Front Porch Rambles

Hello Reader. I'm not writing a new chapter this time, sorry.  I had a few more plans for my characters than made it to the page, but I hit a mental stopping point.  Tonight, I think I figured out why.  I sat and let my mind wander, intentionally and with some difficulty keeping my phone in my pocket while I smoked on my front porch.  After everyone else in the house is asleep my mind goes to creative efforts if I don't have any occupation for the evening.  I thought about the story I've begun here, and each time I thought about one of the chapters, I wanted to go back and change things.  This is not unusual, as each chapter has been prodded a few too many times to mention.  Each time I read it I can't help but go in and adjust something. Tonight I was looking at the big picture though, and I have decided to reset the story from the very beginning.  I'm going to go into (and ramble about) some of the changes I was thinking about. If you have rea...

Griffin awoke to a strange sensation. He opened his eyes, looked down, and screamed. He was 150 miles above Xenith and falling, and he suddenly couldn't remember how in the hell he had gotten there. Far, far below him was the dark green shape of the Ruthinyx Continent, separated from him by nothing but a thin layer of swirling clouds. He grabbed the controls for his jetpack, but one hand slipped and he was rapidly whirling. There was nothing to cling to and he knew he was dead. He flailed in his panic, screaming and spinning in a wild gyration. In his confusion, he saw nothing but the flashing of black night and green planet.  He exhausted his breath in a wheezing whimper of hopelessness, and there was silence. He felt like he was floating, instead of free falling. "Wait..." Everything fell into place as his brain finally snapped the rest of the way into consciousness. Then he vomited in his spacesuit.  Or he would have, if he'd had anything to eat in the ...

Lozan caught himself staring at the triangle of stars over Group Captain Mighels head again. It was about to happen. The rookie he'd put in charge had better not mess this one up, but it was fairly straightforward operation, if risky. Once Griffin ran out of oxygen, the net would close and Griffin would be tractored quickly into the medical shuttle that he'd attached to the unit. He wasn't sure his brother knew how to take responsibility for his actions, to understand how he was squandering his gifts. Griffin was too stubborn to listen, maybe a close call would straighten him up. Lozan blamed himself. He hadn't expected to be a soldier either, but he'd fought hard to be the best there was, to rise in ranks, to gather back some of the power he had lost. He had been raised from birth as the Crown Prince of Lord Zeskin's Empire. Educated by the finest tutors that seven civilizations could offer and supported by all the resources he could dream of, Lozan had no eq...

The technicians wouldn't stop staring.  It wasn't the brightest and best that were sent out here to compile data and operate the machinery of the outpost, the astronomers and politicians were all sitting comfortably at home reading the final reports. The folks who found themselves at Longstar didn't have any other prospects, or they wouldn't be here.  To say they didn't get many visitors would be a joke, because in actuality they had never had one before Axar.  Supply ships would infrequently bring the staples of life and little else, but that was the extent of actual human contact between the shift changes that happened every five years. They weren't completely cut off though, the dataweb reached most corners of the cluster, and the isolated crew had access to the latest entertainment and news, and a variety of virtual means for reaching out to civilization. The handsome young officer with the big name was not virtual. He was larger than life and clearly agit...

Griffin was questioning his life choices as he was forced to listen to the tenth recital of a filthy song in Canto, a language he did share with the drone, about a woman who accidentally went to a port went she'd meant to go to market. As there was no way for sound to travel through the vacuum of space, Otis had obliged himself by hijacking Griffin's short-range radio for communication. "Will you stop singing that? It's literally right in my ear." "Not a chance, toilet-pants. Chontooooooooo...  Chonta boon shib rykooooo..." Dealing with an entirely contrary VI was beginning to feel to Griffin like it couldn't possibly be worth it. Each time he'd tried a new approach, it had set off the headache machine. At first the wise-crack responses and sarcastic one-liners had been hilarious, then tolerable, until finally Griff had stopping trying altogether. That's when Otis had started singing.  A particularly evil part of his Solstice gift ...

Jeffers Welm wished for the first time that he was back in academy, and that his was all just an elaborate prank by the other junior commanders, like the time they had convinced him that there was a  surprise rebel assault and he had been halfway through scrambling the fighters before someone had come in and put a stop to it. At least he wouldn't be personally responsible for rescuing the son of the man who ruled over seven star systems, the brother of his commander... "I'm just too agreeable." He often spoke aloud to himself when flying, always careful to switch off the comm. It helped him work through his issues. Cheaper than therapy, and what else was he doing? "Sightseeing in a trash heap, that's all." The search had been on for a day and a half, and this was Ensign Welm's seventh run over the distant debris.  It would be a simple enough matter if they could perform visual sweeps, the single-seat scout fighters had large enough viewports t...

Griffin couldn't believe his luck. The maintenance drone was still powered, but there was definitely something wrong with it. No signs of physical distress, though there was an odd bit of welding on the rear panels, where the memory was stored.  Griff set it spinning slowly before him and surveyed the machine. The body was spherical and yellow, covered with tiny holes for maneuvering jets-this class of drone did most of it's work in zero-gravity. There were two wide black treads running the circumference of the body's cross the top and bottom, with a pair of arms on each side, and a big eye protruded from the center on a long slender neck. The glass eye seemed unmarred, but the shutter inside it was completely closed. All four appendages were intact, two manipulators stuck out like bony arms with long fingers, it was also equipped with a compact but powerful welding laser and a telescoping sensor array. Nothing was apparently wrong with the thing, except that it didn't ...

It was a bad day to be stuck on an asteroid at the edge of the star system, and Axar's mood had not improved upon hearing about Griffin. The projection of Axar's old pal Murg flickered and froze momentarily.  The outpost was nearly was far away as the holographic data would travel before degrading too much to be worth it. Murg shrugged his oversize shoulders and looked sympathetic. The young man was Cantonius, and had a vestigial ridge that rose across his shoulders and peaked behind his head. Once Murg had fully matured, it would grow ridges and harden like armor. The remnant of his ancestors' exoskeleton made some of his movements look awkward and somewhat comical to humans, but nothing was funny today. "Sorry Ax, that's all I know. My cousin Tom was flying the shuttle and told me as soon as he got the chance. You know Griff, I'm sure he just decided he'd rather take a walk than join the army today. He'll pop up in another airlock before long, you...

Telling a high ranking officer that his kid brother was dead in the middle of a fleet-wide drill was by no means a normal circumstance, and Lt. Commander Lozan Zeskin was an intimidating figure in the best of times. Ensign Welm cursed his luck, and for good measure cursed Lt. Joreg. It was supposed to be Joreg here delivering the news.  The weasel had been overjoyed to see an Ensign, and had immediately relieved himself of the loathsome responsibility. Welm found it hard not to think of the old saying about what not to do to messengers, and how all proverbs start somewhere. He didn't really think he'd be shot. It's not like this was the first time Griff Zeskin had gone to extreme measures to make his point clear.  When he was twelve, Griffin had caused the evacuation an entire deck of the ship-over a thousand people- by manipulating the sensor relays while locked in his room.  Last year, he reprogrammed the maintenance bots in his own image: apathetic in response to comma...

Griffin's confidence began to waver. He had been searching for hours, and still hadn't turned up anything he could use to escape.  The stars glittered above and the planet glowed from far below. It was so quiet he could hear his heart beating behind the sound of his breath.  The communicator was off, there was no one he wanted to talk to. He checked his oxygen gauge. Half-empty, with no refills. Just another day in paradise. No going back now.  There had to be ship that still had a spare tank intact out here somewhere. Griffin tried not to pay attention to the fact that he was floating in zero-gravity one hundred and fifty miles above the surface of the planet, and that absolutely no one knew where he was.  It wasn't how he'd originally envisioned his sixteenth birthday. His escape plan had been simple, if a bit insane: make a surprise exit out of an airlock, use only the EVA suit's jets to drop down to the junk belt, use scrap parts to bring one of the derelict...

It's been a bit more than a month since I last posted anything here.  I have pursued a few minor creative tasks in the interlude, but nothing very involved with the exception of a homemade iron man costume. That project was fun, but I can't say I nailed the helmet. Which turned out okay, because my son didn't wear it much, he wanted to be able to see everything. The real reason for the hiatus is that I was reading. A lot. I read the Outlander books by Diana Gabaldon (rhymes with stone in case you read them and need to shake your fist to yourself and exclaim it aloud whilst reading). There are 8 of them out, and I figure there are around 3 million words, give or take a few hundred thousand.  When I have the opportunity to binge read a robust series that beckons my spirit of adventure while shaming me with her virtuous, hard-working, passionate, and intimate main characters.  I desire very much to be like Jamie Fraser, the main male protagonist. I find that reading a charac...

 I sent away ten messages, naught but nine returned. Eight cigarettes, I smoked them all on the way. Seven knocks at a time on the loud metal of apartment six's door. Five minutes 'fore neighbors anger 'came corporeal. I tried to fight past only so much I could have done. I was simply outnumbered. Three to one. ------- Author's note: That was really fun!!! - JG-

Even as a child, I was averse to sleep.  I was the kid in Boy Scouts who got out of his sleeping bag once I was sure everyone was snoring. The night whispers to me, even more so with a campfire.  The embers stay hot for a very long time, though thy may not appear so.  In the morning, all you'd have to do was stir up the dead gray ashes to find the glittering deep heat beneath.  Toss on some tinder and voila, fire is born again. At 2 in the morning, the flames were merely napping, easily aroused to continue their hypnotizing dance.  How many times did I crawl back into the tent when the stars began to vanish? How many times did I pretend to have woken early? Sometimes I would walk the unknown wilderness while the world slept.  This habit has continued into my adult life.  Whenever I visit a friend in a new city, I inevitably find myself walking alone through the night.  One snowy dawn in Chicago I found myself at the end of the Navy Pier, silent an...

The man had his eyes open, but nobody was home. He lie on the tile, black and white and red all over. His swollen face cast about in wild terror and he spasmed as if he could only control some of his muscles at one time. Everyone could see that it was done, but Homer liked to make a point about these things.   "I can't help but notice that you're not talking anymore, Timmy. Do you mind if I call you Timmy? You look like a Timmy to me. I have to tell you, Timmy. You were pretty rude back there." His voice was astonishingly gentle after the sudden and ferocious display of violence. Every person in the cafe was frozen in place, wide eyes locked on the huge man with bloody fists. His words were quietly conversational, but no one missed them. These had been the first words Homer had said since he'd walked up and punched the man in the throat. The man had been in the face of a server with an entitled tirade about one thing or another, it didn't matter.  The server w...

Hey there spook fans! I want to write a scary story or two in prep for Halloween.  I'm undecided between a "real life account" or tale of terror, but I've always enjoyed the adrenaline rush that fear brings forth. It's a feeling that is most easily summoned from a deep forest at night with a couple like-minded friends to bounce your nerves off, but occasionally I have gotten chills from the written word. I aspire to do this on screen or on page, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be difficult to pull off.  I am gonna try it anyway, at the very least it will be a project to practice refinery. Who knows, maybe I could submit to a contest...   Jotting down some story starters here for posterity and feedback.   Let me know if any of these ideas whisper at you from the shadows. You sleep... ******* When he woke up, something sharp was trapped under his leg.  When he looked, there was nothing but a small but painful swelling.  Most likely a spider bite, he though...

She watched the lifeless face slip beneath the lapping waves, but she no longer saw the man. She could only think of Anne. This one act couldn't bridge the chasm that had split the ground between them, but it made her feel steady and sure.  Truthfully, her body had been shaking for the last hour. The mist that sprayed from the bow of the small boat rose in clouds that she drifted through.  Everything was damp in the predawn air.  She found an old towel the owners must have used for wiping droplets off the smooth blue sides of the vessel.  It was thin and had holes, but it felt good to have something to wrap around herself.  The gaping mouth of the real world waited to swallow her at the edge of the water, and she hesitated.  Had she been careful enough? In the back of her mind she knew that Anne would realize the truth, at least the important part of it.  Even if they never spoke again, it would have been worth it.  For a moment, she considered po...

Artist! Writer! Practice your skills. Read something, pen something, sketch something still. Swiftly unraveled,  Long work to re-bind, The tenuous strands 'tween thumb, fingers and mind. Let not the dreams slip, Through unclenching hands. Guide them, direct them. Make patterns of sand. Pay no mind to mistakes, They belong, let them be. They're trees in the forest you're trying to see. Make ready your keyboard, Sketch paper and ink, You're readier now than you may ever think.

He was scrambling over the gnarled roots of the mangroves, fighting the sucking mud and the rising tide for his life.  That is, he was, until a flying Thomas the tank engine struck him above his right brow.  Confused for a moment, the cold gray blue of the oncoming storm had been traded for the bumpy white panels of the basement ceiling.  The shelter he'd sought where the shore rose up above the cold waves was a jungle of electronics and boxes full of papers, precariously stacked in a dim corner of the storage shelves.  The natives of this startling new world were restless.  He narrowly winced out of the path of a ninja turtle's flying kick, and looked for an escape route.  The old springs of the basement sofa hung low, and were scarcely easier to escape than the tide plain in his book.  Hastily grabbing the paperback, he juked and dodged his way past another flying toy. "How many times do I have to say it?! STOP throwing toys!" The three year old ...

Whisky, my love, We must call it quits, I ventured you loved me,  You gave me the shits.

It was late.  The sky blue quilt that lay kicked and crumpled at the foot of the bed glowed in the dim blue light from the digital numbers. 12:59.  Depending on the accuracy of the clock's atomic guarantee, it may or may not be Monday in the next time zone.  It certainly was, here. He counted back the hours from his wife's early departure for work. Five and a half hours still remained before diapers would need changing or eggs scrambling. To most this would be a regrettably late bedtime, but he knew he could easily spend the next 90 minutes tapping away at the keyboard. Or, admittedly, staring into space for indeterminate lengths of time as his mind scribbled and erased madly.  The words had been coming easily but what did he have to show but some autobiographical musings and thinly guised Star Trek fan fiction?  Was he getting anywhere? Where was he even going? So far, he'd let inspiration take the wheel, ignoring the terror of the blank white page for long e...

The tree grew in unlikely soil, more stone than dirt.  In its growth it had cast aside boulders as if throwing off a heavy quilt after a deep sleep.  They lay solidly, looking at once unmovable and like so much litter cast idly to the side.  The rapid expansion towards the sun had left deep splits in the weathered gray bark.  A mans finger would fit to the second knuckle in the deepest furrows, and ants busily traveled up and down the shadowed path.  Overhead, some manner of tiny beast was chittering a rhythm backup to the rustle and low creaks of timber in a breeze.  The main trunk was relatively narrow, just wide enough to hold in embrace were one so inclined.  Two meters off the ground the tree split suddenly in graceful counterpoint.  One division immediately forked again, parting in a stretching yawn. The other frayed as it rose, an untended braid unraveling into the sky.  Thousands of thin dark lines sprouted from the trees arms. A few ...

In the darkness, he heard the quiet crying of a baby.  3 am wakings were not unheard of in the Gabler household, but Charles wasn't usually out of bed when they happened.  He got up from the rocker and threw down his cigar.  Inside, he heard nothing but the loud breathing of the first-grader.  He stood outside the door like a ninja bodyguard, ready to pounce in silently and swiftly if the need should arise.  The silence persisted, he guessed the baby had settled back down.  With all three boys asleep in one room, it was seldom worth creaking open the door for an actual look. On his way out, he caught sight of the beer bottles left behind when date night relocated.  As he tidied up he thought he heard the cry not from within, but seeping through the screen windows on the front of the house. The moment he stepped outside, he knew the baby was somewhere nearby.  It was outdoors too, or he'd never have heard the low but clear garbles and squeaks. ...

Here was a man that knew her heart, and all the places where it was cracked and bruised.  He knew all the secret stories, had done his part through her grief.  She knew he was a good man. There were no obstacles between them. There was nothing. Grace arrived as usual, right at suppertime.  Carved hot dogs, shells and cheese, and canned veggies.  Green beans were the flavor of the night, judging by the hue of the infant's face.  Sweet little Benny was now testing the durability of the flatware, while Bobby, on the verge of kindergarten, carefully stacked green logs to be hauled away and consumed as a whole. Elvis the golden retriever was the self appointed janitor of the feast.  She found Carl in the kitchen preparing his own dinner, but her appetite remained silent.  Grace wouldn't put down her bag until she had reached the bedroom.  Behind the door, she went to the bathroom and shut herself in.  For a full minute she stared at her re...