Cart had a million things to do and time was short. He couldn’t even bring himself to make a list because he would either crumble with fear at the length or be disappointed at his lack of coping skills should the list reveal that he really didn’t have as many things to do as he felt.

Numbers aside, the pressure was immense. He told himself that he worked better under pressure, but that might have been a lie.

It was a lie.

There were three basic lies that he told himself with bold regularity. He knew they were lies, but he had convinced himself there was a stink of truth about them.

The first was that he worked better under pressure. The second was that he was getting enough exercise and fiber to remain healthy so it was ok to keep buying chips. The third was that despite multiple declarations of fact and clarity, he believed with his soul that Nell Porterand really did like him in the 6th grade. There we other lies of course, but these seemed to surface most frequently.

He looked at the clock and gasped. The clock kept moving, yet his list was not getting any shorter.

He turned on the TV – oh look! Fishing in the Outer Banks.

Lie number 4, he was not a procrastinator, he was instead thinking things through before jumping into them. He would be more efficient that way. The Outer Banks looked lovely. He wondered what it might take to get there.

Lie number 5: he was not easily distracted, rather he was…

“Are you lying?”

The words hit her like a smart, slight slap to the face as if someone was trying to revive her after fainting. The notion that she might be lying never occurred to her. At least she didn’t label it that way.

He was asking questions and she was distracted. She had other things on her mind, but he wanted answers. So, she gave him answers.

In her mind, the act of lying carried with it a measure of intent, a planted seed of plausibility and possibility that could grow into a wall of protection against the truth. It was flawed thinking of course. Lying was deceit and darkness and really, she had no interest in deceiving him. Still in the moment, as he kept coming at her with the questions, the truth was hard, the specifics were complex and she had little interest in or energy for additional debate or conversation.

Lying?

No.

All she really wanted was for him to shut up.

“Oh fire, the forests yield to your rage and rosebuds bow as if standing in collective sorrow for the loss of their fallen friends.”

Crap!

Jasper highlighted the sentence and hit delete.

Poetry! Gah!

He enrolled in the writing class to learn more about writing – stories, articles, insightful revelations, hell…he’d even settle for some snappy greeting card prose, but his teacher – Ed Fowler – was a poet, or so he told them. Being a poet, Ed Fowler taught what he knew…poetry. And Jasper found over the weeks of the course that his brain must be impenetrable when it comes to poetry.

Lyrical word play, blank verse, free verse all seemed counter to his notion of deeper self expression. Each week he drew out one agonizing word after another, hoping that Ed Fowler would at least dub his latest collection of words a real poem, an honor that had thus far escaped him.

It didn’t help that the voice in his head as he reviewed his work sounded very much like James Earl Jones. Even that made him a little sad for he was certain the real James Earl Jones could read the ingredients off a box of cereal and make it sound poetic.

Candice’s relationship with dancing was much like the relationship some have with alcohol. She loves it.

Embracing the sounds, she lets the beat consume her and then, when full, when closes her eyes and lets the music sweep her away. She moves and turns as the music swirls. She bends and swoops and hops and turns, not so much inline with the words, for lyrics are subjective, but more to the root rhythms that reveal the soul of the piece.

Fast or slow makes no difference, for to music she was eternally indentured. At least for as long as the music continues or until someone like Agnes comes along. And in Candice’s world of dance there always seemed to be an Agnes. Someone bold enough to approach her in the middle of her deluge of self expression to say, “You look like you’re in agony dear. The restrooms are over there.”

Bertrum had no idea what he could have done to draw the ire of the rain, or whom, or whatever was responsible for making the rain, but it was clear that he did something.

When he got into his car everything was dry. Cloudy, sure, but dry.

It was dry for the 15 miles he drove to the Valley Bridge Medical Center.

It was dry the entire time he searched for a spot to park amidst the sea of cars that carried the afflicted to this place.

It was only when his foot hit the hot pavement did the first drop fall. The one turned to many quickly and as he bent to sprint toward the building, the deluge came, blinding and heavy. The roar of the water hitting the cars surrounding him was much like the applause of an audience well entertained by his predicament. The faster he tried to go, the harder the rain came. Finally, he pushed through the door, breathing heavy and soaking wet.

Inside everyone looked at him, a brief distraction from their current woes. Standing there posed like a wet cat in shock.

Bertrum silently tried to gain some common understanding, if not sympathy, by turning his head and pointed a thumb toward the onslaught that befell him. A double take jarred his head when he realized the rain had stopped. The sun was beaming and already the walkways and tarmac were starting to dry.

How many times had he told himself, nay, vehemently warned himself not to go ‘there?’ Millions? Billions? And yet, he goes…there.

Almost always.

There.

Despite some of his very best arguments, there he goes.

Each time it defies his own logic, very frequently leaving him dumbstruck at the moment of departure. For while the immediate payoff of ‘going there’ was often a meaty, if not mildy guilt laden gratification, he often discounted the memories of others and their ability to rehash his frequent trips to ‘there’ at times when it is less than convenient.

It’s not their fault. He goes ‘there’ a lot. It’s as if, at the critical moment when he has firmly decided NOT to go there, a tiny Leroy Jenkins pops into his head and slops the agenda. He is then left to clean up the mess, with the words of tiny Alice echoing in his head, “But that’s just the trouble with me. I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”

Rixx held down the paper cup with pride and pleasure, directing his hatred and disgust for all houseflies at the single example of this winged vermin that buzzed and tapped it’s way around the inside.

Had it been capable, the fly might have been flattered that Rixx considered him such a worthy foe, at least up until the time of the capture.

During the chase, Rixx had commented – while swiping at the insect with the kitchen towel or the handful of mail – that he had been tricky, and clever, and a bastard. And while Rixx was convinced the fly was in the apartment to taunt him, to…torture him, the fly’s motivations and ‘feelings’ on the matter…if there were any…were more base.

Rixx aimed to kill that fly for all the horrible things it was and he nearly broke his mother’s antique Rosemont lamp to do it. All the fly thought of was food.

Max wrote the words with great intent and feeling. Still the concept of clarity bothered him.

There was no consistent point of connection for the reader, whomever that may be, therefore there was no way to ensure that his message would get through as he intended it. At least not without clunking them over the head with it.

Each bias of the reader would taint his message according to their own experiences. He could write the words and each reader would read the same exact words in the same exact order he put them and still…each word would likely conjure a different vision, emotion, and acceptance or denial of meaning, be it love, hate, anger, underwear, heat, burn, taste, color, food, rich and so on.

It made writing dangerous.

It made writing glorious.