I've made a new decision with my life! I think I like dentists! Or at least the one I usually go to. Or maybe it's just my elation with only having ONE CAVITY! This NEVER happens with me! I think the least I ever remember having was like... three. So I'm happy, but anyway, my reasons for liking dentists are: (a) They give you the option of being high while you sit in a chair, their excuse is they want you in a highly relaxed state so you won't hit them. (b) They understand you although your mouth is full of their tools and hands (or at least a few fingers!) (c) Their chairs go up and down (yeah, I'm a thrill seeker!) (d) Their waiting rooms keep you up to date with the Hollywood gossip, news, and latest dieting techniques (e) They always have good music! (f) Their conversations with their assistants never leave you wondering about their mental state (g) They give you a toothbrush at the end of your visit.
I can only think of one real downside, and that is your mouth is sore and numb for awhile after... And you don't get a Spiderman band-aid where you got your shots... But! I think my new list is highly extensive and all should take it into consideration when discussing how they hate dentists.
I got my root canal finished today! This is why I went on this spill. And now it's over for now! Adios!
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
So I saw Santa today! Not in his typical ride though... Seems that he's upgraded to an airplane. Do airplanes go faster than reindeer? Maybe the poor fellows are sick this year... But anyway! My brother ran over there with my grandpa and snapped this picture! I think it's pretty much neato! So have a Merry Christmas and know that he's coming!
Friday, December 22, 2006
Merry Christmas everyone! There's snow outside, but I'm really hoping for some snow on Christmas Eve. Who isn't? It really doesn't seem like Christmas is only in a few days... Where does the time go? I'm sure it doesn't help that my family is as impossible as ever. Sure they like Christmas as next as the next kid, but it's more about the presents under the tree... They're currently having contests to see who has the most. Each time a new one is added, they have to see who it's for, and if it's for someone else, they immediately start to pout. It's beginning to get annoying. I'm beginning to understand how my mom feels when she says that they don't listen. 'Cause they really don't! They don't really do anything but stuff their faces, count presents, and watch the tube. I'm tempted to cut cords. Our house is a messy disaster. I've cleaned the kitchen twice, but it doesn't help... Maybe I really don't ever want to have kids of my own! Roommates are bad enough to clean after! I guess the up side would be I would at least like my kids... And hopefully they'd like me!
Well anyway! I'm done ranting! I'm going to get over it and enjoy this time of year! I love celebrating the Savior's birth! Best day EVER! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year everyone! Hope it's a safe and good holiday season!
Monday, December 18, 2006
Well, I'm home and alive... Adventures this weekend were numerous! Friday Olivia and I took Caroline to the airport to pick up Daniel, her nearly fiance. The airport there is so small! But so trying to be a real one, it was cute. I think I could hang out there! And the planes! I can't believe anyone dares to fly in them! But the baggage people... It's funny to me, everyone that I've heard of flying into Cedar City has lost their luggage. The case was with Daniel, but the problem was, he and Caroline were planning on driving to Blanding with me a few hours later, and they weren't going to get his luggage until about nine-thirty that night. So, they stayed to come home with her brother the next morning, and I left alone. Olivia followed me until the I-70 turn off, that was fun! She needed me so she could figure out what RPM's to go because her speedometer doesn't work. But after that, it was just me. But I survived! So now I have offically driven to Blanding from Cedar City all alone, (and I had a cold to boot!). I don't ever want to do it again if I can help it!
So now I'm here, with nothing to do but get over a cold, which is deminishing to a cough, but it's a nasty one. I always get it, every year. The curse of having asthma. But I'm planning on going running this break, and playing tennis, and cough, asthma, cold or not, I'm going to do it! If I'm not going to be walking around a campus all day, I need to keep up somehow. I'm not just going to sit around at my house.
Ok, this blog is finished!
So now I'm here, with nothing to do but get over a cold, which is deminishing to a cough, but it's a nasty one. I always get it, every year. The curse of having asthma. But I'm planning on going running this break, and playing tennis, and cough, asthma, cold or not, I'm going to do it! If I'm not going to be walking around a campus all day, I need to keep up somehow. I'm not just going to sit around at my house.
Ok, this blog is finished!
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Finally! My short story has arrived! I finally got up enough guts to post this here. It took awhile because a Word Document messes up when you copy/paste it here. So if it's choppy... Not that anyone reads this! But hey! More my own comfort... If you don't like death, don't read. I also know it still needs work! "A peice of writing is never finished!" I know!
Child’s Revenge
The air was permeated with the smell of salt water and decay. The sun was just topping the edge of the world, shooting it’s light over the water and warming the air with it’s rays. It was going to be a glorious day, and if there hadn’t been a dead body lying in front of them, it would’ve been an ideal day to be at the beach. The usual wind was just a breeze at the moment; the water was a clear blue green with frothy foam created by the waves riding on top; and the seagull’s cries reminded those investigating the scene of an old Western movie, where circling vultures always indicated a dead body.
Sheriff Tom Phelps looked older than his forty years. His dark hair hadn’t been combed for the day and his rumpled uniform was the same one he had worn the day before. Usually sharp looking, this morning his wide shoulders were slumped, making his six foot four inch frame appear to be smaller. His dark chocolate colored eyes seemed much more tired and more sad than usual. The lines around his mouth were evident as he looked down at the sorry excuse of a husband and father. Paul Ingle had been abusing his family for quite some time, but his wife, Anne, never pressed charges, and no one else had ever done anything about it, either. Now, apparently, someone had taken enough of his beatings and had paid him back. His once handsome and appealing face was covered in bruises and cuts. His head flopped grotesquely, indicating a broken neck.
Their small town wasn’t much for theatrics, but, like many other small towns, even it had its dark secrets. Now Glenwood was about to have another one to add to the growing pile. As they zipped the black body bag closed and carried it to the undertaker’s van, Tom wondered if it was the suppressed wife who had finally done the wretched man in. She was only a slight woman, and he didn’t think she had enough strength in her to beat her husband to a pulp before breaking his neck. He sighed as he thought of the growing number of murder cases, still unsolved. He knew this hadn’t been done by Anne.
There had been two other murders just like this one: Husbands who had been beating their wives, but they hadn’t ever been prosecuted. If it had been the wives, or one of the grown children, that had finally lashed out against the men, they would have had every right, but the complete happenstance of the murders made Tom realize that there had to be a connection somewhere. It had been about a month since the last body had been found. The most disconcerting thought for Tom was that each murder had occurred within a week of him hearing about the abusive husbands. I wonder if there’s a leak somewhere at the office, he thought to himself as he stared out at the horizon. But he knew that most of the deputies had already known about the men’s characteristics, probably even knew they were abusive toward their families, but were helpless to do anything until someone was willing to press charges. Most of his deputies had grown up in this town; Tom was the one who was gradually getting acquainted with the people. He closed his eyes and let the cool morning air slide across the skin on his face. When he opened them again, he let his brain register the way the sunrise was shooting pink and orange flames throughout the sky and ocean. It really is a pretty day, too bad we live in such a world.
The full autopsy report came back a few days later. Paul Ingle had sustained multiple strikes to the head and then received a death blow which broke the vertebrae in his neck. He had been dead approximately four hours when the jogger found him, making the time of death around one in the morning. Paul was last seen at the local bar at about twelve-fifteen the night before. Anne Ingle claimed she had neither seen nor heard her husband come home from work yesterday. Some of Paul’s drinking buddies swore he had been in a fairly good mood last night, making it less likely that he would go home and beat his wife, provoking retaliation, but Tom didn’t believe that Paul had ever made it home. Could Anne have hired a killer? If that were true, it would make sense that they would wait for a time when it seemed more unlikely that Anne would be vengeful.
Tom sat at his desk in his cluttered office and stared at the other two murder files and the ever growing Paul Ingle file. If he didn’t start getting some leads, he might not be sheriff much longer. He had always wanted to be in law enforcement. Oddly enough, memories came back of the Christmas when he received a pair of handcuffs, a cap gun, and a badge from his father. That may have been what influenced Tom into going into law enforcement. It was one of the very few things his dad had ever done for him; the only time he had shown Tom any sign of affection. His father had always been distant, never at home, always working. A lot like Paul Ingle. He was a very successful and handsome man, but a mean drunk. Before Tom could finish his train of thought, one of the deputies walked into his office.
“We have a suspect for ya, Sheriff. Paul was seen talking to another guy in the bar. It didn’t seem to be a friendly conversation, either. The guy was a stranger to everyone, but we have an artist with Charlie right now. We’ll have a sketch and description soon.” Frank was the type of kid you couldn’t help liking. He still looked like a tall, gangly teenager, but his knowledge went well beyond that of the usual twenty-six year olds.
“Thanks, Frank. Keep me posted on anything else. I’m gonna take a break and head down to the diner and get some coffee. I’ll have my radio with me.” Tom stood up. He was more tired than usual today, and he needed the extra perk caffeine gave him if he was going to make it much longer. He had gotten to bed at a decent hour, after watching a little of a Red Sox and Dodgers game the night before, but he didn’t feel rested. He had been chronically tired lately, it seemed. He briefly considered visiting Dr. McMullen, and then quickly dismissed the thought. It was just the strain of these unsolved murders eating away his strength and haunting his every thought.
When he walked into the diner, he received a few questioning looks, but he knew no one dared ask him about the murder. It seemed that word spread around this town like free food at a picnic. He sat down at his usual bar stool and nodded slightly when the new waitress offered him coffee. As he sipped the juice of life, he thought through the other cases.
Theodore Johnson. His was the first body found. On the surface he was a great guy, unless you were his wife or teenage son on a bad day. It had been a man out fishing who had come upon the gruesome scene. His dog had found Johnson and barked until his master followed. Who knows how long the body could have lain there if not for that chance encounter? It had taken three days for anyone to even notice Johnson was missing. He was out of town on business a lot, and often stayed in the city overnight when his job kept him late. Tom suspected Johnson had other reasons for the overnight stays, female reasons, even though Johnson’s wife hadn’t indicated she knew anything about him having affairs. She was a quiet woman, timid, even. Did she miss her husband, or was she relieved he no longer threatened her? Tom wondered if her husband had left her adequately provided for, after all the years she had devoted to caring for him and their home. Probably not. It wasn’t part of an abusive man’s character to think about other’s needs, only his own. Could it have been one of Johnson’s dalliances that had led to his death? A jealous boyfriend or husband of one of the women he flirted with? It was something Tom needed to explore further.
Then there was Jason Brown. Raised poor, he had been captain of his high school football team and earned a coveted scholarship to UCLA. He played in several games that first year, a remarkable accomplishment for a freshman, but he had literally gotten a bad break when he sustained multiple fractures in his leg the last game of the season. He returned home to heal and the college soon let him know they didn’t want to support a broken player with no promise of playing again. Without a scholarship, he had no hope of continuing school. He took a job as a construction worker when his leg was healed, but he had become addicted to pain pills and was soon into harder drugs. He married his high school sweetheart, had a kid a year later, and the bruises started appearing on his wife not long after that. He couldn’t seem to get over the unfairness of what had happened to him. His body had been found in a vacant lot next to the building supply store at the edge of town.
Tom didn’t believe in coincidence. Individually the murders had multiple investigative leads; collectively, they all pointed to one killer and the same motive. Each murder had occurred within a week of Tom’s learning of the men’s abusive personalities, and each man had first been beaten, and then killed - all with broken necks. There had been no witnesses, no weapon used, no evidence around the crime scenes, no suspects. Whoever had killed these men had done it with their bare hands, sustained by super human strength. He’d read about similar murders, but three men in a row was unique as far as he knew. He shook his head, slapped a five dollar bill down on the counter and left the diner to get back to the current crime.
“Of course I believe they’re related, unless it’s a very good copy-cat, but that’s highly unlikely,” Tom said over the phone. He had called one his friends and was picking his brain for any new ideas. It had been three days now, and they weren’t any closer to figuring anything out. Tom’s frustration was growing with every minute he didn’t have the murderer behind bars.
“Tom, you said that each murder happened within a week after you heard about the guy abusing his wife, right? So, keep trying whatever you’re trying, but if you hear about another abuse case, keep an eye on the guy. That’s my advice,” said Greg Nelson. He and Tom had gone through police academy together, and they usually kept each other up to speed on their most interesting cases. Greg seemed to have the better stories, but that was because he worked in the LAPD. An orphan, with no close relatives, Tom had deliberately chosen a small town for its family orientation.
“Alright, thanks Greg,” Tom reluctantly let his friend go. He had hoped Greg would have an insight that would help solve this thing, but there was no such luck. Still, it always helped to have a sounding board.
The artist’s sketch of the stranger who had been at the bar the night Paul Ingle had died had been publicized, and the man was soon located. However, he insisted he and Paul had only been discussing the Dodgers game and he later left with a woman who supported his alibi. Besides, he hadn’t been anywhere near town when the other two murders occurred. It was a dead end. Tom hated to think of it, but it was looking more likely that there was a murderer living in their town. Probably someone he knew. He started paying more attention to the men he worked with, peering at their faces closely, looking for deep cuts or scratches that would indicate they had been in a fight recently. Surely the murdered men had fought for their lives. Who was the man who had beaten and then broken them so easily?
The next few days turned up nothing. Tom returned to the beach where Ingle’s body had been found, but all evidence had long since washed away, each wave pulling evidence further away from his grasp, making Tom groan in frustration.
When Tom returned to his office, he pulled out the pictures he had of the crime scenes, spreading them out on his desk, comparing. At first, he wasn’t aware of anything that he hadn’t seen before. The only footprints evident were his own. Then he looked closer at one picture. When he had arrived at the scene, had he walked around the body that way? He couldn’t remember. It had been so long ago, yet he didn’t think he would walk around until after the pictures had been taken. Surely, even subconsciously, he would have wanted the scene to be as close to how the killer left it as possible. He’d have to talk to Frank about that.
He searched the other pictures. Blocking the bodies from his sight, he concentrated on the area around the bodies and found the same thing. Why would he do something like that? What if he had covered up the true suspects prints? Then another thought struck him. What if the suspect had the same shoes as he wore? He bought his shoes from a uniform catalog. They were a common brand for law officers, comfortable and durable. A lot of the guys on the force wore the same kind of shoes. Perhaps Tom had something more to worry about than just a leak; perhaps the killer was a fellow officer.
As the weeks passed, the hope of solving anything quickly was dissolving. Tom was increasingly agitated and edgy. He was devoting all of his time to those three cases, handing off all others to his deputies, refusing to rest until the guilty person was caught. He had memorized the pictures, the crime scenes, and the lab reports that came back on the bodies. Everything was identical, yet nothing fit. He still had difficulty thinking about the shoe prints. Something in him told him to keep pushing the thought back. Perhaps his brain would process it and then produce an answer when he least expected it.
He spent most of his time in his office, sitting at his desk, painstakingly going every last detail, until he had them memorized. The cases became his obsession and threatened to drive him insane if he didn’t solve them soon.
Finally, a break came. One day, when he was sitting in the diner, he noticed the new waitress had a bruised eye. She was a pretty girl. He wasn’t sure of her name, but as he stared at her eyes he saw they were the color of blue that people dream of having. Her silky brown hair made him want to reach out and touch it, because he couldn’t believe how soft it looked. She was slim, with a figure that could have fit well in a beauty pageant. Tom felt a revulsion rising in him as he considered that her bruise might not have been caused by an accident.
She was talking with an older waitress in whispered tones. Tom knew the other woman, Angie, and decided to ask her about her co-worker’s bruise when she went outside for a smoke, which he knew she often did. Angie had been friendly to Tom from the first minute he had walked into the diner after he had interviewed for his original job as a deputy sheriff. He thought the attraction might have had something more to do with his bare left ring finger than the fact that she was a friendly waitress, but he was happy to have a friend, regardless, even if it meant keeping her at a safe distance.
Finally, when the rush hour was over and only a few customers remained, he noticed Angie signal to her co-worker and go out the back door. Tom quickly laid out a twenty for his meal and tip and then went out the front. He circled around the building to where the stout woman sat on a metal crate. She was leaning against the brick with her eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from her hand. She’d relaxed some, her wrinkles settling into shadows as the sun beat down on her. Out here, it was easy to see how the life she had lived had taken it’s toll. She looked a lot older than she should.
“Hey, Tom. I noticed you were here today,” she drawled. Apparently her eyes hadn’t been completely closed.
“Hey, Angie.” He replied. He tried to make small talk for a minute. But finally just cut to the chase. “Actually I need a favor. What can you tell me about the new waitress and that shiner she’s sporting.” He tried to sound nice and flirty, hoping she’d take the bait.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you that, Tom. It’s between her and her husband. She isn’t interested in getting him in trouble, and I know she doesn’t want me to go blabbing her story to the nearest cop in town.”
Tom decided if he wanted her to give up something, he needed to offer something in return, so he gulped and said, “Angie, you remember our three murders? They were all men who had been abusing their wives. I don’t know why, exactly, but I think they’re connected, and I want to try to protect this girl’s husband. What if I swear not to do anything to him? Will you tell me then?” He knew that the murders had been widely talked about and that Angie probably already knew the men were abusive, but he didn’t think that she’d connected their natures with their deaths.
“All right,” Angie drawled after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll tell ya. That girl is named Amber. She met Roy Stevens at some college they were both attending and fell in love with him.” She paused, looking off into the distance before continuing. “She said they ended up married in some Las Vegas wedding chapel and then they came back here. They’re living in his mama’s basement. He’s gone quite a bit I guess, something about having a construction job that takes him everywhere. She just started working here so she’d have something to do while he was gone. When he came back two days ago and his mama told him she’d gotten a job, I guess he hit her. He told her he was the man of the house and he should be the bread winner. But she said he was sorry after he hit her- he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. He’d never hurt her before and he promised never to do it again. He’s letting her work as long as she keeps track of all her tips and doesn’t flirt with the male customers. And that’s all I know Tom, honest.” She looked towards the building a car pulled up and parked at the curb. “I’d better get back inside.” She turned around and walk toward the building.
“Thanks, Angie,” he said quickly, before she shut the door. For not wanting to talk about it, she’d sure given him a lot of information. Tom felt like he knew the husband without even meeting him, the profile of an abuser fit so well. The girl named Amber would undoubtedly be abused again. Her husband would imagine she flirted, no matter what she said. He might even spy on her. And he’d never believe she told the truth about her tips. He’d question her, call her a liar, and hurt her again. Tom knew the type. Then he breathed to himself, “Here’s my chance.”
Tom went back to the office and found Frank. Frank had been born in this town and had lived here his whole life; he knew everyone that lived here: knew who they were related to and what they did for a living.
Frank didn’t disappoint him. Roy Stevens was a distant cousin and Frank knew quite a bit about him. He said Roy was back for two weeks before he left again on another job; he’d always been a suave hotshot in school; and when he’d left to go away to college, no one thought he’d end up coming back with a wife, especially one so pretty. Frank wasn’t surprised when Tom told him about the black eye, as Tom suspected he wouldn’t be.
Tom decided that he was personally going to keep track of Roy Stevens until he left again. The other men had been killed between one and three in the morning, so he’d just have to sit in his own unmarked car and watch if Roy went anywhere at night. If he did, Tom would make sure nothing happened to him. He decided he’d only have to keep watch until midnight, believing that there wouldn’t be any plausible reason for Roy to leave after that time.
It was harder than he expected, sitting in the dark all alone, half a block away from the house. He hadn’t done a stake out since his rookie days. He was generally an early riser and staying up late with nothing but his thoughts to keep him occupied was tedious. He kept dozing off in spite of the large coffee thermos he drank from.
Roy didn’t leave the little apartment the first two nights. Maybe Tom was wrong about the guy; maybe he was truly repentant about hurting his wife. He certainly seemed to be content to be home with her. Then another night went by without anything happening. Tom was feeling pretty discouraged and decidedly tired when he went to the office the next morning. However, his spirits brightened considerably when Frank told him that some of Roy’s buddies were planning a party, “just for the guys”. This will be the killer’s chance, Tom thought, as he walked to his desk and sat down, and mine.
It was a long day, but Tom finally left to go home and eat something. He’d heard the party was at eight o’clock and he’d gotten an address from Frank. He planned on being in place when the party started, even though he doubted anything would happen until Roy left the party- if it did. Still, he wasn’t going to let anything happen to this guy, no matter what he had done to his wife. If he was truly abusing her, he needed counseling and perhaps a divorce, not a death sentence. Tom wasn’t going to let some murderer take Roy out before Tom could give him a chance to redeem himself. This was Tom’s town, he was the law, and he was going to stop anyone that thought otherwise. There was no room for vigilantes. As Tom found a secluded area in which to park his car, little did he know the surprise that awaited him that night.
For what seemed to be endless hours, Tom watched the shadows behind the windows as Roy and his friends watched TV, drank, and partied. They were probably watching the baseball game. That’s what Tom would have been doing if he were home. As he waited, he once again went over the other three cases in his head, hoping that tonight he could catch the killer. He hadn’t seen anything unusual on the street while he’d been sitting there. Gradually, lights went off in the other houses and cars no longer came down the street. Finally, the party seemed to be over. One guy left, then another. Tom dozed as he waited for Roy to emerge. It was nearly an hour before the door opened again. Was that Roy? Or was Tom so drowsy he was dreaming up an apparition simply because at this point all he wanted to do was go home and go to bed? Tom leaned forward to get a better look, but his thoughts seemed to be disjointed, distorted, like he was hallucinating.
Tom opened his eye and looked around bewildered. It was morning. He glanced around his room. He was in his pajamas, everything was the way it should be, but he couldn’t remember anything that had happened after he had seen Roy walk out of the house. What is going on? he thought. He sat up, wincing with soreness, blaming his condition on the long night sitting in an uncomfortable position. Not bothering to shave, he quickly showered, hoping the hot water would loosen up his aching muscles. He dressed for work, all the while his mind grabbling to piece together the previous night’s events. How had he gotten home? He had no memory of it. Just as he was walking out of his door, his cell phone rang.
“Sheriff, we’ve got something down on the beach that you might want to come and look at.” It was Frank. He didn’t need to say what was on the beach; Tom already knew what he would find.
When he got there, he found a scene duplicating the one he had seen a few weeks earlier: The bruised body of a man with a broken neck. A young man. A strong man, muscular from construction work. How had Roy gotten from the party to this beach? Had he gone willingly? Had he been coerced? Had he fought back when he was attacked? Tom groaned and briefly shut his eyes. When he opened them the first thing he saw startled him, then shock began to set in. There before him were tracks from the night before, and this time he knew for sure: they were his own footprints.
The next thing Tom was aware of was being in an unfamiliar office. He wasn’t sure how’d he gotten there, but there he sat, and in front of him sat an elderly man, looking at him sympathetically.
“What…” Tom breathed.
“Tom, I have some startling news for you. I’m going to ask you to watch something I’ve been recording for the past hour. When it’s over, I will answer any questions you have.”
Tom watched in disbelief as the man started a video that showed Tom sitting just as he was, in the same chair, but somehow his face seemed different, and the voice coming out of his mouth sounded more like a woman’s than his own.
“I had to stop it, Dr. Fielding. Ted had taken it farther than he should have. He was just trying to help Tom deal with things, but then he murdered those men, and it started to mess with Tom and his job. Tom was doing so good until Ted wanted revenge.”
“I understand that, Clara; may I talk to Ted?” It was the doctor’s voice.
“Hi, Dr. Fielding.” This was a voice of a child, a young boy. “Clara said you wanted to talk. I don’t know why, I didn’t do anything wrong. Those men are the evil ones: they hurt their wives and their kids. They were the ones that were doing bad things. So I killed them using Tom’s body. It was easy. Then Clara would come and help. She’d clean up; making sure no one could tell it was me. She’d gone with Tom to all those classes about being a cop, so she knew what to do. Baby would cry when he found out about those men, he’d cry so hard. He loved his daddy, but his daddy hurt him. Knowing what those other men did brought back his pain, and so that’s why I came, to help him. I won’t let anyone hurt Baby again, and I won’t let anyone hurt Tom, and I won’t let anyone hurt anyone else. Every time Baby cries, I will do anything to stop him from crying. I hate it when he cries!”
Tom watched in disbelief as Ted’s voice finished and his image and voice once again changed back to who he recognized as Clara. He’d heard about multiple personality disorder, but never had he witnessed it; and not in his wildest imaginings would he have thought he would be one to have it.
“I came to help Tom when his mother died,” the woman’s voice was calm, soothing. “He needed a woman’s compassion- it was such a rough time for him. In spite of his father’s abusiveness, he was handling life well before she died, or so Ted told me. Baby doesn’t talk to me, we just hear him cry when he’s upset. He has been abused by his father, but of course can’t tell anyone about his pain…”
As the tape came to stop, Dr. Fielding looked a Tom expectantly. “You see Tom, it has been Ted that has been killing these men. You have had a deep desire to find the murderer- and now you have.”
Sheriff Tom Phelps looked older than his forty years. His dark hair hadn’t been combed for the day and his rumpled uniform was the same one he had worn the day before. Usually sharp looking, this morning his wide shoulders were slumped, making his six foot four inch frame appear to be smaller. His dark chocolate colored eyes seemed much more tired and more sad than usual. The lines around his mouth were evident as he looked down at the sorry excuse of a husband and father. Paul Ingle had been abusing his family for quite some time, but his wife, Anne, never pressed charges, and no one else had ever done anything about it, either. Now, apparently, someone had taken enough of his beatings and had paid him back. His once handsome and appealing face was covered in bruises and cuts. His head flopped grotesquely, indicating a broken neck.
Their small town wasn’t much for theatrics, but, like many other small towns, even it had its dark secrets. Now Glenwood was about to have another one to add to the growing pile. As they zipped the black body bag closed and carried it to the undertaker’s van, Tom wondered if it was the suppressed wife who had finally done the wretched man in. She was only a slight woman, and he didn’t think she had enough strength in her to beat her husband to a pulp before breaking his neck. He sighed as he thought of the growing number of murder cases, still unsolved. He knew this hadn’t been done by Anne.
There had been two other murders just like this one: Husbands who had been beating their wives, but they hadn’t ever been prosecuted. If it had been the wives, or one of the grown children, that had finally lashed out against the men, they would have had every right, but the complete happenstance of the murders made Tom realize that there had to be a connection somewhere. It had been about a month since the last body had been found. The most disconcerting thought for Tom was that each murder had occurred within a week of him hearing about the abusive husbands. I wonder if there’s a leak somewhere at the office, he thought to himself as he stared out at the horizon. But he knew that most of the deputies had already known about the men’s characteristics, probably even knew they were abusive toward their families, but were helpless to do anything until someone was willing to press charges. Most of his deputies had grown up in this town; Tom was the one who was gradually getting acquainted with the people. He closed his eyes and let the cool morning air slide across the skin on his face. When he opened them again, he let his brain register the way the sunrise was shooting pink and orange flames throughout the sky and ocean. It really is a pretty day, too bad we live in such a world.
The full autopsy report came back a few days later. Paul Ingle had sustained multiple strikes to the head and then received a death blow which broke the vertebrae in his neck. He had been dead approximately four hours when the jogger found him, making the time of death around one in the morning. Paul was last seen at the local bar at about twelve-fifteen the night before. Anne Ingle claimed she had neither seen nor heard her husband come home from work yesterday. Some of Paul’s drinking buddies swore he had been in a fairly good mood last night, making it less likely that he would go home and beat his wife, provoking retaliation, but Tom didn’t believe that Paul had ever made it home. Could Anne have hired a killer? If that were true, it would make sense that they would wait for a time when it seemed more unlikely that Anne would be vengeful.
Tom sat at his desk in his cluttered office and stared at the other two murder files and the ever growing Paul Ingle file. If he didn’t start getting some leads, he might not be sheriff much longer. He had always wanted to be in law enforcement. Oddly enough, memories came back of the Christmas when he received a pair of handcuffs, a cap gun, and a badge from his father. That may have been what influenced Tom into going into law enforcement. It was one of the very few things his dad had ever done for him; the only time he had shown Tom any sign of affection. His father had always been distant, never at home, always working. A lot like Paul Ingle. He was a very successful and handsome man, but a mean drunk. Before Tom could finish his train of thought, one of the deputies walked into his office.
“We have a suspect for ya, Sheriff. Paul was seen talking to another guy in the bar. It didn’t seem to be a friendly conversation, either. The guy was a stranger to everyone, but we have an artist with Charlie right now. We’ll have a sketch and description soon.” Frank was the type of kid you couldn’t help liking. He still looked like a tall, gangly teenager, but his knowledge went well beyond that of the usual twenty-six year olds.
“Thanks, Frank. Keep me posted on anything else. I’m gonna take a break and head down to the diner and get some coffee. I’ll have my radio with me.” Tom stood up. He was more tired than usual today, and he needed the extra perk caffeine gave him if he was going to make it much longer. He had gotten to bed at a decent hour, after watching a little of a Red Sox and Dodgers game the night before, but he didn’t feel rested. He had been chronically tired lately, it seemed. He briefly considered visiting Dr. McMullen, and then quickly dismissed the thought. It was just the strain of these unsolved murders eating away his strength and haunting his every thought.
When he walked into the diner, he received a few questioning looks, but he knew no one dared ask him about the murder. It seemed that word spread around this town like free food at a picnic. He sat down at his usual bar stool and nodded slightly when the new waitress offered him coffee. As he sipped the juice of life, he thought through the other cases.
Theodore Johnson. His was the first body found. On the surface he was a great guy, unless you were his wife or teenage son on a bad day. It had been a man out fishing who had come upon the gruesome scene. His dog had found Johnson and barked until his master followed. Who knows how long the body could have lain there if not for that chance encounter? It had taken three days for anyone to even notice Johnson was missing. He was out of town on business a lot, and often stayed in the city overnight when his job kept him late. Tom suspected Johnson had other reasons for the overnight stays, female reasons, even though Johnson’s wife hadn’t indicated she knew anything about him having affairs. She was a quiet woman, timid, even. Did she miss her husband, or was she relieved he no longer threatened her? Tom wondered if her husband had left her adequately provided for, after all the years she had devoted to caring for him and their home. Probably not. It wasn’t part of an abusive man’s character to think about other’s needs, only his own. Could it have been one of Johnson’s dalliances that had led to his death? A jealous boyfriend or husband of one of the women he flirted with? It was something Tom needed to explore further.
Then there was Jason Brown. Raised poor, he had been captain of his high school football team and earned a coveted scholarship to UCLA. He played in several games that first year, a remarkable accomplishment for a freshman, but he had literally gotten a bad break when he sustained multiple fractures in his leg the last game of the season. He returned home to heal and the college soon let him know they didn’t want to support a broken player with no promise of playing again. Without a scholarship, he had no hope of continuing school. He took a job as a construction worker when his leg was healed, but he had become addicted to pain pills and was soon into harder drugs. He married his high school sweetheart, had a kid a year later, and the bruises started appearing on his wife not long after that. He couldn’t seem to get over the unfairness of what had happened to him. His body had been found in a vacant lot next to the building supply store at the edge of town.
Tom didn’t believe in coincidence. Individually the murders had multiple investigative leads; collectively, they all pointed to one killer and the same motive. Each murder had occurred within a week of Tom’s learning of the men’s abusive personalities, and each man had first been beaten, and then killed - all with broken necks. There had been no witnesses, no weapon used, no evidence around the crime scenes, no suspects. Whoever had killed these men had done it with their bare hands, sustained by super human strength. He’d read about similar murders, but three men in a row was unique as far as he knew. He shook his head, slapped a five dollar bill down on the counter and left the diner to get back to the current crime.
“Of course I believe they’re related, unless it’s a very good copy-cat, but that’s highly unlikely,” Tom said over the phone. He had called one his friends and was picking his brain for any new ideas. It had been three days now, and they weren’t any closer to figuring anything out. Tom’s frustration was growing with every minute he didn’t have the murderer behind bars.
“Tom, you said that each murder happened within a week after you heard about the guy abusing his wife, right? So, keep trying whatever you’re trying, but if you hear about another abuse case, keep an eye on the guy. That’s my advice,” said Greg Nelson. He and Tom had gone through police academy together, and they usually kept each other up to speed on their most interesting cases. Greg seemed to have the better stories, but that was because he worked in the LAPD. An orphan, with no close relatives, Tom had deliberately chosen a small town for its family orientation.
“Alright, thanks Greg,” Tom reluctantly let his friend go. He had hoped Greg would have an insight that would help solve this thing, but there was no such luck. Still, it always helped to have a sounding board.
The artist’s sketch of the stranger who had been at the bar the night Paul Ingle had died had been publicized, and the man was soon located. However, he insisted he and Paul had only been discussing the Dodgers game and he later left with a woman who supported his alibi. Besides, he hadn’t been anywhere near town when the other two murders occurred. It was a dead end. Tom hated to think of it, but it was looking more likely that there was a murderer living in their town. Probably someone he knew. He started paying more attention to the men he worked with, peering at their faces closely, looking for deep cuts or scratches that would indicate they had been in a fight recently. Surely the murdered men had fought for their lives. Who was the man who had beaten and then broken them so easily?
The next few days turned up nothing. Tom returned to the beach where Ingle’s body had been found, but all evidence had long since washed away, each wave pulling evidence further away from his grasp, making Tom groan in frustration.
When Tom returned to his office, he pulled out the pictures he had of the crime scenes, spreading them out on his desk, comparing. At first, he wasn’t aware of anything that he hadn’t seen before. The only footprints evident were his own. Then he looked closer at one picture. When he had arrived at the scene, had he walked around the body that way? He couldn’t remember. It had been so long ago, yet he didn’t think he would walk around until after the pictures had been taken. Surely, even subconsciously, he would have wanted the scene to be as close to how the killer left it as possible. He’d have to talk to Frank about that.
He searched the other pictures. Blocking the bodies from his sight, he concentrated on the area around the bodies and found the same thing. Why would he do something like that? What if he had covered up the true suspects prints? Then another thought struck him. What if the suspect had the same shoes as he wore? He bought his shoes from a uniform catalog. They were a common brand for law officers, comfortable and durable. A lot of the guys on the force wore the same kind of shoes. Perhaps Tom had something more to worry about than just a leak; perhaps the killer was a fellow officer.
As the weeks passed, the hope of solving anything quickly was dissolving. Tom was increasingly agitated and edgy. He was devoting all of his time to those three cases, handing off all others to his deputies, refusing to rest until the guilty person was caught. He had memorized the pictures, the crime scenes, and the lab reports that came back on the bodies. Everything was identical, yet nothing fit. He still had difficulty thinking about the shoe prints. Something in him told him to keep pushing the thought back. Perhaps his brain would process it and then produce an answer when he least expected it.
He spent most of his time in his office, sitting at his desk, painstakingly going every last detail, until he had them memorized. The cases became his obsession and threatened to drive him insane if he didn’t solve them soon.
Finally, a break came. One day, when he was sitting in the diner, he noticed the new waitress had a bruised eye. She was a pretty girl. He wasn’t sure of her name, but as he stared at her eyes he saw they were the color of blue that people dream of having. Her silky brown hair made him want to reach out and touch it, because he couldn’t believe how soft it looked. She was slim, with a figure that could have fit well in a beauty pageant. Tom felt a revulsion rising in him as he considered that her bruise might not have been caused by an accident.
She was talking with an older waitress in whispered tones. Tom knew the other woman, Angie, and decided to ask her about her co-worker’s bruise when she went outside for a smoke, which he knew she often did. Angie had been friendly to Tom from the first minute he had walked into the diner after he had interviewed for his original job as a deputy sheriff. He thought the attraction might have had something more to do with his bare left ring finger than the fact that she was a friendly waitress, but he was happy to have a friend, regardless, even if it meant keeping her at a safe distance.
Finally, when the rush hour was over and only a few customers remained, he noticed Angie signal to her co-worker and go out the back door. Tom quickly laid out a twenty for his meal and tip and then went out the front. He circled around the building to where the stout woman sat on a metal crate. She was leaning against the brick with her eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from her hand. She’d relaxed some, her wrinkles settling into shadows as the sun beat down on her. Out here, it was easy to see how the life she had lived had taken it’s toll. She looked a lot older than she should.
“Hey, Tom. I noticed you were here today,” she drawled. Apparently her eyes hadn’t been completely closed.
“Hey, Angie.” He replied. He tried to make small talk for a minute. But finally just cut to the chase. “Actually I need a favor. What can you tell me about the new waitress and that shiner she’s sporting.” He tried to sound nice and flirty, hoping she’d take the bait.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you that, Tom. It’s between her and her husband. She isn’t interested in getting him in trouble, and I know she doesn’t want me to go blabbing her story to the nearest cop in town.”
Tom decided if he wanted her to give up something, he needed to offer something in return, so he gulped and said, “Angie, you remember our three murders? They were all men who had been abusing their wives. I don’t know why, exactly, but I think they’re connected, and I want to try to protect this girl’s husband. What if I swear not to do anything to him? Will you tell me then?” He knew that the murders had been widely talked about and that Angie probably already knew the men were abusive, but he didn’t think that she’d connected their natures with their deaths.
“All right,” Angie drawled after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll tell ya. That girl is named Amber. She met Roy Stevens at some college they were both attending and fell in love with him.” She paused, looking off into the distance before continuing. “She said they ended up married in some Las Vegas wedding chapel and then they came back here. They’re living in his mama’s basement. He’s gone quite a bit I guess, something about having a construction job that takes him everywhere. She just started working here so she’d have something to do while he was gone. When he came back two days ago and his mama told him she’d gotten a job, I guess he hit her. He told her he was the man of the house and he should be the bread winner. But she said he was sorry after he hit her- he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. He’d never hurt her before and he promised never to do it again. He’s letting her work as long as she keeps track of all her tips and doesn’t flirt with the male customers. And that’s all I know Tom, honest.” She looked towards the building a car pulled up and parked at the curb. “I’d better get back inside.” She turned around and walk toward the building.
“Thanks, Angie,” he said quickly, before she shut the door. For not wanting to talk about it, she’d sure given him a lot of information. Tom felt like he knew the husband without even meeting him, the profile of an abuser fit so well. The girl named Amber would undoubtedly be abused again. Her husband would imagine she flirted, no matter what she said. He might even spy on her. And he’d never believe she told the truth about her tips. He’d question her, call her a liar, and hurt her again. Tom knew the type. Then he breathed to himself, “Here’s my chance.”
Tom went back to the office and found Frank. Frank had been born in this town and had lived here his whole life; he knew everyone that lived here: knew who they were related to and what they did for a living.
Frank didn’t disappoint him. Roy Stevens was a distant cousin and Frank knew quite a bit about him. He said Roy was back for two weeks before he left again on another job; he’d always been a suave hotshot in school; and when he’d left to go away to college, no one thought he’d end up coming back with a wife, especially one so pretty. Frank wasn’t surprised when Tom told him about the black eye, as Tom suspected he wouldn’t be.
Tom decided that he was personally going to keep track of Roy Stevens until he left again. The other men had been killed between one and three in the morning, so he’d just have to sit in his own unmarked car and watch if Roy went anywhere at night. If he did, Tom would make sure nothing happened to him. He decided he’d only have to keep watch until midnight, believing that there wouldn’t be any plausible reason for Roy to leave after that time.
It was harder than he expected, sitting in the dark all alone, half a block away from the house. He hadn’t done a stake out since his rookie days. He was generally an early riser and staying up late with nothing but his thoughts to keep him occupied was tedious. He kept dozing off in spite of the large coffee thermos he drank from.
Roy didn’t leave the little apartment the first two nights. Maybe Tom was wrong about the guy; maybe he was truly repentant about hurting his wife. He certainly seemed to be content to be home with her. Then another night went by without anything happening. Tom was feeling pretty discouraged and decidedly tired when he went to the office the next morning. However, his spirits brightened considerably when Frank told him that some of Roy’s buddies were planning a party, “just for the guys”. This will be the killer’s chance, Tom thought, as he walked to his desk and sat down, and mine.
It was a long day, but Tom finally left to go home and eat something. He’d heard the party was at eight o’clock and he’d gotten an address from Frank. He planned on being in place when the party started, even though he doubted anything would happen until Roy left the party- if it did. Still, he wasn’t going to let anything happen to this guy, no matter what he had done to his wife. If he was truly abusing her, he needed counseling and perhaps a divorce, not a death sentence. Tom wasn’t going to let some murderer take Roy out before Tom could give him a chance to redeem himself. This was Tom’s town, he was the law, and he was going to stop anyone that thought otherwise. There was no room for vigilantes. As Tom found a secluded area in which to park his car, little did he know the surprise that awaited him that night.
For what seemed to be endless hours, Tom watched the shadows behind the windows as Roy and his friends watched TV, drank, and partied. They were probably watching the baseball game. That’s what Tom would have been doing if he were home. As he waited, he once again went over the other three cases in his head, hoping that tonight he could catch the killer. He hadn’t seen anything unusual on the street while he’d been sitting there. Gradually, lights went off in the other houses and cars no longer came down the street. Finally, the party seemed to be over. One guy left, then another. Tom dozed as he waited for Roy to emerge. It was nearly an hour before the door opened again. Was that Roy? Or was Tom so drowsy he was dreaming up an apparition simply because at this point all he wanted to do was go home and go to bed? Tom leaned forward to get a better look, but his thoughts seemed to be disjointed, distorted, like he was hallucinating.
Tom opened his eye and looked around bewildered. It was morning. He glanced around his room. He was in his pajamas, everything was the way it should be, but he couldn’t remember anything that had happened after he had seen Roy walk out of the house. What is going on? he thought. He sat up, wincing with soreness, blaming his condition on the long night sitting in an uncomfortable position. Not bothering to shave, he quickly showered, hoping the hot water would loosen up his aching muscles. He dressed for work, all the while his mind grabbling to piece together the previous night’s events. How had he gotten home? He had no memory of it. Just as he was walking out of his door, his cell phone rang.
“Sheriff, we’ve got something down on the beach that you might want to come and look at.” It was Frank. He didn’t need to say what was on the beach; Tom already knew what he would find.
When he got there, he found a scene duplicating the one he had seen a few weeks earlier: The bruised body of a man with a broken neck. A young man. A strong man, muscular from construction work. How had Roy gotten from the party to this beach? Had he gone willingly? Had he been coerced? Had he fought back when he was attacked? Tom groaned and briefly shut his eyes. When he opened them the first thing he saw startled him, then shock began to set in. There before him were tracks from the night before, and this time he knew for sure: they were his own footprints.
The next thing Tom was aware of was being in an unfamiliar office. He wasn’t sure how’d he gotten there, but there he sat, and in front of him sat an elderly man, looking at him sympathetically.
“What…” Tom breathed.
“Tom, I have some startling news for you. I’m going to ask you to watch something I’ve been recording for the past hour. When it’s over, I will answer any questions you have.”
Tom watched in disbelief as the man started a video that showed Tom sitting just as he was, in the same chair, but somehow his face seemed different, and the voice coming out of his mouth sounded more like a woman’s than his own.
“I had to stop it, Dr. Fielding. Ted had taken it farther than he should have. He was just trying to help Tom deal with things, but then he murdered those men, and it started to mess with Tom and his job. Tom was doing so good until Ted wanted revenge.”
“I understand that, Clara; may I talk to Ted?” It was the doctor’s voice.
“Hi, Dr. Fielding.” This was a voice of a child, a young boy. “Clara said you wanted to talk. I don’t know why, I didn’t do anything wrong. Those men are the evil ones: they hurt their wives and their kids. They were the ones that were doing bad things. So I killed them using Tom’s body. It was easy. Then Clara would come and help. She’d clean up; making sure no one could tell it was me. She’d gone with Tom to all those classes about being a cop, so she knew what to do. Baby would cry when he found out about those men, he’d cry so hard. He loved his daddy, but his daddy hurt him. Knowing what those other men did brought back his pain, and so that’s why I came, to help him. I won’t let anyone hurt Baby again, and I won’t let anyone hurt Tom, and I won’t let anyone hurt anyone else. Every time Baby cries, I will do anything to stop him from crying. I hate it when he cries!”
Tom watched in disbelief as Ted’s voice finished and his image and voice once again changed back to who he recognized as Clara. He’d heard about multiple personality disorder, but never had he witnessed it; and not in his wildest imaginings would he have thought he would be one to have it.
“I came to help Tom when his mother died,” the woman’s voice was calm, soothing. “He needed a woman’s compassion- it was such a rough time for him. In spite of his father’s abusiveness, he was handling life well before she died, or so Ted told me. Baby doesn’t talk to me, we just hear him cry when he’s upset. He has been abused by his father, but of course can’t tell anyone about his pain…”
As the tape came to stop, Dr. Fielding looked a Tom expectantly. “You see Tom, it has been Ted that has been killing these men. You have had a deep desire to find the murderer- and now you have.”
Thank heavens that it is finals week! Yesterday morning I woke up with a sore throat, and by the end of the day it had worked itself into a full fledged cold. Is that how you spell fledged? Everything is taking over and it's driving me insane! I always have a cough drop in my mouth, I'm drinking Dayquil and Nyquil like it's water, and it's not really helping much. At least my nose hasn't turned into Niagra Falls! ...Yet...
Other than that I am excellent! I am done with tests, and I just have to wait until Friday when Dr. Petersen gets to yell at me about how sucky my work is. I know im' not the best writer in the world, but I guess we'll see what he says. I think my short story was actually quite something really. Great plot, but when I went through to see what I wanted to revise, I found a lot of boo boos that I want to fix. And possibly make it alot longer. Maybe a novel? That would be an accomlishment. Alex the author... I think that I'm going to try and break into the children's book industry first... Since it's the hardest, and if I don't manage that I will try other things. I think my poetry might be improving too. Who knew taking a Creative Writing class would do such great things? I'm actually taking Intro to Poetry next semester. My outlook on life is... Well... getting bigger! Ta da! Miracles never seem to cease. Thankfully! Where would we be if they did??
I'm sitting in the basement of the library waiting for Olivia to finish her LM final. She said it would take about an hour, and it's been a half, but I'm alreayd bored, and I'm getting the eye from a couple of guys down here. Not guys I want to be getting the eye from. They seem nice, but... no. SUU guys are... to say the least, interesting. I had on from the other section of the french class in with us while we took the final, and he was at the pinnacle of what an SUU guy is like. He knew one of the girls that is in my class, and he was talking to her like she was dirt, and I think he actually hit her, but she hit him back. I love girls that can take care of themselves! Go Casey!
I don't really know where I'm going with this. Typing is keeping my fingers warm. I'm by the window, and there is definitely a draft. I can't wait to go home and just sleep. Okay, sleep for Saturday and Sunday, and then probably start work the rest of break. That'll be good for me though, at least I won't ahve to go to classes and try and think about anything. My brain needs a break. I'm taking Statistics in Psychology next semester too, I may not survive! I hate any kind of math. And I've never been good at the whole story problems and percentage thing.
Ok, I'm going to stop now. This is probably the longest thing I've written in so long. Especially on this blog. Adios!
Other than that I am excellent! I am done with tests, and I just have to wait until Friday when Dr. Petersen gets to yell at me about how sucky my work is. I know im' not the best writer in the world, but I guess we'll see what he says. I think my short story was actually quite something really. Great plot, but when I went through to see what I wanted to revise, I found a lot of boo boos that I want to fix. And possibly make it alot longer. Maybe a novel? That would be an accomlishment. Alex the author... I think that I'm going to try and break into the children's book industry first... Since it's the hardest, and if I don't manage that I will try other things. I think my poetry might be improving too. Who knew taking a Creative Writing class would do such great things? I'm actually taking Intro to Poetry next semester. My outlook on life is... Well... getting bigger! Ta da! Miracles never seem to cease. Thankfully! Where would we be if they did??
I'm sitting in the basement of the library waiting for Olivia to finish her LM final. She said it would take about an hour, and it's been a half, but I'm alreayd bored, and I'm getting the eye from a couple of guys down here. Not guys I want to be getting the eye from. They seem nice, but... no. SUU guys are... to say the least, interesting. I had on from the other section of the french class in with us while we took the final, and he was at the pinnacle of what an SUU guy is like. He knew one of the girls that is in my class, and he was talking to her like she was dirt, and I think he actually hit her, but she hit him back. I love girls that can take care of themselves! Go Casey!
I don't really know where I'm going with this. Typing is keeping my fingers warm. I'm by the window, and there is definitely a draft. I can't wait to go home and just sleep. Okay, sleep for Saturday and Sunday, and then probably start work the rest of break. That'll be good for me though, at least I won't ahve to go to classes and try and think about anything. My brain needs a break. I'm taking Statistics in Psychology next semester too, I may not survive! I hate any kind of math. And I've never been good at the whole story problems and percentage thing.
Ok, I'm going to stop now. This is probably the longest thing I've written in so long. Especially on this blog. Adios!
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Yea! No more classes! I just have to randomly show up and take killer tests! Whoot woo! Today wasn't a very restful Saturday, but it was sure fun! We woke up early 'cause Olivia's parents came and took us to breakfast at Denny's. Then we went to St. George and went shopping! I'm way excited! I pretty much have it all done! I can't wait! This is the BEST time of the year.
In other news, I'm exhausted. Pretty much ready to hit the hay! So, I'm going to go! Peace, love, and Hersey's Kisses to you all!
In other news, I'm exhausted. Pretty much ready to hit the hay! So, I'm going to go! Peace, love, and Hersey's Kisses to you all!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
For a moment in my silly head,
I was safe.
Wrapped up in something,
I thought couldn't break.
When it did,
my world,
fell.
Something happened,
and I don't know what.
I can't stop to think,
it hurts too much.
When something like that,
so special,
breaks, falls, tears.
What do you do?
When you figure it out,
make it
better.
I was safe.
Wrapped up in something,
I thought couldn't break.
When it did,
my world,
fell.
Something happened,
and I don't know what.
I can't stop to think,
it hurts too much.
When something like that,
so special,
breaks, falls, tears.
What do you do?
When you figure it out,
make it
better.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Today marked a great milestone in life. The first day of the last week of classes! I am pretty excited. This means that soon I will take that last test, load up a car, and head to my hogan in Blanding! Then it's three weeks of doing... Well, anything but classes! I'm pretty excited.
I'm sitting in the library with Olivia, surprised that I'm not asleep. We stayed up until five last night. Don't ask me why! We were talking about how we might be up all night studying, and I was like, "We should pull an all nighter!" And Olivia, who has never done that before, said, "OK!" And I was stuck. I'm happy to announce that I made it until five in the morning until I packed up and went and crawled into bed, sweater and everything. I at least had the presence of mind to take off my socks, but only because sleeping in them drives me insane! I got about four hours in before I had to get up and go to class... But I must say, things just seem alot funnier at three in the morning. I even tried on my stocking... And then Olivia told me to put the other one on my other foot, and took a picture! That picture will NOT make it on the computer! I also realized that of the most odd things that come out of your mouth, quoting Bambi has to be the best at three in the morning! Ahh gee... it has been a long day today! I can't wait to go to bed tonight... but first I have homework, homework, homework! It's EVERYWHERE!
We went to my brother's house tonight. He invited us over for moose steaks. It was pretty good! I feel really bad because yesterday was Fast Sunday, and for the next week after, it takes me forever to stretch my stomach back to the right places it should be. I'm so glad that Josh is home safe! And it's awesome to have a brother just a few blocks away if I need anything. It's comforting...
Ok, I've yammered on for long enough. Not that I'm the only one that reads this or anything. Wish me luck through finals week!
I'm sitting in the library with Olivia, surprised that I'm not asleep. We stayed up until five last night. Don't ask me why! We were talking about how we might be up all night studying, and I was like, "We should pull an all nighter!" And Olivia, who has never done that before, said, "OK!" And I was stuck. I'm happy to announce that I made it until five in the morning until I packed up and went and crawled into bed, sweater and everything. I at least had the presence of mind to take off my socks, but only because sleeping in them drives me insane! I got about four hours in before I had to get up and go to class... But I must say, things just seem alot funnier at three in the morning. I even tried on my stocking... And then Olivia told me to put the other one on my other foot, and took a picture! That picture will NOT make it on the computer! I also realized that of the most odd things that come out of your mouth, quoting Bambi has to be the best at three in the morning! Ahh gee... it has been a long day today! I can't wait to go to bed tonight... but first I have homework, homework, homework! It's EVERYWHERE!
We went to my brother's house tonight. He invited us over for moose steaks. It was pretty good! I feel really bad because yesterday was Fast Sunday, and for the next week after, it takes me forever to stretch my stomach back to the right places it should be. I'm so glad that Josh is home safe! And it's awesome to have a brother just a few blocks away if I need anything. It's comforting...
Ok, I've yammered on for long enough. Not that I'm the only one that reads this or anything. Wish me luck through finals week!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
There's a few moments in life where one just has to stop and just think; what am I doing?
This is the moment I am at in life. I have been here for about a year now. Funny how long a moment can last. If you read my moments, they seem to only take seconds, but have a much longer thought process combined with it. I suppose the moment it dawned on me that I had no idea what I was doing was quick, and I've just been thinking about it ever since.
Right now I kind of wonder why I'm even bothering taking classes. I hate being tied to something! Having to plan my life around something that I hate. Ok, so I don't really hate school that much, but I suppose I'm kind of sick of it. After all, I've been going to classes for the past fifteen years of my life! Granted I have about one more left, but what does one do with a bachelors in Psychology?
Ranting is always my forte. I've promised myself that I will stop complaing about life and just be happy with what I have. It's harder than it looks! However, when I take things, like my moments, and I really look at them, I realize how great life really is. We're given these little things to remind us that God loves us, he knows us each individually, and everything will be ok. Even in those moments when we think we hate our lives, these little things will just come along that blow you away.
I love life!
This is the moment I am at in life. I have been here for about a year now. Funny how long a moment can last. If you read my moments, they seem to only take seconds, but have a much longer thought process combined with it. I suppose the moment it dawned on me that I had no idea what I was doing was quick, and I've just been thinking about it ever since.
Right now I kind of wonder why I'm even bothering taking classes. I hate being tied to something! Having to plan my life around something that I hate. Ok, so I don't really hate school that much, but I suppose I'm kind of sick of it. After all, I've been going to classes for the past fifteen years of my life! Granted I have about one more left, but what does one do with a bachelors in Psychology?
Ranting is always my forte. I've promised myself that I will stop complaing about life and just be happy with what I have. It's harder than it looks! However, when I take things, like my moments, and I really look at them, I realize how great life really is. We're given these little things to remind us that God loves us, he knows us each individually, and everything will be ok. Even in those moments when we think we hate our lives, these little things will just come along that blow you away.
I love life!
Tomorrow I can't be me anymore.
It's a day that will live on in my head,
because it's the day,
I give myself up.
No more that person,
the one I so carefully crafted.
Who I thought I was,
I can no longer be.
You said it had to happen.
You told me to change.
It has to be said,
It's your fault.
Whenever someone looks at me,
They'll see someone,
it won't be who I want to be,
but who you want me to be.
It's a day that will live on in my head,
because it's the day,
I give myself up.
No more that person,
the one I so carefully crafted.
Who I thought I was,
I can no longer be.
You said it had to happen.
You told me to change.
It has to be said,
It's your fault.
Whenever someone looks at me,
They'll see someone,
it won't be who I want to be,
but who you want me to be.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
This assignment was pretty easy. I had already written it, I just needed to tweek it enough to be good enough for turning in. Take a moment of occasion in life that made you think, and write about it. Hence the result...
During the spring semester in 2006, I was attending the extension of USU in Blanding, Utah. In the technology building, there is a huge oak table with chairs all around it. This was my favorite spot to go and work on my homework before I had class. One beautiful, warm spring day I was sitting there and a lady I knew walked in the door. She walked down the hall and into the USU classrooms. I didn’t really think anything of it then, but when she walked by a few minutes later I paid more attention to her. She was fumbling around in her rather large purse looking for, what I assumed, were her keys. Just before she reached out to open the door, I heard her more than sigh then say, “This just isn’t my day.”
There’s few times in my life when I really take a trip on thoughts. I don’t really have time. However, it was between working on Sociology and thinking this through, so of course I had a few minutes of contemplation. What makes it your day? Is it a good grade? Good luck? Does it involve the word good? Does everything have to go perfectly to be your day? Do only a few bad things make the day not yours? Where does that put Mondays? Does waking up on the weekday directly after a weekend make it a bad day? What if Monday came in the middle of the week? Thoughts kept infiltrating my once frazzled brain. I couldn’t sort anything out, and I sure wasn’t making sense to myself.
I couldn’t really come to a conclusion, except that as human beings, if something goes wrong we have to blame it on the day. We think to ourselves, or say aloud, “This isn’t my day, so nothing will go right!” Perhaps we don’t want to take credit for bad things that happen to us, so we’re more prone to put the blame on something else. Of course this theory doesn’t make sense when reversed. We like to take credit for good things. Don’t we? The problem that really seemed to bother me just didn’t make sense. Since when did people start assigning days? How many other humans on this planet aren’t having a good day? How about those that are having good days? Is it just the little bad things that makes us have a bad day, or can it be just one big disaster?
My favorite book is Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster. Her heroine writes to the trustee that is paying for her to attend college about bad days. “It isn’t the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh – I really think that requires spirit!” I love this idea. How many of us can make it through some catastrophe and say “This isn’t my day?” But how many of us can say, “This hasn’t been the best day for me, but it still can be! Because I’m not one to let a few things get me down!”
To quote Meg Ryan’s character in You’ve Got Mail – “I don’t really want an answer; I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void.” And that’s how it is; I don’t think that I really want answers. Perhaps knowing that in each of us lies the power to change. Instead of sighing and sadly saying, “This isn’t my day.” Perhaps we should just toss the little things into the wind and walk away laughing, just enough to make Miss Jerusha Abbott proud.
During the spring semester in 2006, I was attending the extension of USU in Blanding, Utah. In the technology building, there is a huge oak table with chairs all around it. This was my favorite spot to go and work on my homework before I had class. One beautiful, warm spring day I was sitting there and a lady I knew walked in the door. She walked down the hall and into the USU classrooms. I didn’t really think anything of it then, but when she walked by a few minutes later I paid more attention to her. She was fumbling around in her rather large purse looking for, what I assumed, were her keys. Just before she reached out to open the door, I heard her more than sigh then say, “This just isn’t my day.”
There’s few times in my life when I really take a trip on thoughts. I don’t really have time. However, it was between working on Sociology and thinking this through, so of course I had a few minutes of contemplation. What makes it your day? Is it a good grade? Good luck? Does it involve the word good? Does everything have to go perfectly to be your day? Do only a few bad things make the day not yours? Where does that put Mondays? Does waking up on the weekday directly after a weekend make it a bad day? What if Monday came in the middle of the week? Thoughts kept infiltrating my once frazzled brain. I couldn’t sort anything out, and I sure wasn’t making sense to myself.
I couldn’t really come to a conclusion, except that as human beings, if something goes wrong we have to blame it on the day. We think to ourselves, or say aloud, “This isn’t my day, so nothing will go right!” Perhaps we don’t want to take credit for bad things that happen to us, so we’re more prone to put the blame on something else. Of course this theory doesn’t make sense when reversed. We like to take credit for good things. Don’t we? The problem that really seemed to bother me just didn’t make sense. Since when did people start assigning days? How many other humans on this planet aren’t having a good day? How about those that are having good days? Is it just the little bad things that makes us have a bad day, or can it be just one big disaster?
My favorite book is Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster. Her heroine writes to the trustee that is paying for her to attend college about bad days. “It isn’t the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh – I really think that requires spirit!” I love this idea. How many of us can make it through some catastrophe and say “This isn’t my day?” But how many of us can say, “This hasn’t been the best day for me, but it still can be! Because I’m not one to let a few things get me down!”
To quote Meg Ryan’s character in You’ve Got Mail – “I don’t really want an answer; I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void.” And that’s how it is; I don’t think that I really want answers. Perhaps knowing that in each of us lies the power to change. Instead of sighing and sadly saying, “This isn’t my day.” Perhaps we should just toss the little things into the wind and walk away laughing, just enough to make Miss Jerusha Abbott proud.
So a few days ago in class, Dr. P was talking about stories that end with something shocking or amusing, kind of like a punch line story. I won't relate the story he used for example. But after many days of deep contemplation I came up with this... I think it's great.
In my hometown there isn’t a lot to do during the summer. Most kids go to the swimming pool everyday, which we did a lot as kids, but we also went to one of the four reservoirs we have around Blanding.
When you have a boat, or just a little extra time, it was always a treat to get to go swimming at the reservoir. For some reason it’s better than the filtered pool that’s highly chlorinated to disguise the fact that people pee in it. No, instead we’d rather go to a place with no filter, lots of fish, their guts, and who knows what else. It just seemed more adventurous. There were no crawdads in the swimming pool we could catch and torture.
One day, when I was about three or four, my dad decided he was going to take my older brothers and me to the reservoir to get us out of my mom’s hair for awhile, so he told each of us to go get our swimming suits, towels and some shoes on. Well, I was excited to be going, so I ran up to my room, threw on my suit, grabbed a towel, and put on my cowboy boots. When I came marching down the stairs, my dad looked up and sighed, then said, “Honey, those aren’t reservoir shoes.”
I looked at him defiantly and said, “But Daddy, I can’t find my dam shoes!”
In my hometown there isn’t a lot to do during the summer. Most kids go to the swimming pool everyday, which we did a lot as kids, but we also went to one of the four reservoirs we have around Blanding.
When you have a boat, or just a little extra time, it was always a treat to get to go swimming at the reservoir. For some reason it’s better than the filtered pool that’s highly chlorinated to disguise the fact that people pee in it. No, instead we’d rather go to a place with no filter, lots of fish, their guts, and who knows what else. It just seemed more adventurous. There were no crawdads in the swimming pool we could catch and torture.
One day, when I was about three or four, my dad decided he was going to take my older brothers and me to the reservoir to get us out of my mom’s hair for awhile, so he told each of us to go get our swimming suits, towels and some shoes on. Well, I was excited to be going, so I ran up to my room, threw on my suit, grabbed a towel, and put on my cowboy boots. When I came marching down the stairs, my dad looked up and sighed, then said, “Honey, those aren’t reservoir shoes.”
I looked at him defiantly and said, “But Daddy, I can’t find my dam shoes!”
Monday, September 25, 2006
Hmm... Haven't posted here in awhile. We haven't had any new assignments in class, (thankfully) so I haven't had anything really to put on here. So I just decided maybe I'l just blog for a minute or two before I keep working on the endless homework that keeps starting to pile up. Expecially after this weekend. I had a root canal (after unbearable pain Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, even high dosages of pain pills couldn't knock it out) Friday afternoon, missing my Abnormal Psychology class, so I have to read the end of chapter one, study the brain all on my own and fill out/read 21 pages so I can volunteer for Oasis House here in Cedar City. I spent all weekend in this stupper, still taking pain pills, combined with the prescription from the dentist that adds the wonderful side affects to my whole injury, but as long as my tooth stopped hurting I think I'm good. If I can survive tomorrow, I'll be a champion in my own eyes.
I'm really not much a blogger today. Olivia and I woke up at six-thirty to go play raquetball, only to have all the courts being used, so instead of sticking around and waiting for a court, we decided to see what Wal-Mart was like at that time of morning. Can I just say, I might wake up that early to go shopping all the time! It was WONDERFUL! There was no one. We got our exercise by running from the car into the store and then back, 'cause it was absolutely freezing outside (8 degrees on the school marque on the way back)!
Ok, my tummy is telling me it's time to go eat something or suffer some very bad consequences. It's not very happy with me just feeding it pills and a little applesauce or yogurt every once in awhile 'cause I couldn't chew. Maybe I'll go get Chinese...
I'm really not much a blogger today. Olivia and I woke up at six-thirty to go play raquetball, only to have all the courts being used, so instead of sticking around and waiting for a court, we decided to see what Wal-Mart was like at that time of morning. Can I just say, I might wake up that early to go shopping all the time! It was WONDERFUL! There was no one. We got our exercise by running from the car into the store and then back, 'cause it was absolutely freezing outside (8 degrees on the school marque on the way back)!
Ok, my tummy is telling me it's time to go eat something or suffer some very bad consequences. It's not very happy with me just feeding it pills and a little applesauce or yogurt every once in awhile 'cause I couldn't chew. Maybe I'll go get Chinese...
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Lost Poem. We had to describe an item that we actually lost, then relate it to something else in life that we lost, but we can't mention it by name. This is the only other poem I have, and hopefully the last that I have to write! And hopefully you get what I'm writing about... I shouldn't think it's that hard! Adios!
Once is Lost is Gone for Good
She had blonde hair, blue eyes,
Pink Osh Kosh overalls,
Together our imaginations reached beyond skies.
She could be termed my best friend.
She was made and given to me,
Built as a “kid sister”,
Her sole purpose was to fill my life with glee.
To be my tag along.
When it came time to say good-bye,
Time to finally grow up,
All I wanted to do was cry.
She became my lost girl.
Now a "grown woman”,
Sometimes, when I’m feeling blue,
In my mind, the past will run
fleetingly, leaving me melancholy.
When grown things are in my face,
I close my eyes and wish,
Hope to go back to that place.
When she and I were friends.
But she was just a doll.
Once is Lost is Gone for Good
She had blonde hair, blue eyes,
Pink Osh Kosh overalls,
Together our imaginations reached beyond skies.
She could be termed my best friend.
She was made and given to me,
Built as a “kid sister”,
Her sole purpose was to fill my life with glee.
To be my tag along.
When it came time to say good-bye,
Time to finally grow up,
All I wanted to do was cry.
She became my lost girl.
Now a "grown woman”,
Sometimes, when I’m feeling blue,
In my mind, the past will run
fleetingly, leaving me melancholy.
When grown things are in my face,
I close my eyes and wish,
Hope to go back to that place.
When she and I were friends.
But she was just a doll.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Moments
Her face contorted in uncomfortable, unbearable pain.
The gloriousness of understanding enveloping a once confused, dazed look.
Such a time in life when all is well, and everyone is laughing hysterically at the simplest thing.
A hand on the small of her back, gently, lovingly leading.
The feeling you get when you look at the one you love, and you just know; he's yours.
The face, upturned to greet the beloved moisture falling from darkened clouds.
The embrace of a mother for a daughter before she leaves home.
The way the look on his face changes completely when he glances the one he loves as she walks towards him.
_______________________________________________
Images
The soft light of sunset coming through the window and settling on the light film of dust on a picture frame.
The peacefulness of sleep on a face that once was sad.
A student held to their math book, drenched in the knowledge contained within.
The look of peacefulness on the dying face as the lungs draw that terminal breath.
Thousands of drops of water dotting a car.
A student all buddled up against the cold, but they still have a very red nose.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
This is my fairy tale poem. It took me only a few minutes to come up with this, but it's replacing one that I spent maybe too much time on. The assignment was to write a poem using a fairy tale to tell something, but not retaling the fairy tale. So drawing things from the fairy tale to make them fit metaphorically in your poem. Hopefully you can tell what my fairy tale was. We also had the limit of only three stanzas.
I'm a Princess
Stuck in a cruel world,
Not quite sure where to fit,
I'm just an awkward thing.
Pushed into a scene,
Most uncomfortable.
But there's a prince.
He thinks I'm lovely,
And so pursues,
Until I'm a princess.
I'm a Princess
Stuck in a cruel world,
Not quite sure where to fit,
I'm just an awkward thing.
Pushed into a scene,
Most uncomfortable.
But there's a prince.
He thinks I'm lovely,
And so pursues,
Until I'm a princess.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
This is my love poem. The assignment was that we couldn't write about a person, so... here's something else I can't live without. It's just the first draft, so it may seem a little worse than usual. But hey, what can you do?
The memory of you last but awhile.
The sweet taste of you makes me smile.
You make my confidence go up a mile,
Unless I don't use you for awhile.
Clean and white you leave me be-
Taking stains away from me.
Your flavors began with shades of mint,
But soon grew to include some fruity tints.
When it comes to bad breath, you're a fighter.
None but you can make my teeth shine brighter.
I think I love you, so don't be mean.
If you ever left, my friends would turn green.
I can't last long without you in my life.
You help relieve me of so much strife.
So stick with me- always be my friend-
We're In this together until the gummy end.
The memory of you last but awhile.
The sweet taste of you makes me smile.
You make my confidence go up a mile,
Unless I don't use you for awhile.
Clean and white you leave me be-
Taking stains away from me.
Your flavors began with shades of mint,
But soon grew to include some fruity tints.
When it comes to bad breath, you're a fighter.
None but you can make my teeth shine brighter.
I think I love you, so don't be mean.
If you ever left, my friends would turn green.
I can't last long without you in my life.
You help relieve me of so much strife.
So stick with me- always be my friend-
We're In this together until the gummy end.
Disclaimer:
So, I'm not a poet. I've discovered this in the past through high school assignments, but now more than ever I believe that my poems can barely scratch the surface of what could actually be called a poem. I do like to call myself a writer, so hopefully when I get around to writing and posting other things, besides poems, I can live up to standards. Until then, you will have to put up with some interesting ideas.
So, I'm not a poet. I've discovered this in the past through high school assignments, but now more than ever I believe that my poems can barely scratch the surface of what could actually be called a poem. I do like to call myself a writer, so hopefully when I get around to writing and posting other things, besides poems, I can live up to standards. Until then, you will have to put up with some interesting ideas.
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