Too Many Ideas, Too Little Time...

An unfortunate (or fortunate) byproduct of high levels of stress is the tidal wave of ideas that overwhelms me as I search for an escape. As a result my morning and evening commutes often take me to far greater, bleaker, magnificent or melancholy places than my four wheels would carry me otherwise. I've had this kicking around in my head since I woke up at 4:47 a.m. this morning. I wrote this over my lunch hour a short time ago. Again, please read and share your thoughts. I write for me, certainly, but what good is writing for myself if I can't share it? (FINE. Making a couple of bucks in the process isn't all that bad either, but that truly is secondary. I really just want to go all "Sally Field" and be able to say "they like me! They really like me!") Leave me alone, I'm tired and punchy.

IN ANY EVENT....  Have a read, tell me what you think of it. Tell me what you think happened. Tell me who you think these characters are and what they've done. This one has potential, though it will likely have to occupy the back burner until The Reunion is finished, and maybe book three in The Deep Space Chronicles. I have a feeling about this one. Let's see what happens. 

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            Not even Merlin could overcome the melancholy of the dreary, early October day. Normally energetic, he instead stretched out on the cushion in the window seat of the bay window and watched as the bitter wind blew the remaining leaves from the towering oak tree in the front yard. He couldn’t even muster the energy to bark at the squirrels that furiously gathered their winter wares. Instead he dropped his head back down, laid it across his front paws and let out a deep sigh.

           

            “I know, buddy,” Sam said as he walked over and rubbed the dog’s head. Merlin raised his head to meet his master’s touch and plopped back down as soon as Sam removed his hand. Perhaps it was because boxers as a breed are generally much more empathetic to the emotions of their people, but whatever the reason even the dog was sad. Same stood and stared out the window as the harshness of the fall storm caused the old oak tree to creak and sway. This was supposed to have been a good day; a joyous day. Sam was supposed to be on a beach, celebrating his brother’s wedding. Instead, he stood in his living room staring out the large window of his western New York home and wondered how he even ended up back there in the first place.

            A large gust of wind finally caused one of the widow makers that dangled at the top of the tree to break free from the few strands of living wood that held it in place, causing tit to crash violently to the ground. It wasn’t until then that Merlin showed any real signs of life. Startled by the sound of the falling branches, the dog jumped down from his cushioned perch in the window seat and began barking furiously out the window.

            “Easy, boy, it’s ok,” Sam’s calming words instructed. Merlin obeyed and sat beside Sam, his nub of a tail wagging excitedly. Sam managed a meek smile as he looked down at his companion. “You’re the only one who’s stood by me, you know that boy?”  As if to answer the query Merlin rose up on his hind legs and hopped, trying desperately to lick Sam’s face.  “Ok, ok,” Sam said through his laughter. “Get down you big oaf!”

            Merlin again obeyed and decided to survey the house to make sure all was secure. As he did, Sam turned his attention back out the window. No, he wasn’t supposed to be there. He was supposed to be sitting under a cabana sipping rum runners and watching his baby brother dance his first dance with his new bride. Sam Kennedy was supposed to be holding hands with, and looking lovingly into the eyes of Maggie Proctor, maybe dancing a dance or two, and then taking her back to the hotel and making love to her against the soundtrack of the Atlantic Ocean lapping against the shore in a vain attempt to prolong summer’s hold. The branch that he now gazed upon had, much like his life, come crashing down without mercy.

            Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath Sam moved from the living room to the den where he dropped himself into the oversized leather chair that sat in the corner. The den had always been his escape. Adorned in rich mahogany, including the trim of the tray ceiling and the bookshelves that lined the back wall, it was a luxurious escape, indeed. The large desk that sat in front of the bookshelves (which, mind you, overflowed with everything from Shakespeare to Tolkien) was his father’s, God rest his soul. For over twenty years that mahogany desk, with its pristine leather inlays, had occupied an office in Annapolis where Sam’s Navy Admiral father lived, and died. Sam’s desire to be a writer never sat well with his father and it wasn’t until Sam had achieved success with his third novel, a Capra-esque Christmas story that would have made even old man Potter get misty, that Sam’s father finally accepted his son’s endeavor. Unfortunately it was too little too late as Sam’s father, barely sixty-four years old, succumbed to cancer the day before Sam’s thirty-second birthday.  Following his father’s death Sam fought a long and hard battle with his step mother (the wicked witch of western New York, as he affectionately referred to her) and his father’s estate for possession of that desk. Once it was safely moved into his house he contemplated bolting it to the floor.

            Sam stared a the desk and wondered what kind of military secrets had passed back and forth over its surface before it became home to Sam’s iMac and a collection of bills and junk mail. It was also at that desk that Sam read, read again, and signed the affidavit that would eventually help to exonerate him from the horrible accusations that nevertheless continued to plague him. The last six months were the hardest Sam had ever experienced, and ever hoped to. Sensing his despair Merlin came trotting into the room and in one motion lifted off the ground and leaped into Sam’s lap.

            “Damn it, Merlin! Every time!” he coughed as he shifted the dog’s paw from his groin. Merlin made himself comfortable and curled up across Sam’s lap, resting his head on the arm of the old leather chair. A dark stain had begun to form where the dog rested his head, evidence that Sam and his canine counterpart had bee spending a great deal more time together in that very position. Sam didn’t care. Maggie was gone from his life. He didn’t have anyone to impress. The man an dhis dog both drifted off into fitful sleeps when the doorbell rang. Merlin jumped from Sam’s lap, again planting his paws where no paws should be planted. Sam coughed again, cursed the dog, and walked to the door to see who would be calling on such a dreary day. He really didn’t have any friends to speak of anymore, and it certainly wasn’t going to be his brother.

            “Alright, alright, calm down!” he commanded. When Merlin refused to settle down, Sam raised his voice. “Sit! Or crate!” Merlin sulked, and sat. Sure the dog was calm Sam opened the door. He stumbled backwards in shock when he did, knocking into the console table behind him and sending the picture frame and vase that sat on it tumbling. Merlin barked feverishly at the woman who shouldn’t have been standing there.

            “Hi, Sam,” she said contritely.

            Sam struggled to speak. “Justine! But, you’re, you were, Justine you’re supposed to be dead!”

            “Supposed to be, yeah,” she said angrily as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.