almost complete certainty that hers is a practiced act.  Take this interview she gave  with Donny Deutch where she glibbly postulates that the world would be a better place is we were all Happy Christian Republicans and the Jews were "Perfected" 

I know she was just joking, but it is when a person is joking that they show the most about their mindset.  I don't mean shock value comedians who are just trying to top the next guy, I mean when two 'like-minded folks' get together and talk about how great life would be if that so and so were to fall into a deep deep well.  She jokes when she tells DD that everyone should be christian.  But it's what lies beneath that sense of humor that disturbs me.  She genuinely thinks that she is right in her fascist mindset.  She believes what she is saying, but none of these thoughts are original to her.  She offers nothing.  She is an empty shopping cart.  Her groceries are given to her by the Republican Mindset.  I don't think she would say any of the crap she says if it were not for the fact that there are people that listen to her in the same manner that they listen to Howard Stern.  They just want to hear her top herself.  Whether it's attacking widows of 9/11 victims for being spotlight hogs (while ignoring the very same supporters who toe her company line) or it's her vicious attacks on John Edwards and the Kennedys:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ucac/20080813/cm_ucac/evenbytriallawyerstandardsedwardsarealsleazebag
"Edwards is closely following the Kennedy model of responding to charges of misconduct. First, admit only as much as can be currently proved. Second, get the other party to block any further investigation. I guess he really is "Kennedy-esque"! "

Or her absolutely insane assumption that because the constitution did not define marriage Obama supports slavery:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ucac/20080820/cm_ucac/constitutionalscholarobamaquestionslegalityofslaveryban;_ylt=AjrINw04LMShlikOHj4xRHElr7sF"
But most stunningly, when Warren asked Obama if he supported a constitutional amendment defining marriage as between a man and a woman, Obama said he did not "because historically -- because historically, we have not defined marriage in our Constitution."
I don't care if you support a marriage amendment or not. That answer is literally the stupidest thing I've ever heard anyone say. If marriage were already defined in the Constitution, we wouldn't need an amendment, no?
Say, you know what else was "historically" not defined in the Constitution? Slavery. The words "slavery" and "slave" do not appear once in the original Constitution. The framers correctly thought it would sully the freedom-enshrining document to acknowledge the repellent practice. (Much like abortion!)
But in 1865, the 13th Amendment banned slavery throughout the land, in the first constitutional phrase ever to mention "slavery": "Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction."
On Obama's "historical" argument, they shouldn't have passed the 13th Amendment because the Constitution "historically" had not mentioned slavery.

The woman has stepped off the sidewalk.  She is now playing in traffic and if someone doesn't reach out and theough some sort of intervention giver her a prick-ectomy she will continue to be a danger to others.

It's not her I worry about here...it's the people who are going to have to expend energy swatting this troublesome pest.  Her constant harrangues are simply aimed at distraction.  If I believed her when she said that this is what she truly believes I would be genuinely worried.  If she truly speaks for her masters you have to wonder what they joke about amongst themselves and what so and so would be better off falling down a well.

By: Roger A Wilbanks

"Dude!  She doesn't come to another game.  That's five in a row!"  Arthur threw his helmet against the wall and stomped his way over everyone's gear bags to his seat in the room.  He began ripping his pads off as if he were pulling leeches off of someone he greatly disliked.  "I'm sorry if I'm being a dick here but FUCK!  Every game you've brought her to we got stomped.  I ain't saying it's her fault…"
"Good!"  Reggie shot back.  "You better not go there!  My girlfriend isn't a Jinx!"
"…I ain't saying it's Her fault cause YOU'RE the one that brought her to the game in the first place!"
"That's out of line Arthur." Glenn said.  He was the Captain of the Hawks and in this room people paid attention to him when he spoke.  "Shelly ain't the one that couldn't catch a pass tonight.  Shelly didn't miss three empty nets.  And Shelly didn't fall on her ass at center ice and give up a 3 on 0 rush.  Lay off the girl and focus on getting your game back on track."
"I wasn't having those problems until SHE started coming to the games, Glenn, and you know it!  I went from 2 solid points per game to a douche bag when her face started popping up in the stands and so did a lot of other people here."  Arthur looked around the room for agreement and was met with quiet noncommittal silence.
"You've always been a douche bag, Arthur." Reggie said. "You can't blame My girlfriend for Our losing streak.  That's insane!"
"Look Reg, I know you are a solid goaltender…Hell, you kept us in that asskicking contest right up till the end.  Your game hasn't dropped off at all since she started coming to watch us but everyone else's in here has."  Arthur pleaded.  This time, no one spoke up to defend Shelly and this statement was greeted with the same noncommittal silence as before.  Reggie looked to Glenn who simply shrugged and began untying his skates.  The silence overpowered Reggie and the Big Picture came into focus for him.
"Ok.  She won't be at the next game.  I'm not gonna blame her though.  She's not wearing a sweater for Fuck's sake, you guys are."  Reggie sat down at his place on the bench and pulled off his chest protector.  "I will make sure she is not here all the same.  Any of you call her a Jinx again though and I'll break my stick across your fucking teeth."  He started undoing the straps holding his leg pads on and added,  "You better win or I'm kicking EVERYONE'S ass after!"
"That's it.  Discussion over.  Billy, pass out the game beers." Glenn said.  "Nothing leaves this room boys.  Shelly gets one sniff of this conversation or what was said here and after Reggie pounds you, you'll have to deal with me."  This was unnecessary.  Every man in this room knew the sacred bond that protected free speech within its walls.  Everyone was able to say anything he wanted in here no matter the subject or details and it would never be spoken again on the outside without his expressed consent.  This bond was the glue that held 14 men of varying social degree together into a cohesive unit and it was unbreakable.  The repercussions were too severe for any of them to even contemplate.  Doctors, lawyers and bricklayers alike all nodded in agreement.  The King had spoken and in this room at least, his decision was final.

The Hawks were an adult men's hockey team playing in what they called a beer league.  Each of the men paid over $1000 per season to play ice hockey one night per week.  To the outsiders who giggled about their obsession, this was a fantasy league with grown men living out their daydreams of NHL stardom but to the men on the ice it was something far greater.  These men lived for their sport.  Ice hockey and the weekly game gave them a purpose in life.  It gave them a reason for living.  The bonds these men formed with their teammates transcended those they had with their family or coworkers.  It was as close to war as any of them would ever see, but each of them would tell you that they understood the misery felt by a squad covering themselves in a foxhole while enemy artillery pounded their position.   That happened three games ago in the 12-0 loss to the Vikings. They all felt the elation of victory pulled from the jaws of defeat.  The last game before the losing streak ended with them scoring 3 unanswered goals in the final 5 minutes of regulation to force overtime and an eventual shootout win.  These men walked into battle every Tuesday night and it didn't matter that no one died or that there was no end to the conflict. To them the battle was everything.  They were gladiators with hockey sticks and ice skates instead of swords and shields.  The Hawks were especially motivated by the fact they had won four consecutive league championships, never losing more than 5 games in a single 40 game season.  The current 5 game losing streak ate at their very cores. 

Hockey players are superstitious people by their very nature, more so than any other athlete with the exception of the relief pitcher in baseball or the field goal kicker in football.  Basketball players may have favorite shoes, but hockey players have lucky underwear and in some occasions, will only wash same articles of clothing when their luck takes a turn for the worse.  They tend to be quite obsessive about their individual game, often going to extremes of dedicated ritual to insure their peak performance in that night's game.  They react, often violently, to anything that disrupts their rhythm.  They recognize dangers immediately and will not hesitate to take any action necessary to return their game back to its original state.  Reggie's new girlfriend Shelly started coming to watch him play over a month ago.  She has watched a total of 5 games from the comfort of the stands and the results have all been the same.  Dismal.  The Hawks usual dominance was replaced by mediocrity as they went out of their way to find new ways to lose.  Even the 7-2 lead they carried into the final period of tonight's game wasn't enough to stem the tide of darkness surrounding them.  As the losses piled on, the guys had been searching for a reason why they were suddenly incapable of passing, shooting and skating with their normal skill level.  They all agreed a dark cloud had settled over their bench and tonight, a face was put on the dark cloud, a face and a name.  Shelly.  Now this solemn group of men gathered in the eerie quiet of a usually boisterous locker room demanded her blood.  Reggie was outnumbered and outvoted.  He would have to ban Shelly from the game.  Everyone in this room knew what that meant but it didn't matter.  Reggie would take one for the team.  If his relationship survived this, it was meant to be.  If Shelly understood, she was a gift from Heaven and worthy of praise as a true hockey girlfriend.  As soon as a new win streak was started, she would be welcomed back.  The odds of her starting another losing streak pretty much precluded a return however.  Since this was Reggie's team as much as it was any man's, that spelled bad news for Shelly.  This was the commitment each man gave as his price of admission into this locker room.  Every man in here was prepared to pay whatever price that was demanded of him for the good of the team.  They even called it the Soul Tax in recognition of what it demanded.  That attitude was a necessary ingredient for the success the Hawks had enjoyed lately and now it was Reggie's turn to pay the tax for the team.  Anytime outsiders caught a glimpse of this side of hockey players, they tended to label the entire group as insane. "You don't know the half of it, pal."  Was the unvoiced response that accompanied the shrug and chuckle.
"You want help?" Glenn asked.  It was a pointless offer of solidarity.  Everyone knew Reggie had to handle this solo but that didn't mean the boys weren't behind him in spirit.
"No thanks.  I got this.  It ain't going to be pretty though.  I'll catch up with you guys at the Goose later.  I don't want this to be a public show."  The Goose was the bar and grill most of the players in the league visited after their games.  The beer was cold and the food was hot.  Its closeness to the rink meant that while the players all went home in different directions, they could all drive a mile together for a burger and a beer.
"I understand man and for what it's worth, I'm sorry."
"No need, but I do appreciate it.  I just hope she takes it well.  You all remember that story about the Moose Knuckle forward who banned his girlfriend from their games a while back?  She cut up all four of his tires at their next game and smashed the window in every car in the lot that night."
"You think Shelly's got that in her?"
"Nah.  She'll cry a lot but no property damage.  I hope."
"Either way, good luck.  She's a sweet girl, but this is just the way it has to be."
"Yeah…sure."  Reggie walked alone to the shower to plan his attack.  No one joined him.  His solitude now would be respected.  When he returned and packed his gear, he walked out of the room without a word.  None was needed.  This was a dead man walking.  The Hockey Gods demanded human sacrifice and Shelly was on the altar.  Every man in the room knew this was the price every player must pay some day.

Shelly was outside the rink when Reggie caught up with her.  She was smoking a cigarette, something she only did when she was nervous.  He kissed her on her cheek and walked to his Jeep to pack his gear for the drive home.  When he returned, she was done with the cigarette.  She looked at him expectantly, aware that by the look of defeat in his eyes something wasn't right.
"The other girlfriends and wives won't talk to me anymore." She began. "They think I am to blame for you guys losing!"
"Yeah…about that.." Reggie started.
"Oh GOD! You think that too!  I don't believe this! Are all of you people Completely Insane?  You treat this game like it's, like it's some kind of holy mission, like it's life or death, when it's just-a-fucking-game!  I thought you were different, Reg.  I thought you had a head on your shoulders."
"I don't blame you Shelly.  I know why we've been losing and none of it is your fault.  You don't score goals, you don't play defense and you don't let in goals from the red line.  We do. But if these guys get it into their heads that something needs to change, nothing and no one's going to stop them.  You are right about that, though.  When it comes to the game we are all insane.  That's the price we all pay to do what we do.  We have all stared into the abyss for so long that we have become it."
"So what now?  Did your teammates send you outside to break up with me? Are you going to toss me over a cliff like some Vestal Virgin?"
"No.  I'm not going to break up with you over hockey, are YOU insane?  I just have to ask you to not come to the game next week.  Hockey doesn't control my entire life, just the 2 hours a week I spend here.  That's the only part these guys have any say over."
"Sounds to me like you need to grow a pair, Reg.  You mean to tell me that just because your team can't skate well you are willing to put me on the chopping block?  I'm not the reason you can't win, THEY are!  Yet I don't see you telling them to play better.  I don't see you joining a new team that CAN win with me in the stands.  If you go along with this you are as much to blame as they are.  If you ban me from the game you might as well break up with me because if you don't I'm going to dump your gutless ass right here and right now."
"Come on now Shelly, be reasonable here.  I'm not blaming you for anything.  I know none of this is your fault.  If anyone here is to blame it's me for dragging you out to these games in the first place.  I knew the risks involved when I did that but I invited you out anyway.  It's eaten me up every day since then that we haven't won because deep down, I knew the guys would have this reaction.  But the fact is they asked me to ask you to stay away, knowing full well what that meant and what your reaction would be."
"So you're going to be a good little boy and do just like you are told then?"
"Now that isn't fair.  I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here and trying to do this as painlessly as possible."
"No.  You're feeding me a load of horseshit and hoping I sprout flowers on top of my head.  Look Reg, I'll make this easy on you.  I'll leave now and never come back to this rink again.  No matter what.  I'll even do you one better.  I'll lose your number.  I suggest you do the same with mine.  Don't come calling me when you finally do win."  Shelly turned to walk away and stopped to turn back.  "If you ever win again, that is."

"Ooooooh man that was harsh!" Arthur said as he filled Reggie's glass from the fresh pitcher. "She went there?"
"Yeah, well…what are you gonna do?" Reggie replied.  Shelly wasn't the first casualty in the battle for the League Championship and she certainly would not be the last.
"Think she's gone for good?" Glenn asked as he passed the Chips and Salsa Reggie's way.
"Prolly.  Nobody likes to be called a Jinx.  She took it pretty bad."
The table remained silent with the exception of minimal chitchat.  In tone, it resembled a wake but in reality it was a display of solidarity for the sacrifice made by one of their own.  Each man would fall on that sword in a similar manner for the betterment of the team and each of them knew this.  This was democracy at its purest form.  The majority had spoken and Reggie had followed the will of the group even though it cost him something dear.  That didn't make it any easier for him to accept the loss, but it did make it bearable.
"Alls I'm saying is we better not lose another frikkin game all season.  Because if we do…" That thought was left unspoken but every man knew that it was up to him to step up his individual game to insure that Reggie's sacrifice was not in vain. He had just paid the Soul Tax for his teammates, and nothing short of their complete effort would be acceptable payment for that debt.  At this thought, every man at the table raised his glass unbidden and said, "To Shelly."
Glenn added, "To Reggie."
"To that goddamn trophy." Reggie said.
"To that goddamn trophy." Every man at the table replied.

The End

1

To the untrained eye, a man on a mission often appears insane.  His manner and demeanor have the outer appearance of chaos regardless of what's going on within him.  He is the sea at tempest regardless of how calm his waters are below the surface.  I am that man right now.  I am pulling into the parking lot of Six Flags over Texas with the intention of riding the largest roller coaster I have ever laid eyes on, the Titan.  I am going to pay my $50 admission fee and walk straight to the line all by myself and get onto the one thing in this world I fear.  Ok, fear may be too strong a word.  I dislike it. That is a much more fitting way of putting it.  I always maintained that there was little in this world I truly feared, chalking that attitude up to an early acceptance of death in my youth.  It is amazing how liberating it is once you realize that saving your own life is all in vain.  The Titan did intimidate me, however.  It's sheer vertical rise and similar vertical fall were the largest I had ever seen.  I am no roller coaster buff.  I am well aware that there are bands of traveling gypsies that do nothing more that tour the world seeking out the newest and biggest thrill rides.  I am not one of them.  My desire to get in the seat of this behemoth didn't stem from an adrenaline addiction.  I have to do this for the sake of my soul.  I visited this park over a year ago with my then girlfriend and her little brother.  We rode every ride there was in the park twice, except for the Titan, that is.  My dislike for the rollercoaster was there based on the fact I had seen it break once on it's maiden run.  It doesn't matter that its record since then has been spotless; I saw her break down right out of the chute.  This was the image I carried in my mind every time I saw the damnable thing and on that night my girl tried everything in her power to get me to ride it.  Threats, seduction, bribery and insults were all ineffective.  You name it, she tried it and all of it was in vain.  I was immovable as the mountain and am pretty sure my inflexibility on this issue was what contributed to the eventual failure of that particular relationship.  None of this mattered to me at the time though.  The Titan had drawn first blood.  I drive past the park daily now and see it looming in the distance, daring me to scale it and belittling me for my reluctance.  It matters not to the Titan the reason for my avoidance.  The Titan only cares about the What, not the Why.  Every time I pass the park it calls me a coward.  A lot of people will tell you if you ask them that attributing human qualities to clearly inanimate objects is a certain sign of madness.  I can't argue with that.  This calling it does to me is real at least to me, and it is responsible for the fact that I am pulling into this crowded parking lot today, fully prepared to spend $50 to stand in line and ride a roller coaster.  Shit, if I were on the outside looking in at myself objectively, I would put as much physical distance between me and the clearly insane person before me as possible.  I have the benefit of understanding in this case, however, and beg the indulgence of all who cross my insanity and me today.

2

After parking my Jeep almost a mile from the front gate, I begin the walk towards my doom.  It leers at me from this distance.

"I will only get larger from here on out." It tells me.

"Fine."   I reply.   I have already thrown my gauntlet down on this one.  There is no turning back now.  My mind tangents off into a comparison with how Frodo must have felt on approaching Mount Doom but I have no ring to leave behind.  I have only the ghost of cowardice past to exorcise.  Ok, cowardice may not be the right way of putting what on the surface was a personal decision.  I am no coward and being accused of such is anathema to me but the fact that I didn't get on the ride and it bothers me to this day is enough for me to act now.  So I walk on, each step drawing closer to this lumbering giant before me, safe in the knowledge that this too shall pass.

3

When I finally reach the line, I stop to catch my breath under the cooling breeze of the mist sprayers.    I am sweating from the walk and the anxiety that is building within me.  I take my place behind a family of 7, the children of which are all Titan fans. They are fully prepared to make the Titan their first conquest of the day.  I think I will grab a hot dog and take a lap around the park to allow then through well ahead of me.  The father has already looked at me, a single, sweaty 36-year-old man all alone in line at an amusement park and marked me as a potential sex offender.  I can't say I blame him.  Granted it is hot today - Granted I just walked over a mile, I am still sweating way more than a normal man and I am sure the look in my eyes as I stand in the shadow of the Titan is one that anyone would find unsettling.  I'll let them get ahead of me, FAR ahead of me and attack my mountain at my own pace.  I make my way to the ticket booth and hand the teenaged girl in the glass box my Visa card.

"Just one." I say.

She cranes her neck to see behind me and upon verifying that I am indeed by myself shrugs to herself and internally accuses me of God knows what as she processes my request.  This would normally offend me but the Titan is right over my shoulder, glaring at me.  I have more important matter son my mind.  The septuplet ahead of me breaks left after the gate, making a beeline to the Titan as I stop for a moment to regard it.  The father shepherds his flock away from me as I turn around and head to get a hot dog.  Something about amusement parks that always puzzled me.  People spend insane amounts of money to stand in line 90 percent of the time they go to one.  Granted the other 10 percent is what they are here for I have always maintained that you get what you pay for.  When you spend $100 at a park and only $10 of that goes to the actual ride you came for just strikes me as excessive. So here I am, spending money to stand in line to spend more money.  The irony of this fact does not escape me as I take my place in line behind a group of young girls, though I doubt it bothers them in the same way it does me.  These girls are battling indecision, another thing that has always puzzled me.  I am here now, standing line to get a hot dog.  When I get to the counter, I know exactly what I am going to get.  It is the people in this world that walk around in a daze, standing in lines they have no business standing in, who are completely unprepared to place their order when they finally get to the counter that truly annoy me.  There is a part of me that takes tremendous offense at people like this, which is convinced that it is they who make this world a crappier place for the rest of us.  That part got left home today, however.  The girls finally decide on a chicken finger basket to split between them.  How fitting.  I get my hot dog and sit for a minute to enjoy it on solitude.  It is actually a pleasant day outside.  It is warm, but there is a pretty good breeze.  I pause for a second to wonder how that will affect my ride but stop myself before I get too deep into that train of thought.  There is no need to pile on the anxiety today; I already have a full plate on my hands.  That kind of thinking is counter-productive.

I finish my hot dog and start my lap around the park.  It is filled almost to capacity today.  The kids are all out of school and the parents have taken the day off to get a day of family fun in.  I am truly out of place here today.  I am not seeking thrills, I am seeking absolution.  I see couples all around me in various stages of relationships.  They are easy to spot to a single guy like myself.  There goes the brand new couple.  You can tell it might even be their first date.  His every attention is focused on her and he is painfully nervous. For her part, she is equally awkward trying to gauge both his interest and his intentions.  I despise first dates, but accept their part in the greater scheme.  That saying, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with one small step." Comes to mind as I watch this young couple.  The cynic in me gives them 3 months before they hate each other and flame each other's MySpace pages.  Another couple bumps past me on their way to a ride.  These two have gotten past that awkward first stage and are in the getting to know you phase.  That was always my favorite part of dating.  She asks him if he likes Jazz.  He says he loves Jazz.  It doesn't matter if he's lying; the two of them have just shared a connection.  You want these people to do well.  It reaffirms your belief that there is somebody for everybody.  I secretly hope for their sake that he really DOES love Jazz.  That will make things so much simpler for the two of them.  Then I travel back in time.  I see a couple at the end of their path.  He is distracted and she is bored.  She wants to ride the Batman ride he doesn't.  This is where I was with her a year ago.  With me, it was the Titan that became the wedge.  A part of me wants to reach, wants to grab him by his collar and shake some sense into him.  At the same time, I want to do the same to her.  I would be wrong both times.  You get what you deserve in life.  I believe this. If he is distracted around her, he deserves her boredom.  By the same token, if she nags him all the time, she deserves his wandering attention. This couple likely doesn't make it out of the park in one piece.  That may be unfortunate, but they are both to blame here. 

I turn again towards the Titan and I ponder.  What would have happened if I HAD ridden it that night?  I seriously doubt something as cut and dried, as that one decision would have saved that relationship.  At the most it would have just delayed the inevitable.  One grand gesture can sometimes save a failed campaign.  If a single soldier sallies forth and captures a machine gun nest it COULD allow the tide of a battle to turn, but if the cause the army is fighting for is flawed, that victory doesn't really matter in the end.  Failure is assured.  That was where our particular relationship was and no Sgt York that could save this war from being lost no matter how heroic his actions.  Still, I was left with a gaping hole.  It was not in my heart though; it was my soul that was left carved out.  The only way to fill that gaping hole was now on the opposite side of the park from me.

4

As I approached the line for the Titan, I refused to look up.  They knew what they were doing when they designed this ride.  Every step you take from a certain point has you in the shadow of this massive steel dragon, ever under its watchful glare.  I refused to meet its stare as I took up my place in line.  I would not give it the satisfaction of knowing how much it intimidated me.  Yes, I admit it.  I was intimidated by a rollercoaster.  Not a whole lot of honor in that statement, but there it is nonetheless.  Being this close to it, I could feel it's oppressive weight.  To me at this point, the Titan was the angry drunk in the bar that refused to take his eyes off of my girl and me.  Eventually I would have to say something but this would be done on my own time and at a ground of my choosing.  So for now, I was content to know he was there boring a hole into the back of my skull. 

I was joined in the line by a group of people skipping work to play in the park.  I envied this completely.  Here stood I, St George sent to slay my Dragon while there stood before me Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and Co., out to play pirates for the day.  Before me in line was the same couple from earlier, sharing their first date.  She was nervous but he had ridden it before. 

"The only scary part is the beginning.  It gets a lot easier after that." He said.

I laughed at the irony of his statement and he mistook this for something else.  He positioned himself between his sweetie and me and regarded me with an "I got my eyes on you, buddy." stare.  I wanted to explain myself, to let him know I had decent enough intentions here, but what would be the point?  I'd never see them again so I accepted this defeat in stride.  Besides, he was right.  I AM an asshole.  I just wasn't being one at THIS particular moment.  The group behind me, the pirates, had an odd number of members.  This all but assured that I would sit with one of them on the ride.  No way in Hell the park people would have let me ride in a car alone.  The pirates seemed to sense this too and for some reason one of them tried to engage me in conversation.  Ignoring my overly sweating, anxiety-eyed wreck of a self, this girl asked me if I had ever ridden the Titan before.

"No, this will be my first time," I said, adding, "finally."

"Yeah, me too." She said. "I was in line to ride it last year when I chickened out. These friends of mine," she motioned behind her, "are here to make sure I get on it this time."

"You have good friends." I said and nodded in their direction. "I chickened out before even getting in line last time.  At least you did that much."  I have no idea why I told a total stranger this, but it had the desired effect.  She became much more at ease and this in turn relaxed me.  I had a Samwise for my Mount Doom.

"I was trying to go out with her on that trip." A guy she was with added. "After that though, I told her I couldn't date a chicken and ended up going out with her sister instead."

She giggled and said, "Like I would even go out with you.  You can't even hold the door open for yourself, let alone for my sister!"  This was all said in a good-natured fashion, but I sensed undercurrent angst in this exchange.

"I was here with my girl last time.  We've since parted company but she wanted to ride the Titan and I refused.  I'm sure that wasn't why we eventually broke up, but I am sure it played a huge part in the decision." I said. "I'm here alone and the only reason I even came today was to get on this beast, ride it and tame that hole in my soul that still calls me a coward."

"You're alone here?" he said. "Just to ride ONE ride?  Man, you're Nuts!  I like that though!"  I usually take back handed compliments like this badly but I let this one go today.

"My name is Clarice." My fellow dragon slayer told me.

"Nice to meet you Clarice, my name is Brian."

The line began to move.  I kept my attention focused on Clarice, not daring to look over my shoulder when she said,  "Why are you doing that?"

"What is 'That'?" I said

"Making me look at that thing.  That's mean."  I apologized and we changed positions.  "Much better.  As long as I don't have to look at that thing, I feel better about riding it."

I agreed completely, while over her shoulder I could see the Titan smile and mock my chivalry.  The sign said we had one hour to wait from this point so Clarice and I filled the time by killing time.  The others she had come with were polite enough to leave us alone in our misery.  Between the 6 of them, they had ridden the Titan 24 times.  The accusations weren't voiced but I could hear them calling me a coward and until the moment I exited the opposite end of the line, they would be valid. The line inched forward, each step magnified the towering menace that leered at me over Clarice's shoulder. My neck grew stiff from craning it upwards

"Just stop looking at it, ok?" Clarice asked.  "Keep me distracted or I'll chicken out again."

"Don't worry, Clarice.  You won't chicken out this time.  You're not a victim anymore.  Roosevelt once said 'The only thing we have to fear is Fear itself' and he was dead on right with that. You aren't going to die on that rollercoaster.  You will inch slowly to the top, just like in life.  Then, when you reach the crest, gravity takes a hold of you and the real ride begins. You are scared of the anticipation here, not the actual ride.  Don't lose sight of that."

"Well said, good man!" he said. "Only I gave her that same garbage last time and it didn't help.  She'll get to the end of the line and bok bok bok just like last time.  Watch."

"No offense pal, but I can really see why she doesn't want to date you.  Look at me Clarice. Of all the people in this park right now, I want to be here the least.  Yes, I came here today to get this monkey off my back, but he's here right now and his weight is almost crushing me.  I want nothing more at this very moment than to be back in my Jeep driving back to Dallas with the Titan forever in my rearview mirror, but you know what?  It'll still be here even after I leave and every time I drive by I will remember this day as one of failure.  I'm not big on regret.  I think if you set your heart on something, you owe it to yourself to get it or die trying.  I know myself best though.  I know that feeling of failure every time I pass this place will be infinitely worse than the few seconds of anxiety as that thing clanks its way up to the top.  I know this also.  I am going to do this and you are going to do it with me.  You have to slay this dragon just the same as I do and we can do it if we attack it together.  Between the two of us, we can find the motivation to stay on this line until we come out the other side."  When I finished my speech, she looked at my eyes for a very long time.  Perhaps she was looking for the telltale smirk that would indicate I was completely full of shit, I don't know.  All I know is she said "Ok." And we really didn't speak until we got to the end of the line and got ready to get into a car. "Grab my hand when we get in and don't you DARE let go…no matter what." She whispered.  We got into an empty car and the attendant came by checking our harness and making sure we were secure inside the car.  "Here we go." I said as Clarice grabbed my hand.  "Don't let go." She said.

"What's your favorite movie?" I asked.

"Huh? The Princess Bride…why?" she said.

"What's your favorite line?" I asked as the cars all lurched forward.  Her grip on my hand tightened.

"As you wish.  That always seemed so romantic to me, like a total giving of oneself to someone else." She squeezed my hand tighter. "I'm scared." She said.

I ignored this. "I always liked 'You seem like a decent fellow, I hate to have to kill you.' 'You seem like a decent fellow, I hate to have to die.' Myself.  That just summed up both of those characters the most to me."  We had inched our way to the halfway point of the tremendous rise.  We were almost vertical now.  It felt like we were in a rocket preparing for take off.  The ground was so far below us it looked like a child's plaything.  The vice like grip on my hand indicated the enormous amount of stress Clarice was under.  I became oblivious to myself and the anxiety that was almost overpowering me.

"Look at me." I said.

She opened her eyes and turned to face me as we approached the top. "What?" she asked.

We were inches from the top.  In an instant the first car would begin to cross the point of no return and we would hurl our way into adrenaline overload.

"Do you like Jazz?" I asked.

"I love Jazz," she said.  Then she and I screamed like our lives depended on it as the Titan hurtled us towards our fate.

The end

By Roger A Wilbanks

Enrico Fermini was a sculptor of modest renown in Venice during the rebirth of learning or as it is more commonly known, The Renaissance. Though he was a highly skilled sculptor, he was always overlooked in favor of the sexier names from cites across Italy.  People traveled miles to see that new sculpture my Michelangelo or Botticelli, but his own work drew little or worse no notice because he had no masterpiece to his credit.  This was all going to change.  The sculpture he was working on now would see to that.  It was the portrait of an Angel.  She was beautiful beyond words and each time he laid eyes on her a tear melted down his cheek.  She came to him in a vision so strong and clear he was inspired the next day to seek out a patron who would share his view to fund her creation.  When completed, she would secure his fame throughout the civilized world as the greatest sculptor alive.  He had only to finish her, and that was the problem.  Every time he came in to work on her, he saw one spot, one more area to work on.  His patron grew anxious.  Three years he had worked on his Angel and he had refused admittance to his studio to all while he worked.  No one was ever allowed to see her until he permitted it.  He did not need the added distraction of applause and accolades while he was still cutting and polishing the marble at this stage.   He felt like the butcher who waded through the blood, bone and offal to produce the most beautiful piece of meat he was able for the festival.  His blood was sweat; his bone, stone.  The meat was still much the same.  His finished product would be devoured by adoring masses.  It would be consumed by hundreds of people from all reaches of the globe daily.  This meat would feed his festival forever. 

He had only to finish it.

Enrico awoke Friday morning and dressed in his best clothes.  He loved springtime under the Venetian sky.  The morning had a crispness you could experience nowhere else.  The breeze coming off the lagoon was filled with oceanic fragrance.  The sunlight bounced off of the buildings like a young child just freed from his chores.  He made the short walk from his apartment on the Grand Canal to his studio to resume work on his Angel.  After unbolting the door and checking his traps to insure no prying eyes had been tampering with his studio, he lifted the tarp from the Angel.  She stood well over 9 feet in height and possessed a modest wingspan.  His calculations had eliminated the possibility of a more daring full wingspan so the piece was modified to portray the wings in a semi opened state connecting to the body of the Angel at two points, the back and the shoulder..  He despised the compromise, though it did nothing to detract from the beauty of his work. The marble was simply not strong enough to withstand his dreams.  Perhaps he would experiment with bronze after this as Botticelli had done with his David.  That would be a strong enough material to fulfill his visions.  Enrico donned his coat and grabbed his tools.  He positioned his stool in front of the Angel sitting, tools in hand and stared at her.  He did this every day as he drew closer to finishing her.  This was much more delicate work and required the keen eye of a Master to spy blemishes the average person would never notice.  He scanned the intricate featherwork of the wings today for a solid hour before seeing an area that needed refining.  His work was swift and precise.  The offending marble was removed that the beauty beneath it could shine through.  He sat again and resumed his scan.  This was the stage that separated the Master from the pretender, he thought.  He noticed an errant wave in the Angel’s crown and began at once to correct it.  This had to be done with the utmost care.  He had to rasp the excess marble away, careful not to snap the crown at the point it attached to the Angel’s hair.  He had always worried about this section of the piece.  Antiquities from Rome an Athens were notorious for missing limbs and appendages, and their bases were much stronger than the fragile crown’s.  Enrico decided to add a wire frame to support the crown and began carving out the channel for it to rest within.  This would take the day to complete this change, but he had time.  He had trained as a blacksmith in his youth and relied on those skills to fashion his iron wire frame.  Once he had made the halo, which was no more than a hoop with a stem that would be sunk within the Angel’s head, he attached it to the crown and topped the channel with a marble cement of his own creation.  It would be lacking the beautiful vein that the original stone held, but it was made from the same stone making it indistinguishable save to the trained eye.  Besides, it would be positioned atop the Angel’s head.  No one in Italy was tall enough to see it.  When the day’s work was finally done, Enrico cleaned his studio, reset his traps and bolted the door.  During his walk home he thought of a spot or two he would work on tomorrow.

Guisepi Calperno was a struggling student of another local Master.  Guisepi had even met Enrico several times as his Master and he were old friends.  He had heard many rumors about the piece Enrico was working on and desired nothing more in Christiandom than to be the first to lay eyes on the work.  He waited down an alley as Enrico bolted the door to his studio.  After he passed, Guisepi waited a few minutes more and approached the studio.  He had to work out how he would gain entrance.  He could make short work of the bolt, having been trained by thieves early in his youth to pick locks, but he was more concerned with the traps rumored to lie behind the door.  His Master talked of the traps Enrico set with pride as well as the fate that awaited any who would dare risk that door uninvited.  He felt confident that his early won skills could guide him past these traps.  He tried the bolt and found it secured tightly.  It was made of black iron and posed no trouble to pick.  He had it opened in seconds.  He had often watched Enrico enter his studio from the outside.  He always went in quickly and shut the door behind him.  Guisepi guessed that there would be a weighted chain of some sort on the other side of the door that would require immediate action lest it set off some sort of alarm.  Allowing it to strike its target would be unwise.  Enrico, he had noticed always turned to the right as he shut the door.  No doubt the weight would be located on a chain along the right side, and as Guisepi closed the door behind him, he immediately faced the right where he was proven correct.  A miniature bronze anchor on an iron chain began clanking its way downward.  He was able to catch it before it made contact with a bronze plate that had to be a spring-loaded device meant to draw the watchman’s attentions.

He had no idea what effect the device would create but he was certain he had disabled it.  The studio was immense.  It was dark inside making it difficult to see the walls, but Guisepi was sure it was the largest room he had ever been in that wasn’t a church.  You could fit many apartments into the area over several floors. It was more than twice the size of his Master’s modest studio and he knew Enrico took no students.  He could see the vague outline of the statue in the center of the room.   He had observed the blinds keeping the light outside the windows that lined the upper area of the studio opened a few minutes after Enrico entered the studio.  He knew that was where the second trap had to lie, perhaps connected to the strings that controlled the slats.  Sure enough, he could make out a rather large cage suspended over the strings in the lofty ceiling of the studio.  It was painted the same color as the plaster ceiling, but Guisepi could tell it was made of iron and would be too heavy for him to lift should it fall over him.  There was a sequence to pulling the strings.  He could see gearworks connected to the cage.  Too strong a pull and the cage would fall upon him.  He gave the first string a light tug.  He could feel clicks at intervals through the string and guessed that the gear controlling the cage had a dummy tooth on it that would trigger it’s decent.  The gear would have to be rocked back and forth to open the blinds.  He remembered that the blinds always opened slowly.  That must be their secret.  He worked the string open for a bit then closed, open then closed until he had the blinds open enough to allow light to penetrate the room.  It was hours before sunset so the light was bright enough to see clearly by.  The statue was enormous.  It was situated in the absolute center of the studio and covered by a heavy tarp.  Close inspection of this tarp revealed a string that ran through ringlets along the bottom and fed into a hole at in the floor.  No doubt the string was attached to bells or chimes of some kind and the fool that pulled the tarp without first addressing the string would bring the watchmen upon him with the improvised aria.  He tested the tautness of the string and found it slack.  He felt that cutting it was the safest option.  He cared not for covering his intrusion, he only wished access.  He removed the gilt stiletto from his scabbard and ran the string through.  He was now on the verge of realizing his goal.  The statue was covered by the heavy tarp, and that alone kept its beauty shielded from view.  He began pulling the tarp off the Angel slowly, like undressing a lover, for that’s what he was.  He was wooing the virtue of the statue for he and he alone.  He wanted to see the entire sculpture all at one time so that he could soak in its full majesty and began drawing the tarp inch by inch.  As the bottom of the tarp gained the crest of the statue’s top, one of the ringlets caught on something.  Guisepi’s eagerness to be satisfied filled his hands with more energy than he expected and what was intended as a light tug intended to shake the ringlet free became something more horrible than he could imagine and the bottom fell from his world. 

*CRACK*

He heard the separation of the marble and closed his eyes awaiting the inevitable crash that was to come.  Nothing happened.  Guisepi made his escape without laying eyes on what lie beneath the tarp and ran home in tears.

Dawn approached the Venetian canals as the sun’s light crept over the lagoon, burning off the light green velvet fog.   Enrico Fermini woke at dawn’s first ray as it slashed through his window.  He rose from bed and made his way to the window where he took in the grandeur of the sunrise over the lagoon and thought of his Angel.  He was ALMOST finished with her and soon, very soon he would unveil her to the adoring public.  He felt this was his holy mission.  His Patron had requested a private viewing of the statue knowing full well Enrico would refuse, but to his amazement, he had agreed.  The touches he still had to make were minute and cosmetic enough to allow the man who had sat patiently for three years and dispersed funds without hesitation to see this budding masterpiece first.  His words would be the spark that ignited the wildfire sure to spread through the city, stoking it into such a frenzy that upon swinging open the door to his studio and allowing them in would secure his fame forever.

He dressed and made his way to his studio.  As he rounded the corner to his block, his heart stopped.  The door was open.  It was only open a crack, but Enrico always shut it firmly and bolted it.  He knew he had done that yesterday.  Someone had violated his studio.  He opened the door expecting to see a thief in a cage but only saw the just awakened sunlight caress the half removed tarp covering his Angel.  Enrico was enraged.  He removed the tarp via a pulley and chain attached to a ringlet at it’s center and drew it up into his studio’s attic and inspected his Angel.  She was unblemished and perfect.  He breathed again and his heart began beating once more as his Patron arrived for his agreed upon inspection.  Enrico was in such an agitated state that it took several moments to relay what had just occurred.

"Thieves?"

"In your STUDIO???"

"Is the Angel hurt?"

"No?  Thanks be to God!"

The Patron calmed down enough to finally be able to look upon the Angel that sat exposed on the floor at the center of the studio.  He wept.  The beauty unearthed by the chisels and rasps of Enrico Fermini was pronounced second to none.  He graciously thanked the sculptor for his effort and vowed to tell all of the beauty he had just observed as soon as he found words adequate enough to apply.  He turned to leave the studio still wiping tears of joy from his face when he heard a sound that broke his heart. 

*CRACK*

He spun around to see what had caused the noise in time to see the Angel’s crown fall from atop her head and crash into the arm she stretched out in an offering of peace.  The arm snapped clean from her body at the shoulder causing first one, then both wings to separate from her and crash to the floor.  All four pieces of immaculate craftsmanship exploded against the unforgiving floor with the force of a letter from a jilted lover.  Both men remained motionless and silent for a very long time.  Neither was capable of speech.  When Enrico was able to move, he approached the destruction that had one time been his masterpiece.  He saw that the cement he had applied at the channel in which he embedded his iron halo had broken free.  He could only surmise this as the cause for the catastrophic failure.  He fell to the floor blaming himself for the destruction and completely ignored the fact that his studio had been violated.  His Patron’s tears would not stop.  He vowed Vendetta against the scoundrel that had broken into his studio and absolved Enrico of any and all blame in the statue’s collapse.  He was fully prepared to pay the balance of the patronage based on the glimpse of beauty that defied words, regardless of how many pieces it was in.  Enrico refused this.  The Patron begged Enrico to begin anew.  He could have all the time he desired to create another masterpiece, but this too he refused.  "I am done as a sculptor." He said  "I have tried to touch the hand of the Almighty and God smote me down for my arrogance and presumption."  The Patron begged the grieving sculptor to reconsider his offer and left him alone with the ruins of his masterpiece.  

Enrico Fermini eventually rose and regarded his sculpture.  He had run out of the tears that his body kept trying to use.  He walked to his workbench and paused for an eternity before grabbing the heavy hammer.  He turned back and approached his Angel where he smashed every remaining piece of her to indistinguishable rubble.  When done, he removed his knife and ended his own life atop the pile that would have been the world’s greatest sculpture.

The news spread fast.  The statue the entire city had eagerly waited for was destroyed. The artist was finished.  Disaster had struck the city.  The cries of vengeance against the thief rose from the mobs running through the streets and canals like black smoke from a fire.  These cries awoke Guisepi from his pitiful half sleep.  The Master was dead.  His greatest work was smashed to pieces.  The mob cried for blood.  His blood.  He began pulling his hair out in grief and rage.  He looked about his room for the means with which to end his own life and spied the rope that held back the massive curtains in his bedroom.  He secured this rope to the door and fashioned a noose at the other end.  When these preparations were complete, he penned a brief letter of admission and repentance before swinging open the double window.  The breeze that filled the room swept the hastily scrawled confession away as Guisepi mounted the windowsill.  He slipped the noose about his own neck and rose to meet his doom.  As he leapt from the 5^th floor window he shouted, "I’m sorry Enrico!" before the rope drew taut and snapped his neck, ending his life.

The statue was examined by master sculptors from all across Italy.  Some insisted they could piece her back together, but the city fathers refused to allow this.  They instead had the remains of the statue made into a pedestal in the Church of the Holy Divination where it was intended to eventually rest and mounted a bronze plate to the pedestal titling the only remaining piece of the statue, the crown, "Almost Finished".

The End

By Roger A Wilbanks

There was definitely something different about Brian Krewsloge when he walked into work today.  The receptionist Janice picked up on it immediately.  Brian spoke to her.  He never did that.  Most of the time the only acknowledgement she received was an indiscriminate hello.  Any more than that usually required some sort of national holiday.  It wasn't that he was rude, he simply kept to himself.  But today, he asked her how her day was going.  He asked about her little boy and how his hockey team was doing.  The conversation was kind and not forced in a way that was just counter to the way he usually did things.  This was not the strange part however.  He smiled, too.  Brian had developed a reputation as a hard-ass.  While he wasn't necessarily mean spirited, he took the hard projects and he got them to work.  He ruffled a few feathers in the process because, while he was cordial to all whom he dealt, he was never nice.  His was not a reputation for mincing words or accepting excuses.  Today he stopped seven people in the hallway and struck up conversations with them.  This was all before lunchtime.  Timmy in accounting put forth the idea that Brian finally got laid, as everyone in the office knew he had been single since his divorce 5 years ago.  This theory was discredited when Brian's mood remained the same three weeks after what had already been nicknamed the "Nice Day" day.  Brian just changed personalities for the better and no one could figure out why.  He made the coffee everyday even though he never drank it.  He helped coworkers move large file folders when he passed them in the hall. He even stayed late and helped Kenny the custodian empty the trashcans.  He talked to him for an hour and soon learned that Kenny's grandson was the star player on an inner city high school basketball team that made the playoffs for the first time in 20 seasons.  On learning this, the following day he started a collection to help send Kenny and his family to the State Championship in Houston as well as organized a group from the office to go to the game as well.  He cheered the loudest when Kenny's grandson scored the winning basket in overtime.  Yes, there was definitely a change in Brian and everyone noticed it. 

He and Janice started dating and soon a different colored bouquet of roses began appearing daily on her desk for no reason.  Mr Jennings noticed the extra effort around the office and Brian finally earned the promotion he had grumbled so long about being overlooked for.  People complained that the New Brian was simply a ruse designed to obtain that promotion and that soon you would begin to se the Old Brian begin to emerge.  They were wrong.  Brian attacked his new role in the company with the same fervor he did all things these days and soon the company began seeing records that stood for generations fall one by one.  Sales, Production, Organization.  Each department that was touched by Brian saw a rebirth and was filled with a new sense of purpose and energy.  Brian was everywhere.  He managed to do all this and still maintain his budding romance with Janice.  He attended every one of her son's hockey games and even got tossed from one when her son got clobbered and Brian had to be restrained from attacking the opposing team's coach.  It was no secret that Janice was QUITE pleased with the New Brian in the bedroom.  Janice would tell anyone that asked that Brian attacked that aspect of his life with equal if not greater enthusiasm. 

All in all, three months of exposure to the New Brian had a magical effect on those around him.  People were helpful at work.  They hung out together after work and went to each other's houses to watch the Big Games.  Morale was at an all time high when Brian did another thing he never did before.  He took a vacation.  He had taken time off work during the 12 years he had been with the company, but he always stayed home.  He never went anywhere fun.  This time that was going to change as Brian announced that he was taking 2 weeks off to see Europe.  Janice was unable to go so she stayed home and provided everyone in the office with updates from the daily postcards Brian sent from the places he visited.  He saw all the sites he always wanted to see and even took requests from his coworkers. It soon became everyone's vacation.  The postcards arrived every morning save one detailing his travels and everyone gathered around Janice's desk as soon as the mail arrived to hear what he saw that day.  When his 2 weeks were almost up, he extended his trip by another week so that he could visit Asia.  No one objected.  The postcards from China, Tibet and Japan amazed all who saw them.  Janice had bought a large world map and began tacking the postcards to the countries they were sent from so that everyone could track Brian's journey.  When he finally returned he was thinner and a little more tired than he was when he left, but the spark was still there in his eyes.  He told Janice that while the sites he saw were amazing beyond words, the food and travel conditions left a lot to be desired. 

Brian soon returned to work and regaled any who would listen with stories from his trip that wouldn't fit on the postcards.  It really came as no surprise when less than a month later, he took another leave of absence from the company.  He had decided to write a novel.  He was a huge fan of detective stories and decided to try his hand at crafting one.  Janice was sure he would be good at it since he was such a talented writer and had a sharp wit.  Brian locked himself in his house for several weeks, checking in periodically with Janice with updates.  She was concerned that he was neglecting his health and had still not regained the weight he had lost on his trip.  In fact, as time progressed, he was actually thinner now than when he got back.  Brian insisted he was doing all he could do to maintain his health and that was the end of it.  Six weeks and 450 pages later, Brian emerged from his study with a riveting tale of deception and discovery that amazed all who read it.  He made everyone a bound copy of his novel, which he titled "Gather ye rosebuds" and sent it to a literary friend of his in New York who had connections.  Two weeks later, Brian received a letter at work from this friend informing him that his novel had been bought by the third publisher he shopped it to for quite a large sum of money.  Brian took this news in stride and catered a large Italian meal for the entire office to celebrate.  The question was put to Brian at this party, "Will you continue working or, now that you are a writer, devote yourself full-time to that?" Brian became quiet for the first time in months.  An answer was not readily available.  "I'll have to get back to you on that one," he smiled.

Three days later Brian Krewsloge died in his sleep.  She came to his house when he hadn't answered her repeated phone calls to see if anything was wrong.  She immediately called 911 and talked to the police.  Brian's doctor arrived at his house almost the same time as the police and he pulled Janice aside to talk to her in private.

"Brian was diagnosed with inoperable lymphatic cancer over 6 months ago.  I gave him the option of Chemotherapy and hospitalization that would have prolonged his life by maybe another 6 more months but he told me something odd when I did.  He said, 'Doc, I've spent my entire life living for tomorrow.  For that one more day.  I have to go to work so that I still have a job tomorrow.  I have to pay my mortgage so that I still have a house tomorrow.  I have to buy groceries so that I can cook dinner tomorrow.  I have never lived for today.  I'm 43 years old and I can't honestly say I have enjoyed one single day of my life.  I am changing that today.  If you tell me I only have 6 months to live, I will tell you I have 180 days to do all the things I have dreamed of doing.  I am going to live each one of those days like it was my last.'  That is exactly what he did.  Oh yes, on his trip to Europe, he did stop and see a specialist friend of mine for a second opinion.  He learned there that his condition had indeed worsened.  He was then sent to China to see another specialist.  The diagnosis was the same.  He was dying and maybe had 3 weeks left.  I was ordered to inform no one of this.   Brian was never one to seek or accept pity.  That would have killed him faster than the Cancer.  He wanted to keep this secret from everyone, even you.  He spoke of you often and quite fondly.   He gave me this letter to give to you when he finally passed on."

Janice took the one page letter and began to read it as the doctor went to speak with the police officers.  Tears flowed down her face as she read the final words of the man she had grown to love.  In the letter, he thanked her for the love she had shown him and apologized for not talking to her much sooner.  He asked her to forgive him for keeping this secret but he wanted his final days filled with joy.  He asked her not to grieve for him but to take his cue and live each day as if it were her last.  He said that this had brought him indescribable happiness.  He asked her to relay these wishes to any and all that asked.  He wanted this to be his legacy.  He also informed her that she was the beneficiary of his estate.  All he had was now hers.  He hoped the money from the novel would provide security for her and her son whom Brian had also grown to love.  His funeral plans had already been made and his only request was that people not mourn him; rather they should celebrate what his life became.  This would not be the case, however.  Everyone that had grown to know this new life-loving Brian Krewsloge shed tears by the bucket on learning of his passing.  His momentarily bright spark had illuminated the lives of all that he had contacted.  His funeral was standing room only.  Even people whom he met in pubs across Europe attended the service. Janice stood to give his eulogy. 

"Live today like you know you are going to die." She began.  "Brian has that one small thing to ask of each of you.  Smile at the person in line with you at the convenience store.  Hold the door for someone and say 'Thank You' when someone does it for you.  Give a dollar to a homeless man.  Go see a silly movie.  Stop at a park and enjoy the sound of laughing children.  Pet a stranger's dog.  Do these things and you will make the world a better place.  We are all going to die.  Each and every one of us.  The only thing we can honorably do is earn these last remaining days on this planet by making the lives of those around us better."  

She was greeted by a mournful silence. As the friends and family filtered past her though, they all assured her that they would do just that.  They would all follow the example so briefly but brightly displayed by their departed friend.  Janice did all that she could to maintain the memory, including giving birth to a 7 pound 5 ounce baby boy 7 months after Brian's death.  She gave the boy the gift of Brian's full name and spent every day of the rest of her life trying to live up to it.

The end

By Roger A WIlbanks

"I told you before.  I don't really remember much about that night.  I came home drunk.  I remember seeing her in bed with another man and then it all blurs.  More like it smears, actually.  I see images stopped in time.  Snapshots.  The one that sticks out the most is the one where he fights back.  I guess something like an adrenaline rush kicked in there and made that one stand apart from the others."

"But you did kill your wife and her lover?" I asked.

"Oh yeah.  No doubt.  I have the snapshot of the hammer sliding back.  I see the flash of the shots leaving the muzzle and I see them both lying there bleeding in shock and anger."

I paused the tape recorder as I lit another cigarette.  This was the hardest case I have ever had and every day when I listen to this tape I am reminded why.   The man whom I was talking to was named Howard Bayless.  He was on Death Row for the double murder of his wife and her lover in his home 7 years ago.  He is no longer with us, however.  The State of Texas has already filled his veins with retribution but I was asked to interview him several times during his mandatory appeal to determine his mental state.  He didn't want an appeal.  He never once claimed innocence.  He maintained from day one that he was guilty but the State has rules, especially when they want to kill you.  Your tax dollars at work, I suppose.

"What brought her to that?" I asked when I resumed the playing tape.

"Dunno.  Mainly I guess she just lost interest in me.  You know what's funny?  When we got married, I couldn't get that woman off my side.  Anywhere I went, she was right there with me.  Karen just wanted to do what I was doing.  It was cute at first.  It became annoying after a while, but we were in love so I just rolled with it, you know?  You married?"

"No…not yet.  I have a girl and…no.  I'm here to talk about You, Howard, not me.  Let's keep this focused."

"Look Charlie.  I sit here day in and day out waiting for something, Anything to distract me from the fact that I am a dead man.  The least you can do is indulge me in a little human connection here."

This shamed me into compliance.

"Ok, Howard.  I'm seeing a girl now, have been for a month now.  We get along and do things together but nothing serious."

"Do you love her?"

"I don't know."  I was being honest.  Something about the look in the eyes of the man in front of me made lying seem dirty. "We both seem to enjoy the company of the other, but there is nothing resembling fireworks.  It's more like we're killing time with each other till something better comes along, you know?"

"There were fireworks the first time I saw Karen.  Literally.  It was a Fourth of July picnic.  We saw each other from across a park.  She had her kid with her.  Had to be at least 200 people between us that didn't matter once we made contact.  You know how they talk about Love at First Sight?  It was like being hit in the chest with a hammer for me.  I lost the sense of every direction save the one she was in.  I even lost my breath for a minute there, that's how beautiful she was.  She always claimed the feeling was mutual."

"I met Jasmine at a company mixer.  She's a paralegal on your defense team.  We started talking about you and your case and before either of us knew what was going on, we had exchanged business cards and had plans to go to a hockey game."

"Yeah, funny.  Like John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."

"Was that Lennon that said that?" I asked

"I'm pretty sure it was but I can't be 100 percent certain.  Does it matter, really?  Lotta people get caught up in that.  Mixing the messenger in with the message. Memorizing the passage but losing the meaning.  Me?  I just know that what WAS said was spot on.  Does it matter if it was really Ringo that actually said it?"

"I suppose not in the long run." I said, "Did you two start dating then?"

"The first time, yes.  It was awkward though.  She was a stripper then, danced under the name of Wynter.  She lived at home with her parents and her kid.  That made going out a little difficult.  I only saw her at her work and that was a scary place, let me tell you."

"I'll bet."

"She was doing it then." Howard said.

"Doing what?"

"Fucking them for money.  I found out about it a lot later.  Defense team dug it up for the trial but I wouldn't let them use it.  No point adding dirt onto her at that point.  I had already put six feet of it there.  Something told me that was what was going on but I turned a blind eye."

"Did you ever see anything?"

"Nah.  I just sat at the bar and chatted with her friends.  I was the good boyfriend.  Well for a while at least.  I finally got sick of that whole scene and broke things off with her.  About a year went by and for some strange reason, I called her up to wish her a happy birthday.  To this day I don't know why, but one thing led to another and we were living together 2 months later.  She was out of the stripper game and doing what she called 'Professional Domination".  It had something to do with whips and chains and stuff or at least that's what she told me.  I had my doubts but I believed her when she told me she wasn't having sex with the guys.  That made it ok in my head and I could accept it."

It was hard then, I recall, seeing this intelligent, good-natured man before me and imagining the pictures I saw of the carnage he was responsible for on that November night.

"Did you two fight?"

"Rarely, but when we did it was a doosey.  She would throw things.  Dishes. Pets.  Books.  Anything within reach would go airborne if she redlined."

"Did you hit her?"

"Never." The question hit him like an insult. "I never raised my hands to her.  Something like that just isn't ever right.  Oh, I would stop her from hitting me, but never, never did I lay a hand on her.  That was something the cops would not believe.  Can you blame them though?  I have seen the pictures of what I did.  I have the odd recollection of moments from the event.  But you have to believe me when I say I would never have done anything to hurt her."

"I believe you, Howard."  I told the truth.  This man before me was a kind man, gentle.  He was a complete contradiction of the man who murdered his wife and lover in the heat of passion.  It made it hard to hold what he did against him knowing that.  Be that as it may, he did kill her, but he wasn't proud of it.  Most men who murder their spouse and their lovers in jealous rages hold that up as a badge of honor.  They think what they did was justified, but not Howard.  He was ashamed of what he did and it's my belief that makes all the difference in the end.

"Well Howard, I have to go now.  My time is up.  I will see you next week."

"Take care, doc.  Next time you visit, bring smokes though."

The tape stopped.  My next week after that session was filled with court motions, legal briefs and loads of things I didn't really understand.  I work within the boundaries of man's mind.  The trappings of a courtroom just never seemed to make much sense to me.  I was just the guy the defense team brought in to show the court where Howard's head was at.  I answered their questions and prepared my report.  When I got back to Death Row to see Howard for our last session together, something had changed.  The guilt of his actions had done something to him.  He was a different man.

"Morning, doc.  You tell the State I'm sane enough to die yet?"  He took a lit cigarette from me as I made myself comfortable on the hard plastic seat.

"Come on Howard.  You know I'm not here to do that.  My only responsibility here is to tell the State what's going on with you.  I'm here to stand up just like some half-assed weatherman who has to look outside before he can tell you if it's raining or not.  I'm just going to tell them what I see and hear, nothing more."

"But what do you think, doc?  Do I have to keep living or do I finally deserve to die?"

"Let's talk about something a little less morbid, Howard, ok?  When we left each other, you were talking about Karen.  Let's continue on that track, ok?"

"Sure.  One month, doc."

"Excuse me?"

"One month.  Just before I killed her, we had a fight.  Nasty one.  Names called, dishes thrown.  It was ugly.  I left her then. I stayed away for 2 weeks.  I wouldn't answer her calls or her emails.  I was done with her.  I even talked to one of those divorce lawyers from late night TV over the phone.  All anonymous though, no way to track it.  You see, something happened.  She was fucking these guys for money and lying to my face about it.  I couldn't admit it to myself, but deep down, I knew something wasn't right. It was eating at her though.  Eating her alive.  You see, doc, honesty was real important to her.  All that lying to me about what she did must have been murder on her." 

He laughed at his accidental pun.

"But I broke.  One month before I killed her, I called her back.  We met for drinks, we made up and we made love all night long.  I swore things would be better and she did the same.  But we both lied.  She was working twice as hard and I started drinking heavy.  We never saw each other except at bedtime.  Then I got drunk, came home and saw her with one of them on our bed, doc…on our bed.  I still can't see what she was thinking doing that in our house. I can only assume she just finally wanted it out in the open.  She was tired of being with a sucker because what she was doing was obvious to anyone with even one eye open.  My friends could see it but I refused to listen.  'She'd never lie to me.' I would tell myself.  But she did and I'll bet she lost all respect for me because I never called her on it.  Truth is I guess I just didn't care.  Love will do that to you, doc, if you ain't careful.  Regardless of what she was thinking, there she was on our bed going to town on some random guy.  I snapped.  I got my gun and made history.  But you know what, doc? I've spent the last few days playing the 'What If?' game.  What if I HAD never come back to her?  What if I HAD just stayed away?  What if I HAD made it so hard for her to take me back that she had no choice but to move on?"   It was at this point that Howard started to cry.  The emotions he was releasing had been dammed up inside him for 7 years and they were taking over.   "She would be alive now, doc.  She would be sitting home alone and miserable.  She would be lonely and hurt but Goddammit she would be alive.  I failed her with my weakness, doc.  I opened that door and I took all hope away from the both of us."

"Howard, it's the easiest thing to do in the world to say if I had done this another way things would be different. Hell, that's how ESPN stays in business.  Makes life hard is living with the decisions we make even when we don't like the results.  So ok.  Let's say you stay away from her.  Let's say she is alone and lonely like you imagine her to be.  Where are you, Howard?  You are alone and lonely too.  Do you like that image of yourself?  You probably met someone new and the two of you hit things off, but everyday you are still thinking about Karen. That's not fair to Sally is it?  That's what we'll call your new girl.  How do you think Sally likes living under Karen's shadow?"

"You don't get it, doc.  She would be alive.  Nothing else would matter."

"Ok.  I see where this is going.  What would you say to Karen if she were alive now and sitting here where I am, Howard?"

</P>

"I dunno, doc.  I would start by saying I was sorry things didn't work out."

"Then?"

"Then I would say I forgive her for lying to me.  I know how that must have eaten her up inside.  I would tell her to let that guilt go and get on with her life.  I would hope she stopped doing what she was doing for her son's sake as well as her own sanity because I know that line of work gnawed on her soul like a mangy dog.  I would tell her I will always care for her no matter what happened.  I would never want to see her again though.  I would tell her that day is done.  I am sure she would understand.  I would say she should enjoy life more and get outside but she would ignore that part.  She was a bit of a recluse in that respect.  Most of all I would beg her to move on and find someone new to laugh with and talk to.  She thinks she is all alone now and that no one loves her, but she is never alone.  No one ever is truly alone.  Sooner she got that the better off she would be.  Nobody in this world deserves to be alone no matter what they do for a living.  I would ask her to stop punishing herself for the shitty hand life dealt her. "  He stopped crying at this point.  "But thing is, doc, I can't tell her any of that because I went back to her.  All I can do now is die and beg her forgiveness from Hell."

"I thought you didn't believe in Hell, Howard."

"I'm in it now, doc.  You think my situation's gonna improve much when they give me that injection?"

"Good point."

"Do what you have to Charlie, but I am done here.  Make it happen, please."  With that, he got up and left.

That is how my final interview with Howard Bayless ended.  I turned in my report the following day and his appeal was denied.  He was scheduled to die a week later.  I sat in the witness room when it happened along with the friends and family of both Howard and the deceased as the State of Texas added another notch to its belt.  Howard made eye contact with me as they strapped him in.  He whispered 'Thanks'. 

It was at that point that I cried.

The end.