Angela B. Macala-Guajardo's Blog

Prism: Chapter 3

Khyte dismissed Nayaka and imagined himself leading the rest of his unit in a jog down a stone tunnel that led to the showers. Oh, how he longed to join them and wash all the sand off. Heck, he���d use soap if it meant getting spared from Berin���s incoming punishment for his lateness.

Once the last boy disappeared down the hall, Berin turned to Khyte, fists on his hips. The bear of a man took in the arena. Khyte followed his gaze. Almost the entire arena floor lay in sun now. Craters from their footsteps blanketed the sand; however, a grounds crew entered from a far corner, supplied with rakes to tidy up the sand. When they were done, it���d look like the arena hadn���t been so much as poked with a finger.

���You did well today, Khyte,��� Berin said.

���Thank you, Officer Berin.��� He gave his full attention to his mentor. Berin had a crooked nose, several scars on his face and arms, and dark hair cut high and tight. Bhakti stood tall beside him, her glowing body casting a faint blue on Berin���s side.

The most elite soldiers Prism had to offer could maintain their spirit animal for three days straight, yet rumor had it that Berin could go a whole week. Considering the boar���s sheer size, Khyte believed it was true.

���The boys really look up to you and respect you. Keep up how you interact with them and you���ll make a great War King one day.���

���I will, Officer Berin.���

���Good. Now, if only you could fix one thing: your tardiness.���

���Do you know what���s behind that unique royal catacombs door?��� Khyte asked, hoping his question would lead Berin to deciding he didn���t need punishing. ���The one with the man inside his bear spirit.���

Berin furrowed his brows. ���Khyte, I���ve studied war history; not your ancestry. Why don���t you ask your parents?���

���I have, Officer.���

���And?���

���They told me it���s just a crypt. And so did Commander Skotos.���

���If you have multiple people telling you the same thing, then it���s probably true.���

���But why is it the only crypt door like it? All the others just have the royal crest on it. On this one, the man and bear spirit stood as one, as if they were one being.���

���Okay,��� Berin said, sounding disinterested. ���And why do you thinks that makes the door special?���

Khyte knew the tone of Berin���s voice meant he should drop the subject, but he was determined to get at least one person to feel the same as he. ���Do you think it���s possible, Officer?���

He thought a moment. ���I���m not sure I follow what you���re saying.���

���It looked like the man had merged with his bear spirit, instead of manifested it.���

���Ah, you speak of the legend of the Ascended.���

Khyte���s spirits rose. No one had given a name to the legend before. ���So then it���s true?���

���No. That���s why I called it a legend.���

He hunched his shoulders. ���Why is all the cool stuff always legends?���

���Because they make good bedtime stories for little boys. Now, shut up and give me fifty burpees, Prince Tardy.���

Stifling a groan that���d only add more burpees, he dropped into push up position and began.

***

Khyte���s shower was short and sweet. He even used soap, since his parents would get on his case if he didn���t. What motivated him more was his afternoon tutoring session with Dame Zwaan. Why girls made a big deal about soap and smelling good he didn���t understand, but Khyte would do anything to be near his tutor. He once made the mistake of skipping on soap before lessons, and the look of Dame Zwaan���s beautiful face crinkled with disgust had burned into his memory. She���d opened a window and stayed away from him for the rest of lessons. Khyte would never forget how her nose crinkled, or how her rosy lips curled with a grimace. He���d never forget soap again.

Khyte twisted a stone lever, turning off the overhead spout, and walked into the changing room as he toweled off. The rest of his unit had already left, leaving behind baskets of raunchy practice uniforms and all but one empty locker. Khyte headed to the folded pile of clothes, kicked off his shower sandals, and got dressed in a white shirt, brown pants with ties to cinch them below the knee, under clothes, socks, and a pair of plain boots with cushiony soles.

Every trainee had fresh clothes waiting for them after training. It was a perk of choosing a life of service in the military. Those not used to having other people clean and do laundry for them loved and appreciated the care. It made them feel special and appreciated back.

Not everyone was cut out to be a soldier. Most dropouts left within the first year, and a few stragglers couldn���t handle any more training by the second year. Come the third year, there was no dropping out. Trainees had to be honorably released for serious reasons, like death or dismemberment, or stricken with an illness that made them a liability on the battlefield. Still, there was one guy who went down in history as the One-Armed Swordsman. He���d never lost a battle and used the his missing arm to his advantage.

Fully dressed, Khyte buckled his training sword over his tabard, a clean, fresh one, and exited the locker room. Instead of just Commander Skotos waiting for him, Vrienn, Taya from the age 14-16 girls squad, and Bol were there as well. Taya and her short blonde hair towered over him. Her being taller than him annoyed him to no end.

���Good morning, Your Shortness,��� Taya said with a mischievous smile.

���You mean, ���Your Highness,������ he said, stopping before her.

Taya pushed off the wall with her back and unfolded her arms, revealing a modest bust pressing against her trainee tabard. She put a hand on top of her head, then levelly held it over Khyte���s. ���Nope. I got it right.���

���Fix your skirt, Lady Amber,��� Skotos said.

Taya had rolled her brown skirt so it covered only half her thighs. If she bent over far enough, Khyte could probably see up it. As annoying as Taya was, he wouldn���t mind the view.

Taya gave Skotos a flat look, his stern gaze didn���t waver, so she huffed as she unrolled her skirt back to knee length. ���I hate this skirt.���

���Why?��� Khyte said, still feeling hurt over being made fun of for being short. ���Because it���s as dull as your short hair?���

Taya whirled on him and the fiery glare in her eyes made him regret the insult. She looked like a mother animal who���d gone berserk because something had threatened her babies.

���Smooth one, Khyte,��� Vrienn said.

By the time he saw the fist, it was too late to react. He dropped to his knees with his arms wrapped around his stomach, gasping for breath.

Taya walked into Vrienn���s outstretched arms and leaned into his embrace. Looking at Khyte, he said, ���And this is why I have the girl and you don���t.��� He turned his stupid, moony-eyed gaze to Taya. ���I love your hair, Taya, and how it feels to run my fingers through it.���

���Thank you, love.��� She planted an open-mouthed kiss on his.

Skotos cleared his throat as Bol watched in open-mouthed horror.

Taya pulled away with a sucking noise. ���Nine hells! Just look away if it makes you uncomfortable.���

���Mind your language, too, my lady.���

Letting out another sigh, she threw up her arms and stood next to Vrienn, hitting the wall with her back. She folded her arms and glared at Skotos.

Khyte pushed to his feet, despite his abdomen���s protest. ���Commander, did you see what just happened?���

He raised an eyebrow. ���You get beat up by a girl? Yes.���

���She just hit a prince!���

���You just insulted a lady���s looks. I hope you���ve learned your lesson.���

���Whose side are you on?���

���The side of justice. Now let���s get going, unless you want to be late for lunch as well.��� Skotos stood beside Khyte. ���Everyone in formation.���

Vrienn and Taya took their customary positions on either side of Khyte. They were fast-tracking towards becoming members of the Shadow Guard, a subgroup of the military who performed bodyguard duty for royalty and nobility. Bol, face serious as always, positioned himself in front of Khyte and they started heading for the city.

���Hey, Bol,��� Khyte said, ���it���s a pleasant surprise to see you on the youth Shadow Guard. What made you decide to be here today?���

���I just turned fourteen today, Your Highness. I asked Officer Berin if I could try Shadow Guard first.���

���Oh,��� he said, eyes wide. ���Happy Birthday.��� The others murmured surprised birthday wishes. Poor Bol still looked hardly older than twelve. That���d change soon enough.

���Thank you, everyone.���

Taya said, ���When���s the party? I���ll come.���

Bol looked over a shoulder, his brows furrowed. ���Party for what?���

���Uh… your birthday.��� She glanced at Khyte and Vrienn, mouth ajar. ���Don���t you do anything special for your birthday?���

���Oh, my parents will make or give me a cake if there���s anything left over at the bakery.���

It sounded like birthdays were no big deal to him. Khyte felt bad for not knowing, and for not knowing how to handle the news.

Taya said, ���Well, now I feel bad.���

���Why?��� Bol said.

Ignoring him, she said, ���Vrienn, we should do a little something for him.���

���Yeah,��� Vrienn said. ���Bol, you���re finally old enough to start exploring career options in the military. That���s also something to celebrate.���

���Is there anything special you���d like to do?��� Taya said.

���I���m already doing it,��� Bol said. ���I���m helping protect his highness.���

Khyte exchanged looks with his friends and shrugged. Bol sounded so content. Maybe they didn���t need to do more. Or maybe he needed to be shown what a good birthday looked like.

���We���re going to have to do a little something,��� Taya said.

Vrienn agreed and said, ���Anyway, Khyte, I���m curious to know why you were late for training again.���

���Again?��� Taya said.

���This ought to be good,��� Skotos said. ���Tell them, Khyte.��� He gently prodded the prince in his back.

Of course he couldn���t lie. Skotos was there to catch him. Khyte really didn���t want to admit it was because he was staring at an old door, especially when no one seemed to understand. However, maybe people his own age would. ���I���m trying to solve a mystery.���

���Oo! About what?��� Taya said.

Skotos rapped her shoulder with a gloved knuckle. ���Eyes on your surroundings. If you can���t talk and guard, I���ll ban all chatter until you get home.���

Taya���s gaze snapped back outward. ���I apologize, Commander.���

���You can���t apologize to a corpse. Remember that.���

���I will, Commander.���

Despite Taya���s habit of picking on Khyte, she was a good soldier and bodyguard. She took her training very seriously. From what Vrienn had told him in the past, Taya would come down hard on herself for this one mistake. She was a perfectionist. She felt like she had far more to prove in a field dominated by men.

���What mystery?��� Vrienn said.

How to word it so he wouldn���t sound lame… ���How much do you know about my ancestry?���

The five of them hit the first streets bustling with civilians. The streets were wide and plain, a brickwork of large slabs of stone, and this district wasn���t as well lit as the upper tiers, but lit well enough to tell it was daytime. Still, the district had a subdued feeling. The feeling intensified every time lowborn shied out of the way, as if Skotos would start swinging his sword or shoot his mana pistol if they didn���t move out of the way fast enough. Khyte���s four guards looked impressive in their light armor and matching tabards. They bore Prism crossed with a sword and mana pistol, the Shadow Guard crest, yet all the trainees had a white border on their tabards, marking them as youths.

Vrienn said, ���We are taught the entire lineage of kings all the way back to the founding of Prism over 2,000 years ago. I can still recite which king or queen was famous or infamous for what, and why and when.���

���Tck. Nerd,��� Taya in a subdued voice.

Vrienn shrugged. ���I think Prism���s history is cool. Why do you ask?���

���Do you know anything about the catacomb doors?���

���They are carved with the royal crest. All but one.���

Khyte sucked in a breath. He knew!

���That one is the first catacombs ever built.���

���Do you know what���s carved on that one?���

Vrienn thought a moment. ���Not the royal crest.���

���A man inside his bear spirit.���

���Sounds like symbolism for the union of body and spirit. Ironic for a bunch of dead people. It could also be an allusion to the legend of the Ascended.���

���That tale still going around, huh?��� Skotos said.

���I���ve never heard of it,��� Taya said quietly. She kept her eyes on the stone homes and stores overgrown with creeper vines, along with each passing civilian. No flowers decorated the district, which smelled faintly of filth. Patrols in pairs intermittently passed them, formally greeting Khyte and Skotos, along with returning Taya���s, Bol���s and Vrienn���s salutes.

Khyte said, ���What does ���allusion��� mean?���

���Reference to.���

���Why would they put such a thing on a catacombs door?���

���What does all this have to do with your lateness?���

���I found that door.���

���You were late because you found a door?��� It was more a statement than a question.

���I was trying to figure out what���s behind the door,��� Khyte said defensively.

Taya started to look at him but corrected herself. ���That���s your mystery? You���re an idiot.���

���Why does no one else think there might be something special down there?���

���It���s a catacombs, Khyte,��� Vrienn said calmly, yet the words stung. If anyone agreed, it would���ve been him. ���It���s the first one, so it���s special in a way. What do you want to be down there?���

���I don���t know,��� he admitted. ���The secret behind the legend, I guess.���

���Maybe it is,��� he said encouragingly.

They climbed stairs stretching over a waterway and headed down the next shabby street. Khyte was about to say something when he walked into Bol. They clung to each other and regained their balance. The others stopped. ���Why���d you stop, Bol?���

He pointed ahead. A pair of guards stood behind a nobleman holding a long piece of parchment. A young couple wearing aprons dusted with flour stood facing the trio, their faces creased with desperation. ���That���s my mom and dad.���

���You���re three months behind on taxes,��� the nobleman said. ���What you just gave me won���t even cover one.��� He spoke in a grating nasally voice and wore the tabard of the King���s Purse. A tax collector. ���You all have the same rate, yet you two are falling behind all of the sudden. Failure to pay your dues to the crown is considered treason.���

An armed and armored guard stepped forward, a pair of shackles leading the way, the kind that held a person���s hands apart so they couldn���t summon their spirit animal. The woman shielded herself behind her husband.

Bol gave Khyte an apologetic look before running off, abandoning his post. ���Mom! Dad!���

Against All Odds—What’s Our REAL Chance of Becoming a Successful Author?

smwelles:

Great read!

Originally posted on Kristen Lamb's Blog:

[image error] Image and quote courtesy of SEAL of Honor on Facebook.

Many of you were here for last week���s discussion regarding What Makes a Real Writer?��When we decide to become professional writers, we have a lot of work ahead of us and sadly, most will not make the cut.

I know it���s a grossly inaccurate movie, but I love G.I. Jane.��I recall a scene during Hell Week (the first evolution of S.E.A.L. training) where Master Chief has everyone doing butterfly kicks in the rain. He yells at the recruits to look to their left and look to their right, that statistically, those people will quit.

Who will be the first to ring that bell? Who will be the first to quit?

[image error] Image via http://www.freerepublic.com

Years ago, one of my mentors mentioned The 5% Rule. What���s The 5% Rule? So happy you asked. Statistically, only 5% of the population is���

View original 1,727 more words

Prism: Chapter 2

���Well, look who���s finally here,��� said a man who sounded like he had all the authority in the world, and nothing to fear. ���His royal highness, Prince Tardy.���

���Good morning, Officer Berin,��� Khyte said as he lay his sword on the weapon rack with all the others.

���Good morning?��� he yelled, his voice rising an octave. ���It���s damn near afternoon.���

Since the training grounds lay a mile from the central lagoon, he could see up to the crystalline peak of the magical shield. Nothing but pale sky. It was barely past dawn. However, he knew better than to correct Berin. All the boys did.

���Everyone put on training armor and do four laps around the arena.���

Four laps equaled a mile. Four laps with the armor made it feel like ten. All the boys who���d been waiting let out a collective groan.

���Make that five, since you���re all so excited to get started.��� Berin put his fists on his hips, showing how huge his biceps were in his leather jerkin.

Khyte and forty nine other boys jogged to the cubbies (walking would only incur pushup penalties). Carefully stowed weight armor awaited them. At age 14, they were up to sixty pound armor. At age nine, the entry age, they���d all started with ten pounds and went up as they got older.

The cubbies lay in five rows of ten, one row stacked atop another, forcing them to coordinate their movements as they hastily shrugged into and fastened their weight armor. Vrienn, Khyte���s enviably tall best friend, snuck a minuscule head shake. ���Good job, Your Highness.���

Grinning, Khyte masked his punch to Vrienn���s shoulder as he threaded a fist through his vest���s armhole, making Vrienn lose balance and bump into the boy next to him. The boy, lean and sandy-haired, glared but said nothing. Getting caught talking would result in more laps.

Berin yelled, ���If you can���t suit up in an organized fashion, that���ll be more laps. Prince Tardy has already made your day hard enough!���

His booted footsteps swished closer in the sand with their signature heaviness, adding haste to Khyte���s movements. Berin���s approach felt like a huge beast bearing down on him, ready to pick off the weakest target. The Officer wouldn���t hesitate to dish out bruises with his meaty fists or spirit boar. Nothing sucked more than not being able to sit down without it hurting���or worse, suffering that while being tutored by Dame Zwaan.

���Prince Tardy, you���re on your way to becoming a terrible War King. The war���s gonna be lost before you ever show up to the battlefield. You���ll be the king of corpses if you keep this up. Now, everyone fall in!���

The boys fell into rank and file by age, from thirteen to fifteen, in five rows of ten with practiced efficiency, the only exception being Khyte up front. At age nine, he���d been thrust into the leadership role due to his royal status, but he learned to embrace the role, even enjoy it. All the boys cared about and respected him, even the fifteen-year-olds. He was their future king, a war king. He ruled among his peers, instead of above them, as Berin had carefully instructed.

Khyte gave his straps one more good tug, eager to not suffer from chafing, then glanced behind him. Five rows of lean-bodied boys wearing black weight vests looked forward, awaiting the order to start running.

Khyte���s parents ruled above the people; not among them. They dealt directly with the aristocracy and left it up to others to deal with the rest of the population. It seemed to work. When Khyte had asked Berin why he was teaching him to lead differently, he���d said, ���You���re a soldier. They���re not. You���re to be Prism���s guardian one day, while your siblings handle the politics. Don���t you ever forget that.���

Khyte hadn���t quite understood the explanation, until the day one of the boys broke an arm while practicing with weighted wooden swords. Still children at age ten, the dueling pair had gotten carried away, until cries of pain wailed across the arena. The clash of wood-on-wood subsided, Berin raced to the boy���s side without hesitation, and carried him to the infirmary. When the injured boy returned the next day, arm in cast, he told Khyte and the others that Berin hadn���t yelled at him or anything. He just helped the nurse get a cast on the boy, and looked real concerned the whole time. The nurse had even assured him the boy would heal.

Berin was doing more than yelling and making them feel miserable. He cared about every last one of them, along with turning them into the best soldiers in the world.

���Get a move on, Prince Tardy! Your enemies ���nit gonna wait for you to start the war!���

Berin���s use of ������nit��� in place of ���are not��� marked him as lowborn. He usually didn���t let lowborn slang slip into his speech, but it snuck in now and then. Despite his heritage, he���d become a prestigious figure in the military ranks, and a beacon of hope to those born outside aristocracy. He was living proof that anyone could move up the social ladder if they tried hard enough. Half the boys in Khyte���s unit looked up to Berin just for that.

Khyte led the boys at a fast jog, the weight of his jacket hitting his shoulders with every stride. He pushed the discomfort out of his mind as he focused on navigating the quarter mile sand track, careful to raise his feet high enough to avoid tripping over the lumpy ground. His unit kept up with him, their footfalls a stampede close behind. When Khyte had first started leading warmups, their footsteps had intimidated him. He���d unconsciously run faster, forcing everyone to keep up with him, thus making it harder to find the energy to make it through the day. Now he found the stampeding assuring. His soldiers had his back.

They powered through all five laps. Everyone was coated in sweat when they gathered before Berin for plyometrics for the next hour, still wearing their weighted armor. They slogged through muscle-burning after muscle-burning exercise, and by the time Khyte had to roll onto his stomach so he could sit back up, Berin yelled, ���Weights off! Spirit battle training day.���

That made Khyte forget about his fatigue, until he jumped to his feet. His muscles burned in protest. The rest of his unit hurried to their feet as well and joined him in wincing at burning muscles as they jogged back to their cubbies. They folded and stowed their weights, then hurried back to Berin, who stood in his typical stance: feet planted apart and fists on his hips, his huge arms making him look twice as big as he was. The boys formed a semicircle in front of him and awaited instruction.

Spirit battles were Khyte���s favorite form of combat. It required intense concentration and skill, a lot of tactics, and the use of his spirit animal, a cougar named Nayaka. Khyte liked his spirit animal as much as his name. They both suited him, his personality, and identity. They felt right. He couldn���t imagine himself with a different name or spirit animal.

Berin clapped his hands together, and then held them out, forming a diamond with his thumbs and forefingers. The runic tattoos on his palms glowed a pale blue. Khyte and those in the front row backed up a few steps. A large ball of light erupted from Berin���s palms, creating a small crater where it landed in the sand. The ball grew and morphed into the shape of a six-foot-tall ethereal boar. The glow faded and the boar reared its transparent head and gave it a shake It pawed the ground and kicked up under its blue-tinted hoof.

���Bhakti,��� Berin called fondly. The boar swiveled its massive head, muscles cording in its neck, then dutifully took its place at Berin���s side and faced the boys. Berin placed a hand on Bhakti���s flank.

���Good morning, Berin,��� Bhakti said in a rich woman���s voice. ���Which disobedient whelp do I have the joy of terrorizing today?��� She eyed the boys hopefully.

���No one just yet.���

���How disappointing.���

���However, their spirit animals do need strengthening.���

���This lot of pups again?��� Bhakti sounded disappointed. ���Oh, well. If I must. Let���s see if they perform better than last week.��� She didn���t sound hopeful.

Bhakti���s lack of enthusiasm only lit a fire in Khyte. He was determined to prove himself. Ever since he���d been given a leadership role, he���d pushed himself to be the best and strongest at everything, from running the fastest to having the strongest spirit animal. He forced himself to do extra physical, mental, and spirit conditioning on his own time, and the efforts paid off. However, Berin came down that much harder on Khyte whenever he messed up, which was often. He didn���t care, though. It only made him that much more determined to become a great War King.

���They better,��� Berin said, ���or you get to accompany them on a few more laps around the arena.

The boar lowered her transparent head and a corner of her maw curved into a smile, showing more tusk. ���Pup bowling. My favorite game.���

A few boys unconsciously reached for their hind quarters as Khyte recalled several times he���d spit out sand all the way back to the royal castle. Bhakti loved hooking trainees with her snout and sending them flailing in the air.

���Spirits out!��� Berin yelled.

Khyte distanced himself from the others as they all spread out. He held his hands before him, palms up, reading the mirroring runes in his skin. They spelled Nayaka���s name. Closing his eyes, he clapped his hands and felt his palms warm as energy poured into the runes. Chills ran down his arms and concentrated in his palms, making his hands feel like they no longer touched. He spread his hands like Berin had, formed a mental picture of Nayaka���s cougar form, and willed her to materialize.

His body swayed as he felt the ball of energy erupt forth. It felt like someone had stuck a fire under his hands for an instant, and his body jolted as if firing a huge mana pistol. A part of his soul���his being���detached itself from the whole and stretched into the shape of a small cougar.

Nayaka arched her back and yawned displaying fangs the size of Khyte���s thumbs, then padded over to him and nuzzled his leg. ���Hey, Khyte,��� she said in a light voice.

���Hey, Nayaka.��� Khyte pet her head, which rose to his hips. ���Ready to show Berin and Bhakti what we���re made of?���

���Always.��� Nayaka sat beside him like an obedient dog as the rest of the boys and spirit animals reformed the semicircle. Birds, animals, reptiles, and a few aquatic creatures accompanied them. The dolphin and such floated in the air as if suspended in water. All spirit animals took on a size irrelevant to their flesh and blood counterpart. A spirit animal���s size was dictated by the strength and age of their human. They got bigger with age, along with use. Like muscles, they could be conditioned. The bigger the spirit animal, the stronger it was.

Out of all the boys, Nayaka was the biggest spirit animal by a small margin, just enough to be noticeable. Berin and Bhakti swept measuring gazes over the squad, pausing to study both prince and cougar.

���Fall in!���

The boys jogged into two rows of twenty five, spreading out a bit more to compensate for their spirit animals. Berin shouted a few more commands, spreading the boys out over almost the entire arena, and Khyte���s row did an about face. Half the arena lay in shade of the upper tiers of Prism. The other half lay in sunlight funneled down with the aid of mirrors and water.

Vrienn and his elk, named Artha, faced Khyte and Nayaka in a shaded corner. While the elk stood taller, its body was smaller than the cougar���s.

���Today is Vendaag,��� Berin stated, his voice echoing across the arena with ease, ���which means it���s blitz battle day.��� Fists on his hips, he paced in a small circle as he spoke. ���Each battle will last one minute. There���ll be a thirty-second break in between. After each battle, Vrienn���s line will shift to their right. The last person will run to the beginning of the row. If you do not get there fast enough, all of you will drop and give me twenty.

���If I catch anyone slacking, I���ll add time to the round. You cannot become the best and strongest soldiers Prism has at its disposal if you put forth a half-assed effort. You owe it to yourself, your family, your fellow soldiers, and every citizen under Prism���s protection to give your all in everything you do. Do I make myself clear?���

���Yes, Officer Berin!��� fifty young men chorused, their voices echoing off the stone walls loud enough to scare a flock of pigeons into flight.

���Good. There���s the clock!��� He pointed far overhead at a stone disc with lines etched down the middle at intervals. It looked three feet tall from Khyte���s vantage point but he knew it was as big as a house. Four light beams shone on it from all cardinal directions, making the disc look like a full moon. Once the timer started, the disc would spin and the light would steadily disappear like a moon waning to new phase in sixty seconds.

���Let���s see how close I can get to beating you this time, Khyte,��� Vrienn said with a wry smile.

���With that attitude, not close enough,��� Khyte said calmly as he dropped into a fighting stance. He wasn���t about to fight himself, but he felt like he could react faster if he took on a fighting stance.

���I haven���t beaten you since we were eleven,��� he said pragmatically.

���Doesn���t matter. Always try to win.���

���Oh, I do. I have to. But the reality is, no one in our unit has beaten you in years.���

���Hey, today might be the day I mess up. You never know.���

���You���ll let me win?��� Vrienn said, perking up.

���Never. Give me your all. Learn where your weaknesses are and turn them into your strengths.���

Vrienn shook his head. ���I know, I know. When are you going to stop telling me that?���

���When you���ve learned it.���

���Now you sound like Officer Berin.���

���Begin!��� Berin shouted.

All fifty boys commanded their spirit animals into battle. Back in Khyte���s formative days, the random lack of countdown caught him by surprise, but now he knew to always be ready. No enemy gave a countdown on the battlefield.

Artha charged and Nayaka bounded to meet her, careful to keep all paws on the ground at intervals. The last thing they needed was to get caught mid-stride. Still, Artha had a tendency to start every battle with a charge. This time was no exception���no, wait!

Instead of presenting her antlers, Artha kept her head high, making her neck a juicy target. That had to be a trick. Nayaka, Khyte said telepathically, veer to the side. They���re up to something.

Nayaka darted to the side at the last second but antlers followed and plowed her into the ground with a thud. Khyte felt the blow in his own body, as if he���d been smacked upside the head. Anything that happened to Nayaka, he felt, and vice-versa when he had the cougar summoned. This also meant that, if a spirit animal suffered a killing blow, its human died with it. Still, a spirit animal presented many advantages in battle, including being able to fight as two units. However, today, the animals fought alone.

Khyte shrugged off the blow and Nayaka kicked the elk with her hind paws until Artha staggered and lost hold. Nayaka rolled and sprung to her feet, then leapt into the fray. The elk spread her hooves, bowed her head, and sent Nayaka flying with a toss of her antlers. The cougar somersaulted midair before twisting and landing on all fours, kicking up sand.

���Nice one, Vrienn!��� Khyte said.

���Thanks,��� Vrienn said, his attention remaining on the battlefield.

Nayaka stalked Artha, pawing a circle as she drew closer. Artha kept her antlers between them, feinting a charge every few seconds. Nayaka bared her fangs and growled in response. She stalked within a few feet of the elk, Artha feinted once more, and Nayaka charged in as the elk withdrew. Arthra tried to back out of the outstretched paws, but one swipe to her snout sent her off balance. Another paw came down on her neck as the elk tried to pivot and buck, but ethereal fangs latched onto her ethereal neck. The animals landed in a heap, the elk flailing her rear hooves and landing a few kicks. Khyte felt the blows like punches to his head, until the disc chimed with a deep gong, signaling one minute was up.

���Switch!��� Berin bellowed.

���Good fight, Vrienn,��� Khyte said.

���Likewise,��� he said as their spirit animals got up. ���I���m going to remember that flip for the rest of my life.��� Khyte laughed. ���Going to have to start calling Nayaka Cartwheel Kitty.���

���Only if I get to call Artha Dinner.���

���Ha! Not a chance.��� Vrienn and Artha jogged to their next opponent.

Thirteen year old Bol and his badger, named Dhira, jogged over fifty hards to Khyte and Nayaka. Bol was a small, gangly kid with black hair and a fierce expression. He had never quit attitude that often led him to making brash decisions in battle, but Khyte admired Bol���s fighter spirit. He���d make a great soldier one day.

���Good morning, Your Highness,��� Bol said cheerfully. He wasn���t old or highborn enough to call Khyte by his first name. Khyte didn���t care about the society rules but he obeyed and enforced them. They had subtle effects on how his peers viewed and behaved towards him.

���Good morning, Bol. Let���s see what you���ve got.���

At Berin���s command, round two began.

As expected, Dhira charged into battle without a plan. Nayaka patiently waited for the fight to come to her, crouching so she was eye level with the badger. Although Dhira was larger than a real badger, Nayaka had several inches on her. The cougar swatted Dhira, sending the badger tumbling to the side.

���Remember what I said about charging in blindly?��� Khyte said patiently.

���I was trying to catch you off guard.���

���You started way too far out for that.���

���Okay.���

Dhira popped back to her clawed feet and charged again. Nayaka leapt over her with seeming effortlessness, Dhira pounced on an empty patch of sand, and then spun around to face the cougar.

���How are you so much faster than me?��� Bol said.

���Training. Lots and lots of training.���

���But we all train seven days a week. I know you���re a year older than me, but–���

���I train outside our time with Officer Berin.���

���Oh.��� Dhira charged in again, but cautiously. At the last moment, both animals reared and exchanged blows. Both held their maws wide, teeth bared, and tried to land a bite. Dhira���s blows had some force behind them, but not as strong as Artha���s. ���Could I join you when you do extra training?���

���I���d have to get you permission to come inside castle grounds, but sure.���

���That���d be cool. I���ve never been there before.���

Not too many people were allowed to either. Khyte savored his time outside the heavily guarded walls. ���What kind of free time do you have?��� Bol being lowborn, it was almost certain he worked for his family by his age.

���Our bakery closes at five. I can come after dinner.���

Nayaka landed a blow to Dhira���s head, sending the badger to the ground. Bol let out an ���oof!��� and shook his head.

���Sorry,��� Khyte said. ���That was harder than I meant.���

���I���m okay.��� Dhira got up and shook herself free of sand. ���Now you go on the attack. I need to practice my reactionary defense.���

Khyte and Nayaka obliged, taking it easy enough to give them a fighting chance, but attacking hard enough to make them work and think until the clock gonged again.

���Thank you, Your Highness.��� Bol bowed his head and jogged to the next person.

The next hour and a half flew by with fight after fight, and only a five minute break halfway through. Not only were the fights tiring, but also having their spirit animal out took energy to sustain. An individual could maintain their animal for only so long before they passed out. Untrained civilians could comfortably maintain their spirit animal for two hours, three at best. Khyte and his unit could do triple that, but they had to be able to go twenty four hours before they could become an enlisted soldier. Khyte had reached twelve hours on four separate occasions, only to become ill after each time.

By the end of the blitz battles, he was tired and sore, but prepared for ���bonus��� rounds in case Berin decided to penalize them with more. He���d caught several slacking off. Bhakti had joyfully charged over and sent said boys in the air like Artha had Nayaka, then marched back to Berin���s side, tail in the air.

When the disc gonged for the fiftieth time, Berin yelled, ���At ease!���

All fifty boys flopped on the sand, glistening with sweat and gasping for breath. Khyte propped himself up on his hands with Nayaka panting at his side. While she wasn���t actually breathing, she was helping him recover.

���Over the weekend I want you to have your spirit animals out for at least nine hours both days. Push for ten. Some of you are getting really close, but do not overdo it. If you come down with the shakes, stop. If you don���t listen to your body and end up getting sick, there will be consequences once you feel better. Do I make myself clear?���

���Yes, Officer Berin!��� the boys yelled back, yet several voices cracked and the all lacked the vigor from before the blitz.

���Go hit the showers and have a good weekend.���

Khyte lurched to his feet and wiped his hands on his tabard, getting off as much sand as he could.

���Prince Tardy, you stay with me.���

Damn it.

Back in the Habit of Writing

Oh, life. How you insist on unfolding your way, instead of my way.

Yep. Control freak alert. Ye have been warned.

Anyway… Gone are my days of pumping out a book ASAP in hopes of making a buck. They sapped the a lot of joy out of writing. Now, I simply write because I’m a writer. I love exercising my imagination and sharing my work. So long as people enjoy my work and get something out of it, I’ll be happy. Very happy.

I present to you my latest project: Prism, a story that’s like Game of Thrones but for teenagers. It’ll be a series. How many books? I don’t yet know. Here is a��draft of the first chapter (of which I have some concerns and appreciate all feedback and constructive critique):

Chapter 1

Khyte stood before two giant doors wreathed in curare vines, admiring the sculptures chiseled deep into the darkened metal. The highest surfaces still shone bronze in the sunlight, yet the deepest cracks were black as night. Khyte���s parents insisted these doors led only into the oldest catacombs of royal families eras past, but he couldn���t help but wonder what else might be down there.

All the other catacomb doors had the royal crest carved into them: a pyramid floating in a river and a half circle of branches floating over the peak. The river and branches were symbolic, but the pyramid was a replica of Prism, a city contained inside a magical shield in the shape of a pyramid.

This brass door had Prism, too, but it lay superimposed over the sternum of a man in a loincloth, arms spread so people could see the tattoos in his palms, legs together with toes pointing down at a bed of curare vines carved into the doors. The man���s eyes were closed and his hair splayed out like it was caught in a head-on wind. What puzzled Khyte most was the man���s spirit animal, a bear, enveloping his entire body, as if man and spirit animal were one.

Everyone had a spirit animal in life, but they accompanied their human either alongside them or hidden within; not merged into one. Were there legends surrounding this? Of course. People who believed the legends? Yep. People who didn���t? Wouldn���t be a legend without any skeptics. Khyte wanted to believe, but skepticism withheld him from committing to the idea. The combination seemed possible but, if it were, the military would���ve used such power to their advantage long ago.

���Khyte!��� a stern voice snapped.

He whipped around. Commander Skotos stood before him with dark eyes leering down his beaklike nose. How the nose guard never broke was beyond him.

Crap, he was staring again. ���Morning, Commander,��� he said to Skotos���s steel toe boots.

���Start running,��� Skotos said in his gruff voice. ���You���re already late.��� He cuffed Khyte���s shoulder, a prince���s shoulder, without hesitation.

Ignoring the hit and swearing under his breath, Khyte adjusted the belt holding up his sword and broke into a jog, his personal bodyguard jangling behind him. He hadn���t realized so much time had passed. He seemed to have a knack for that.

A gloved hand swatted the back of his head.

���I heard that. You need to grow up, Khyte. You���re fourteen already.���

Oh, fun. Nagging. Khyte understood Skotos had his best interests in mind, but Khyte didn���t understand why he wasn���t allowed to swear when Skotos and all the other showers used colorful language now and then. ���I apologize, Commander.���

���I���ll pretend you mean that.���

They jogged along broad stone streets lined with carved stone homes. Aristocratic civilians shuffled out of the way as Khyte and Skotos passed, most casting wide-eyed looks their way, along with a few glares that widened into shock once they recognized their prince. Khyte always had to wear a tabard embroidered with Prism cupped inside a pair of hands, the royal crest.

Being royalty had its pros and cons. As much as Khyte hated being babysat by one guard or another, he wouldn���t trade his status for anything. He had princely plans to lead soldiers to glory on the battlefield one day. One thing that his parents and tutors had drilled into him was that peace was never permanent, hence Prism being safely tucked away inside a magical shield.

���You know,��� Skotos said, ���if you���re going to stop by those doors every day, you should pick a better time to do that.���

His reply should���ve been, ���Yes, Commander��� but instead he said, ���Do you know what���s behind those doors?��� He���d never asked before because he thought he would���ve figured it out by now.

���Dead royalty tucked in crypts. Everyone knows that.���

���I know but–��� They turned and headed down stone steps stretching over one of the thousands of canals flowing through Prism. Despite the tier structure, part of how the city stayed so bright were all the watery surfaces sunlight reflected off of. Prism was built in twenty one tiers of rigid grids with several square miles of emptiness in the middle, not even flora; just a lagoon at the bottom. Khyte and Skotos reached the bottom of the stairs and continued straight. ���But why are those doors different?���

���It was the first crypt ever built. How do you not know that?���

Khyte���s first tutor, Bohren had been a dry old bat who droned on in a voice that put the young price to sleep. Bohren died of old age a year ago and was replaced by a far superior tutor whom Khyte couldn���t stop paying attention to. He popped a guilty grin and flinched at another swat to his head. It was hard enough to feel it, but not enough to hurt. ���You���re striking a prince, you know,��� he said plainly.

���A prince who doesn���t know how to get to morning drills on time, or pay attention to his tutor.���

���They hired Dame Zwaan!���

Skotos���s pace faltered. ���That���s the…��� he traced an hourglass shape in the air with gloved hands.

���Yeah,��� Khyte said, picturing Dame Zwaan in one of her many low cut dresses.

���Ah,��� the Commander said with a knowing smile and sped back up into a fast jog. Despite being weighed down with a full set of black and silver armor, a sword, and a mana pistol, he was mildly winded. ���I see what the problem is.���

Khyte snapped back to the present and hurried to catch up. ���Problem?���

���I���ll talk to your mother, her grace, about getting you a different tutor.���

���No!��� Khyte seized Skotos���s arm, yanking them both to a halt. People looked in their direction. He let go but didn���t move. ���Please don���t.���

Skotos faced him, panting lightly. Drawing a deep breath, he put a hand on Khyte���s shoulder. ���Boy, I was your age once. You���ll get more out of your lessons with less voluptuous distractions.���

���What���s voluptuous mean?���

Skotos cupped his hands in front of his breastplate shimmering with magical wards.

Khyte couldn���t help but picture Dame Zwaan���s lovely breasts, breasts that looked so soft and–

The Commander said, ���If you���re to be a quality War King one day, you need more than combat and leadership skills. I���ll talk to your mother about getting you a less distracting tutor.���

���Please don���t, Commander.��� Khyte wore his best pleading gaze, one that worked only on his mother now that he wasn���t a child anymore. ���Please. If you were my age once–I mean when–���

���Oh, Khyte.���

���You have to know how cruel that���d be to send someone like Dame Zwaan out of my life.���

Skotos closed his eyes and slowly let out a breath through his beak nose. ���Fine.���

���Thank you!��� A balloon of hope rose in his chest.

Skotos held up a finger. ���On one condition.���

He didn���t like the sound of this.

���I���ll be testing your knowledge of history. If I find you lacking, you can say goodbye to your favorite tutor.���

���But… no…��� Khyte sputtered more nonsense as he tried to find the right words to defend his stance.

���But yes. Those who fail to learn from history–���

���Are doomed to repeat it. I know, I know.���

���Oh good, you know something,��� Skotos said mildly. ���Let���s get going. You are terribly late.��� He hopped back into a jog.

Khyte reluctantly jogged alongside the Commander, dreading the punishment he and the rest of his unit would suffer for his tardiness.

Whatever. He didn���t want to think about that just yet. Dame Zwaan���s future was on the line. ���You wouldn���t really tell my parents to get a new tutor, would you?���

���Yes, I would, Your Highness.���

Your Highness. Skotos never addressed Khyte like that, unless he was dead serious. He���d learned that in his early years the hard way.

���You���re the eldest child, heir to the throne, and proving to be excellent on the battlefield���once you show up. Prism cannot afford a distracted Prince.���

���This is blackmail!��� They headed down one final flight of stairs and took a right.

���I know. Deal with it.���

Khyte sorely wished to keep Dame Zwaan around but he had no clue how to pay attention to more than her breasts when she displayed them so openly. He had to get Skotos to back down. ���It���ll be your word against mine.��� The word of a prince against the word of a crotchety Commander. His parents would readily side with their son. Khyte hurried into a square tunnel that led to the training arena.

���I���d bring Dame Zwaan with me so you���d be in the same room as her.���

Bosom aside, Khyte always felt butterflies in his stomach around her, even though she had to be twice his age. There���d only be a small chance he could hold his composure.

���And then we���ll see how well your word holds up against mine.���

Damn it.

Nerd Chronicles Beginning Redo

Right now I’m trying to figure out how to begin my latest project. My first attempt got the ball rolling but didn’t achieve what I wanted. This next stab has hopefully brought me closer. I’m trying to lay down the bones of the story, establish a sense of direction and give it an arc. I want the book to be a journey people can relate to, gamer or not, instead of the list of interviews it is at the moment.

Premise of book: a creative nonfiction piece about my moving across the country to live with an online gaming friend.

Chapter 1
You’re What?

My family was a mix of terrified and puzzled when I told them I was going to move across the country to live with a friend of mine from World of Warcraft, a 2,460-mile leap from Enfield, CT to Safford, AZ. I’d never met my friend in person; just spend hundreds of hours online with him, chatting away through our computers and getting to know each other over the years.

“I think you’re nuts,” my mom told me in a calm voice. She wasn’t angry; just one of the puzzled family members, and she knew the decision was one of those difficult times where a parent must let a child take responsibility for their own actions, succeed or fail. She expressed her thoughts on the situation, I listened, we talked, and in the end she stepped aside to let me at least try. I was shipping only the bare necessities across the country, leaving my car and over 20 liquor store boxes full of my belongs behind. The goal was to test how compatible Simon and I were at living together. If things didn’t work out, then he’d help me get back home. If things turned out alright, my mom and one of her brother’s would drive a box-filled Prius 36 hours one way, reimbursing them for gas and plane tickets as a thank you for the huge help.

My dad wasn’t so calm about the decision. “How do you know what kind of person he is if you’ve never met him in person?”

“I’ve known him for years, Dad.” Simon didn’t give me any bad vibes and he’d always been consistent with his humor-filled personality. All the liars had been exposed sooner or later over the 8 years I’d played.

“People can pretend to be anyone on the internet.” That’s the closest I can recall to what he said verbatim. I better remember the strain in his voice, the strain of someone trying to contain outrage. He was a father feeling protective of his only daughter.

“People can do that face-to-face.”

“Have you seen his Facebook page?”

“Yeah,” I said, recalling the teal ’59 Chevy Apache Simon had been tinkering with for years.

“How well do you know this guy?”

I defended my stance, insisting that Simon was a very caring and trustworthy person. At some point our conversation, which was trying very hard on both ends to not turn into an argument, the root of the worry came out: my dad was worried he was going to get his daughter back in a body bag. Simon had a picture of himself walking down a dirt road, hunting gun in hand. I wasn’t a gun person but Simon was, and even my dad went hunting now and then.

“What kind of person puts a picture of himself with a gun on Facebook?”

I don’t remember what I said, but I know I shrugged, even though my dad couldn’t see the gesture. I wasn’t concerned. I’d heard more about fishing than hunting trips over the years, and fear of Simon and his guns hadn’t crossed my mind. I went on to explain what I knew about Simon, how long we’d known each other, and that we’d deliberated on the move for months. It wasn’t an impulsive decision.

Dad gradually calmed down, explaining that he wished I’d told him more sooner, instead of me announcing the move via Facebook like it was no big deal. Once he felt much more at ease, he hoped the move would help me clear my head, give me a sense of direction, and bring me happiness. He’d been watching me struggle and claw my way through my twenties, a tough decade that challenges one’s sense of self and purpose. He doesn’t miss his twenties and I can’t say I will either. I’m thankful for all I’ve learned but I hope I never have to go through such an identity crisis ever again.

Dad and I talked about Arizona, assuring me I’d like it there, since both of us wouldn’t miss snow if we never saw another flake ever again, and we love warmth. He’d lived at the base of Mt. Lemon, outside of Tucson, for part of his childhood; he still remembers the rugged beauty, the occasional dust storm, and the one time it actually snowed there. He and his siblings had played in the scant couple inches of snow, just to have a neighbor yell, “Get off my snow!”

Maybe a couple weeks before I and one of my cats were to fly to Arizona, I visited my paternal grandparents for lunch. They weren’t keen on my decision but hopefully the lunch would ease their fears.

Not quite.

My grandparents love me to pieces and they’ve spent many a year baby-sitting me while both my parents worked. I learned how to cook, bake, clean, make a bed with nurse corners, fold clothes, fish for bass and perch, make a good cup of English tea, tie a couple sailor’s knots, and more from them.

I believe they found out through Dad about my impending move, so they reacted with similar protective worry. A cousin of mine who has a Law degree ran a background check on Simon but the lack of criminal record didn’t ease Grandma’s fears in the least.

“Why does he want you to move there?” Grandma asked exasperated.

“He wants to give me a chance collect myself and get my feet on the ground,” I said calmly. I wasn’t upset; just surprised. I struggled to comprehend the vehement dislike towards my decision. I thought people would be happy and hopeful, which most were. Grandma repeatedly told me she thought I was making a huge mistake. The fact that Simon had a Mexican surname didn’t sit well with her either.

“He just wants you to move there so he can marry you and stay in the country!”

Oh. My. God. She did not just say that. “What? He’s American.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve spoken with him many times over Vent and Skype (voice chat programs where basically use your computer like a phone). He doesn’t have an accent and he doesn’t even speak fluent Spanish.” Heck, I knew more Spanish than Simon. However, since he has a Mexican complexion, co-workers at one construction job or another would walk up to him and start speaking rapid Spanish. He’d cut in, saying, “Dude, speak English.”

I tried my darnedest to ease my grandparents’ worries, but the best I could get out of Grandma was a worry-laced, “I hope everything turns out alright.” They even hugged me goodbye that day, and I returned home, mortified, and confessed the whole episode to Simon. I expected him to get angry but he halted my rant with heavy laughter. He even joked that one day we should show up at my grandmother’s house with him wearing a sombrero and sitting astride a donkey.

As it turns out, Simon’s family has been in America longer than my Dad’s side of the family. My grandmother has an English accent and got to live through WWII as a child in England. Simon’s family has been her since the days of Geronimo and even has Native American blood in them. Oh, the irony…

Man oh man, June 9th couldn’t come fast enough.

Still, I felt a little crazy myself. I was willingly leaving life as I knew it behind to live with someone I knew better as a Warlock named Razgrit. What sane person does this kind of thing? However, I knew it in my gut I couldn’t just stay where I was. There was nothing for me in New England. Heck, I’d helped my childhood best friend drive his car from Connecticut to San Antonio, the closest place he could find a Nursing job. No one wanted to hire recent grads back home.

Struggle for employment aside, I needed to get out of my rut. I was steadily losing my battle with depression, hating myself, and hating the rest of the world more and more with each passing day. I was aware of my wallowing in self pity but I had no clue how to get out. A friend offering to put a roof over my head was the only lifeline I saw, so I took it, hoping I could repay his immense kindness one day. I’m the kind of person that’s had to work for everything I’ve wanted or needed; handouts didn’t exist. I cringed at Simon’s offer of free room and board, not understanding how anyone would willingly be so generous. Did he have an ulterior motive? He assured me he very well understood what it’s like to have nothing, to be unable to afford to throw away anything, because his family never knew when an empty tin can or spare screws would come in handy one way or another.

Simon made good money working construction and FEMA jobs all over the country, and his latest job in the Morenci copper mine was just as well-paying. Over the course of our deliberation, he reminded me several times, “If I don’t spend it on you, I’ll just spend it on stupid shit.” He and his buddies would spend over a hundred bucks a night at one bar or another. Him having the responsibility of taking care of me would quell that.

Well, if he was willing to help me over a local bar, then why not? I still didn’t like the idea of free room and board, but I didn’t see the point in living just to work. Together, we booked a flight for me and one cat for June 9th, 2014.

Yep, definitely crazy. Never foresaw how my love of video games would lead to me living with a gaming buddy one day.

A Non-Traditional Wedding Week – Part 5

Now that July 4th had arrived, so had our wedding day. We joined everyone to breakfast at the diner Jill works at and I had my cinnamon roll and egg, ham, and cheese on a biscuit, along with a cup of tea. I got playfully made fun of putting milk in my tea–heck for having tea, instead of coffee–received a few exasperated words from Tammy for eating my biscuit sandwich with a fork and knife, instead of picking it up, and then asked if I’d be made fun of for doing the same with my cinnamon roll before tucking into that.

“No, that one’s understandable,” she said.

I just can’t win sometimes. At least it was enjoyable to share breakfast with everyone in a town where everyone knew everyone. Anyone coming or going said hello to others at our mashed-together collection of round and square tables, and Brian, Tammy’s husband, gave me a running commentary on everyone he pointed out to me, including an elderly gentleman who loved babysitting, would sit for anyone, and your kids were a 100% guarantee to be taken well care of.

Nope, wasn’t putting it past him to subtly push me to move to Kansas as well, but I kept the thought to myself.

A good chunk of the day went by in a blur. Simon and I checked into the hotel, napped, returned to Tammy’s to allow sufficient time for Jessie to do my hair and makeup, met the certified minister who carried an oxygen slung over a shoulder, and calmly waited for 2PM to roll around. The original time was 1, but Jill couldn’t get there any sooner than two, so we waited as long as we could before the minister had to head off to other weddings. The minister coughed a lot to the point where I jokingly whispered to Simon, “I hope he doesn’t die before we get married.”

Apparently Simon and I were quite the calm engaged couple on our wedding day. We hung out together all day (to Hell with wedding superstitions!) before heading to separate rooms to get dressed up. Tammy sent Simon outside to wait for my arrival and a minute later they called for me to exit the house. I hurried down the front steps as fast as my dress would allow, kicked my Adidas sandals off when I hit the grass and fast-marched under the trees. Brent sang a nasally wedding song for me, which got me smiling and his wife Jessie told me I’m supposed to be walking slower.

Being a former waitress, my gait is set in permanent zoom mode. “Eh. I can’t help it.” I didn’t see the point in drawing out my approach to Simon’s side. That and all the eyes and cell phone cameras on me made me nervous.

The wedding itself was short and sweet, very sweet. The minister read from the Bible, a gesture that worried me at first, but the passage turned out to be a very sweet and heartfelt one about the duties of a husband and wife to each other. Rings and vows were exchanged, and a kiss once the minister remembered to include that part, and five minutes later, we were officially husband and wife with legal documents to back the moment up. Simon disappeared to free himself of his “penguin suit” and I followed shortly after talking with a few people.

I can’t say the moment held any magic to it. I’d anticipated–well, I don’t know what I’d anticipated but, to borrow from Pirates of the Carribean, “I don’t feel no different.” No magic, no wife vibes, nothing; just some emotionless legal papers and heartfelt congratulations from a bunch of people I’d just met that week.

I wasn’t disappointed, thought. Quite the contrary, I’m relieved I kept it low key. Simon and I felt no different from any other day and we took it as a good thing, an indicator that we truly belonged together and had made the right choice. All the pomp and circumstance was to officially mark the beginning of a new chapter in our lives. We tested our official status by saying, “Hello, Wife” and “Hello, Husband” to each other, which I must admit gave me goosebumps. That part was cool but my brain needed time to absorb it. Wife was an elusive title I’d been craving to achieve yet assumed would never wear, and now that it was mine, I didn’t know what to do. So I did the smart thing and went on as normal, and life was good.

I wish I had pictures of the moment when we all gathered for some wedding cake but I think it happened too fast. Simon and I took tiny pieces of cake in our hands and were told to feed each other. Having watched too much AFV to pass up the opportunity on my own wedding day, I mashed Simon in the face and he clogged up my nose with lots of frosting.

Damn, that cake was tasty! We returned to the house to wash off as I coughed and snorted cake and frosting for a good few minutes before dishing out squares to everyone.

The shortest parade I’ve ever witnessed followed later that afternoon. Everyone from Peabody lined Main St. as police, EMTs, boy scouts, old vehicles, local businesses, and more paraded down the street and threw candy to kids. It was short and sweet like the wedding, and Tammy gave me a lift back on her Harley while Simon and Mom drove back in my car. She took a circuitous route back to her house, wanting to floor it on the final stretch, but we ended up getting stuck behind a tractor and did the exact opposite for a quarter mile. I enjoyed it, yet probably came close to popping one of her hips out because I was clenching her thighs with mine every time she accelerated.

When we returned, Brian took me out on the highway on his Harley, which was both thrilling and terrifying to someone who’d never ridden a motorcycle before. The feel of the wind on my face and the openness of the vehicle was great. The only part that terrified me was accelerating. He had not back seat and I damn near squeezed his kidneys to death, hoping I wouldn’t slide off the back. Leaning to turn didn’t scare me, nor did bumps, oncoming semis, or anything else; just the fear of my ass cheeks not staying glued to the black leather. Still, I’m eager to learn how to drive a motorcycle one day, when life allows.

I pecked at food and cake until it was time to head to the park to insure that we got spots for the fireworks. I impatiently waited for the sun to go down, climbing a rock wall, eating a pulled pork sandwich, and some locally-made vanilla ice cream, and trying to take a nap to pass the time. It was a good thing that we got in hours early. Over 3,000 people poured in from all over the country to witness Peabody’s fireworks, this quaint 1-square mile town where everyone knows everyone.

I’d stopped watching fireworks back in my hometown because it was the same exact routine year after year. Peabody’s were nothing like I’ve ever seen before. An announcer narrated between ground and aerial fireworks, creating a story out of the whole program. I finally understood why Simon loved coming here every year for his favorite holiday. I recommend the whole experience to anyone, ember dodging and all. And yes, the announcer would warn people to look out for embers.

At first I thought I was stupid they’d let people sit so hazardously close but it ended up being another entertaining aspect of the show, even when a piece bounced off a stroller in front of me and got me in the face.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98zBiOlAgbY Thank you MrChumps1 for posting this! (the video isn’t mine). The battle doesn’t start until around the 4 minute marker.

Once the show was over, we walked en masse back to Tammy’s to shoot off every last firework we’d bought from Roxanne. The ladies and elderly sat in a semicircle of law chairs while the husbands reverted to children and sent firework after firework in the air, saving Roxanne’s gift package to Simon and me for last. The children lit their own sparklers, crackers, and whatnot, and I watched on, eagerly anticipating finding out what the gift display would look like. A few dud fireworks were had along the way and were dumped in the campfire once an adult deemed it safe, and then the boys sat hunched over the gift box, struggling to get it to light.

“WHOA!”

All four men ran from the exploding box and a multicolor display shot into the air. There’d been a few close calls shaken off with giddy laughter throughout the night, but none of the guys had cried out in surprise, until the very last box. I watched the display half in awe and half in worry, hoping the guys were okay, which they were. Just gotten quite the surprise after struggling so long to get the damn thing to light.

Now that the all the fireworks were spent, I headed inside for a quick trip to the bathroom and grab some stuff to take the leftover cake with us. As soon as I stepped out the back door, and explosion erupted from the campfire and colorful light shot out 20 feet in all directions. I ducked behind the grill in front of me as two more went off. Several people were sitting maybe ten feet from the explosions but they just sat there as if the unanticipated detonations were no big deal. Holy crap.

Once everything was packed in the car, Simon and I headed back to the hotel and the rest of that night is no one’s business but ours.

A Non-Traditional Wedding Week – Part 4

Final preparations: pick up wedding license and rental tux. License obtainment was short and sweet, and quite the pile of papers. Signatures were needed here, needed there, stuff done by other people, stuff done by us, more blah-blah crap about mailing in for legal duplicates, etc. 

Everyone talks about the cake, the dress, the location, and more, but no one ever mentioned this legal paperwork crap. Simon and I were lucky to have friends who were in the know about this stuff. To put in in perspective, our friend Tammy messaged me on Facebook one day, asking me what kind of flowers I was going to have for my bouquet so she could match them with my cake, which she made herself.

My reaction? Oh, yeah. A bouquet…

Oh, crap! A cake!

Yeah, wedding plans can bite me.

Anyway, we arrived at Men’s Wearhouse right as they were opening, beating an elderly couple to door by mere seconds, but we politely held it open for them before I zoomed inside with a very reluctant Simon dragging his feet behind me. We walked in on associates preparing for a very busy day before the holiday weekend, and two women trying to make this block of a long table budge, no thanks to the carpet floor. Those ladies were tiny and anything but buff, and high heel shoes weren’t helping.

“Need some help?” I asked, not sure if I should interfere.

They gratefully accepted our aid and we four-manned the table between a display wall and the store windows–more like guided the table down the narrow space while Simon pushed it a dozen feet along the carpet all by himself.

They thanked us over and over, to which I said, “I couldn’t just stand there and watch you struggle.”

Other associates finished helping the elderly couple into a changing stall before handing simon his tux to try on.

“Do I really have to try it on?”

“Yep. We have to make sure it all fits.”

Thus began another changing of the clothes and a second battle with a sleeve button that refused to easily fasten. I asked Simon if he needed help but he flatly refused.

The elderly gentleman being fitted for whatever special event shuffled out of his stall, holding his pants up by the waist.

“How does everything fit?” the associate asked.

I don’t remember what he said, but he drove his point home by letting his pants go. They fell to his knees and I got a quick look at his brown boxers or whatever before politely turning around, only to have mirrors in front of me. Oh, the joy of awkward moments.

Mercifully, he shuffled back inside and I learned from his wife that a grandchild was getting married that weekend. She and I ended up talking for a little bit, since Simon needed a different size shirt, and I learned that she was also an author, but for the joy of writing and publishing children’s books for her family and local community. She and her husband have been married for around 50 years as well. I hoped Simon and I would last as long, growing old, wrinkly, and wise together, still loving each other’s company. I looked at that couple like they were our future.

The associates ended up offering an extra 40% discount on anything we wanted in the store for our help with the table, so we grabbed a couple of shorts and shirts, since he was in dire need clothes without holes or stains. That was super nice of them!

We headed back to Newton and picked up the edible picture to go on the wedding cake, and then met up with my mother, who’d landed in Wichita early in the afternoon. We took her to Braum’s for a late lunch, catching up on all that’s been going on in her neck of the woods, and then picked up the bouquet and boutonnière.

“Oh, by the way,” I said to Simon, “my mom got you a boutonnière.”

“What’s that?”

We laughed and my mom explained what it was.

“Why do I have to wear a flower?”

Oh, Simon. Poor, poor Simon. So out of his element and comfort zone. The first time I’d ever heard of said floral accessory was in high school, and I’d envisioned the word spelled boot-n-ear. I had no idea what the heck it was either. Just something snazzy to blow your money on.

We finally headed to Tammy’s the person I’d been most looking forward to meeting the whole trip. She turned out to be this short lady with cropped red hair, intense light eyes, and an air of “I’m the boss.” When her husband, Brian, revved his Harley motorcycle, she went over and revved her own Harley, which was way louder, especially with the acoustics of a vaulted cement garage. Yep, go ahead and mess with that lady at your own risk!

Tammy ended up having to work one more night shift before all the holiday fun, so soon after she left for work, Simon and I hit up Roxanne’s stand for lots and lots of fireworks. Roxanne is yet another longtime friend of Simon’s who was delighted to see him for the first time in two years. Since she ran the tent, she covertly gave Simon, Josh, and Brent hefty discounts on everything they bought, and even gave me a free box of fireworks worth 25 bucks, as a wedding gift. Woohoo! Thank you, Roxanne. :)

That night I got to witness firsthand of Simon’s, along with everyone’s there, love of fireworks. We had a cookout dinner of burgers and hotdogs while kids and adults shot off smoke bombs, crackers, and all sorts of flashy items, yet saving the majority for the next night. A few singed fingers, malfunctioning fireworks, and others that flew into the garage were had. I partook in some of the fun but mostly watched, sipping at my raspberry vodka and lemonade.

I was prepared to stay up well into the wee hours of the morning, but Simon decided we was done somewhere around 11. He seemed unable to party like he used to, so we headed back to our host home for peace and quiet, and a good night’s sleep, while the rest set off explosives or socialized until 1AM. I was so tired that I don’t even remember falling asleep. Anticipation of the next day didn’t come anywhere close to deterring a good night’s rest.

A Non-Traditional Weeding Week – Part 3

I forgot to mention that Simon and I saw a yellow crop duster going about its business on our way to Lebo. The below picture doesn’t do justice for what the eyes saw but at least it’s better than nothing. The plane swooped and turned, swooped and turned, like a bird dancing midair, trying to woo a prospective mate. Imagining myself as the pilot was both exhilarating and terrifying, maneuvers an adrenaline rush while taunting death mere feet below.

***

Wednesday morning I woke to a swarm of flies populating the main chamber of the trailer. I’d gotten up at some point during the night to use the bathroom in the house and had forgotten to slide the cover back over the trailer door handle, thus granting entry to creatures up to the size of a slim cat. Thankfully only flies found their way in.

Come to think of it, I might’ve forgotten to mention the insect invasion to our hosts.

Anyway, Lucas and Paul returned to collect Simon and me shortly after we ate an oatmeal breakfast. Of course, this was close to an hour after we were told they’d “be here soon.” Simon nags me now and then to slow down and stop being in a rush all the time. I’ve made good progress over the past year, but lifelong habits die hard. I enjoy moving at a pleasant clip.

Rush-fiend me more or less rushed the four of us out the door–but not after what I deemed was sufficient time to let the family exchange good-mornings, saying hi to the grandchildren/niece and nephew. We hit up a beefed up gas station store for some extra breakfast food for everyone, me snatching an overpriced chocolate muffin that ended up tasting like dirt. It must’ve been sugar-free, and I mean not a grain of Splenda in it either. Simon told me to save it for something to shoot at later, so I pulled the plastic wrap back over my bite mark washed the dirt down with some water.

We drove to an oft-used shooting spot on private farmland owned by Paul, and holy crap did the guys bring a lot of guns. However, I wasn’t stricken with the same fear from a year ago, when Simon showed me his handguns. I cringed at the sight of them, and felt my face go pale when I took an unloaded weapon in hand. All I could think of was the sheer number of people that died every year to accidents and worse. The Newtown shooting was still raw for me as well, having driven through that quiet town hundreds of times, and reading a Facebook message from the head of my MFA program, letting us know that a shooting had taken place at his wife’s school, but she and her kids were okay.

I wanted nothing to do with guns.

The last year in a nutshell: Simon encouraged me to learn how to use a firearm. It’d make him feel safer if he knew I could protect myself in such a way, just in case. He also loves hunting so he can eat wild game. I got to learn how regulated hunting is, and how it’s not mindless slaughter in the U.S. I developed a respect for hunters, came close to trying guns November 2013, but settled for archery, which is super fun.

After seeing how much going to a shooting range delighted Simon and his friends, I decided to be a good sport and at least experience it for myself. The location sat in the middle of the field, far away from the cows, a hole-ridden mount of dirt rising above an equally hole-plagued target. We stood 20 yards away and slightly uphill, meaning we’d have to shoot downhill. There’d be no stray killer bullets. I breathed a bit easier.

The boys gave me a .223 rifle with a scope first, which I took without fear, but with lots of wariness. I didn’t want to hurt or kill anyone, but I still made the novice mistake of starting to point the business at Simon’s feet while he was explaining stuff to me.

The .22 rifle wasn’t bad. It had almost no kick, was quiet to shoot, and I could actually hit what I was aiming at. Next up was a low-caliber handgun with similarly small kick, required the use of the earplugs that’d been handed out, and was a pain and a half to aim with. Eh. Then they gave me a .45 handgun after that, but paused to correct my grip so I wouldn’t shred my left thumb or smack myself in the face with my hands. The kick to that sucker was terrifying but I tried my darndest to hit anything with it. Simon complimented me on how fast I brought it back to starting position. Some people take their merry little time bringing the gun back down.

Once we were done with that trio of guns, Lucas started mixing tannerite, which is these little white beads that look like they belong inside a bean bag, combined with a small pouch of aluminum powder, which turned the beads grey. This was my first encounter with tannerite. Lucas explained that, when you shot the plastic jar, it exploded into a cloud of water vapor. Didn’t see why he was going through so much work to create a target to shoot at but whatever. We set up a line of four tannerite jars and several soda bottles filled with water, then drove so we were positioned 100 yards from our targets. They set up a folding table complete with rolled up blankets to prop a .223 rifle with scope.

Lucas loaded the rifle and they all had me shoot first, telling me to aim for the tannerite jar with my dirt-muffin sitting atop it. I was eager to obliterate my brunch from existence, so I calmly took aim, easing my crosshairs on the jar. I slowly exhaled to keep myself from wobbling too much, as Simon had instructed, and then slowly applied pressure on the trigger.

BOOM!

A white vapor cloud engulfed the hillside and dirt flew skyward. My dirt-muffin was not just dirt.

I pumped my first. “Yeah!” Now I wanted to shoot every last tannerite jar, but I kindly took just that one, along with a few water bottles, never missing a single shot. I think it was a combo of beginner’s luck and having good teachers. I did make the mistake of loading a round incorrectly, thus firing off a round without meaning to, hitting the ground about ten feet in front of me. Thankfully, the guys were mindful enough to make sure they were behind anyone with a gun at all times. The mistake made my face pale and I got to see firsthand how easily it is to make a mistake and potentially kill an innocent bystander. Still, I decided to learn from my mistake and load the rifle the correct way.

That day I learned why people enjoy heading out to ranges to shoot guns for fun. It was a game of how well I could aim, along with making stuff go boom. I’m not in a hurry to go buy any firearms, but I’m more interested in going hunting with Simon now. No, I’m not in a rush to go kill animals for food. There’d be a twinge of sadness, but I bet it’d be far more humane a kill than what cows go through on non-free range beef farms.

After shooting came waiting by the gate for Rachel and her two kids. The cows happened to be camping under some tree shade so, at Paul’s suggestion, I tried to walk over and pet one, dodging new and crusty cow pies and picking up a fistful of tall grass. They all warily eyeballed me and the first few shied away no matter how gently I approached. They had a few calves among their numbers, so I hoped they weren’t of mind to charge me if I pushed too much, but then Paul came over with a fistful of animal feed and gave it to me. A big black cow tagged 19 marched right up and happily licked up my offering. Her tongue tickled.

Okay, the web page decided to not save the rest of what I wrote, so here’s the abridged version:

After cow feeding came feeding catfish dog food. I kid you not.

 

And to wrap up the fun, Lucas and I tried catching frogs to show the kids. We managed to catch one but it leapt to freedom right outside the truck, and we lost it in the tall grass. Oh well. The kids were hungry, tired, and overdue for their afternoon nap. Simon and I returned to Newton to relax before our final preparations for the wedding and July 4th.

A Non-Traditional Wedding Week – Part 2

Shortly before we left for Kansas, Simon and I got my Prius serviced for it’s 100,000 mile maintenance, so goodbye $700 real easy. On the upside, I’m now getting an average 5mpg more and it’s running quieter. If we keep this up, we could easily get 300k miles out of the car. Here’s hoping!

While we waited for the service to complete, Avondale Toyota shuttled us to the nearest movie theater. We looked at the list of movies, decided we weren’t in the mood for anything but a nap (it’s a three-hour drive to Phoenix), and instead hit the local ice cream parlor to kill time and top off our stomachs.

The sugar rush might as well have never took place. Thankfully, a furniture store with beds was just a few stores down. The original plan was to just lie on a bed until we got kicked out, but we spotted a row of massage chairs and began testing them one by one, and by testing I mean sitting through 20-minute cycles on all seven chairs.

Not all massage chairs are created equally. Middle-ranged price chairs do just as well as the insanely priced, but the low-end live up to their low end price. One chair went so far as to try to break both bones in my calves, unlike its more expensive counterpart, which must’ve had a pressure sensor in it so it wouldn’t overdo squeezing.

90 minutes later, we were convinced we had to come back one day for one of those heavenly suckers. I have to be mindful of my back, since writing is my day job, and work does a number on Simon’s back to the point where I massage and crack his back every night. Once we were finally through with the chairs did an associate finally approach us. Dunno how we snuck under the radar so long, but we did. Anyway, we swiftly found ourselves trying out Tempur-Pedic beds, and oh man were they comfy. And then he had us laying down in the zero-g position, meaning our heads and feet were elevated a bit, and say goodbye to ever needing an arm pillow again.

Carlman, the associate, reeled us in for the sale by offering 0% APR until 2020, along with super low payments, two free pillows of pure awesome springy softness, and a free stain guard, and explaining that the bed should last well over 40 years. Sold. We labeled the purchase as a wedding present to ourselves and Carlman knocked 100 bucks off the final price tag. We got to enjoy a whopping one night of Tempur-Pedic bliss before heading to Kansas.

***

Simon and I got up bright and early to apply for our marriage license on Monday, driving to a quaint town in Marion county, and climbed creaky old stairs the looked straight out of Colonial history. We arrived five minutes before all the offices opened up, but the lady in charge of helping all marriage license applicants happily helped us a few minutes early. It was a simple process, and I got a laugh out of Simon accidentally spelling his middle name wrong.

Humor took a swift turn to seriousness when I got to the part where I had to fill out the name change part and finally had to decide. I’ve been partial to keeping my given name since it’d be nice and simple, but it felt like I’d be shortchanging the man whom had vowed to take care of me for the rest of our lives. Still, I didn’t want to entire give up my given surname. I’m partial to it and proud of my heritage, so hyphenate it was. It’s quite the mouthful, but I like it. :)

From the courthouse we drove to Wichita to rent out a “penguin suit” for Simon. Poor guy’s used to steel toe boots and wearing clothes until they fall apart. I’m slowly weeding out all his hole-plague attire but, since I hate clothes shopping as much as he does, it’s a veeeery slow process.

Our wedding was the second time ever, he’s forced himself to wear a tux, the first time being for his friend Brad’s wedding. Simon had the honors of being Best Man. Simon wore his half-serious, half-fake pout as I led him into Men’s Wearhouse. He wanted to wear a t-shirt and shorts next to me all decked out in a wedding dress and whatnot, but he reluctantly obliged to match my level of fanciness.

I was amazed by how handsome he looked in a tux. He looked like a real gentleman.

Now that the two most important pre-wedding preparations were complete, all we had to do was wait for Thursday to roll around. We drove across Wichita to the downtown Warren theater to get in a good meal and a show. I was eager to go through the whole Warren Theater experience after he described how we could get steaks, alcohol, and more at the press of a button, how the chairs were super comfy and provided ample leg room. Now that’s a movie dinner!

Unfortunately, that particular Warren didn’t open until around dinnertime, so we followed the GPS to the next nearest one, which happened to be maybe two blocks from where we’d started, near Men’s Wearhouse. We’d driven in a circle across Wichita. Whatever.

We’d timed it best for a showing of 22 Jump Street, a comedy film. I’d half watched, half listened to 21 Jump Street, so I felt prepared enough to dive into this film. I wasn’t in the mood for Transformers or watching a giant lizard destroy stuff, so comedy it was. We killed some time in the ice cream parlor inside the theater and I bought a Transform a Life bracelet to help support Make a Wish. It’s funny how, as soon as you start talking your own kids after a lifetime of assuming you’d never want any, that your attitude towards childcare changes.

22 Jump Street turned out to be one of the funniest movies I’ve seen in a long time. I highly, highly recommend it!

On Tuesday we headed to Lebo to meet Jason and Rachel, more friends of Simon’s. They have two children, aged 17 months and 3 years old, and they’re quite the energetic pair. I got to see yet more parenting styles and one very calm, collected mother who told me about baby sign language, which is a great way to help children get around their speech barrier. Rachel’s father and brother stopped by at one point, and they spirited Simon away to go target shooting. I had half a mind to join them, but I stayed with Rachel and chatted with her about motherhood and such, along with observed toddler behavior.

I helped pick food from their garden, grill dinner, and watched their daughter create a green-bean-kabob fresh from the garden. She ate a few and forgot about the rest.

We ended up staying the night, sleeping in their trailer. I almost knocked myself out on the low ceiling over where you put your pillows, but we both slept well. The next morning, the boys took me out to some rolling farmland to try some guns. I wasn’t keen on the idea but at the same time Simon gets such joy out of hunting and target shooting, I figured it was only fair I give his hobby a chance. I also got to learn what tannerite was…

A Non-Traditional Wedding Week – Part 1

I don’t know anyone who’s had a wedding date set before being proposed to. Heck, I was there to help Simon pick out a wedding/engagement ring for me, and I even took him to David’s Bridal to pick out the cheapest wedding dress I liked (which turned out to be the first one they showed me).

Apparently it’s normal for a herd of women to shop for dresses and the bridal gown together. One bride-to-be wore a glittering Bachelorette tiara and her company fawned over her. Another group chatted about how pretty their bride-to-be was in every dress she’d tried on, along with other stuff that made my eyes glaze over with boredom. Weddings are a big to-do.

Whatever. I contentedly wore whatever I’d happened to don that day, fell in love with my dress, picked out a flowery necklace that turned out to be half the labeled price (woot), and let the lady helping top off everything with a veil. I’d originally opposed the veil since I didn’t see the point in it, but as soon as she stuck it on my head, I stopped rambling to admire myself in the semicircle of mirrors.

“Aw, I feel so pretty!”

Simon broke into laughter and I couldn’t help but laugh at my own 180 attitude change. The veil completed the outfit, making me feel like a genuine bride. Shoes were unnecessary. I intended to go barefoot. I’m 5’10″. I don’t do heels.

I must’ve been the fastest shopper that store has ever seen. Simon and I spent more time waiting for our turn to be helped than we did picking out dresses and trying them on.

***

I wondered how Simon would propose to me. As non-traditional as we are, I didn’t want it to be something bland, and I didn’t want to see it coming. Simon managed to both catch me by surprise and propose in a way that suited both our personalities. I very much like my ring and now feel incomplete on the rare occasions I take it off.

***

We kicked off our 17-hour drive at 5:30 A.M. Mountain Time and arrived around 1:30 A.M. Kansas time. The drive was scenic but long. Arizona is spotted with mountains, and blanketed in mesquite trees, cacti, and brush. New Mexico smoothed out somewhat, ditched the mesquite, and laid it on thick with green and red chili farms south of Albuquerque. East of said city, the ground became a little greener, but overall it was red clay dotted with brush, and the terrain continued to flatten out into Texas. We passed the famous Cadillac Ranch, which consists of Cadillacs buried nose-down up to their windshields and painted all over (sorry, no pictures). Its uniqueness attracts multitudes from all over, and there’s a nearby hotel named after it. The below picture is my failed attempted to tell the GS5 to navigate to Newton, Kansas.

We hugged the speed limit in Texas, since local fuzz loves to pull over out-of-staters. Simon was pulled over twice in one day years ago, just for going 1MPH over the limit. He wasn’t given a ticket at least. I took over driving in Amarillo (pronounced am-uh-rill-oh, not ah-maw-ree-yo, as I’d assumed) and an unmarked black truck got my heart pumping when it rode my rear through the city.

“He’s probably running your license plate right now,” Simon said.

The truck had two long antennae sticking up over its back window. I made sure the cruise control was set to 55, the city limit, and focused on driving straight. If the guy turned his lights on, he’d have nothing on me.

The truck changed lanes, begins passing me, and my heart rate slowed. And then my jaw dropped as I realized those two antennae were actually fishing poles. What the hell? Thanks for the heart attack, moron.

We laughed it off as we continued to hug the speed limit until reaching Oklahoma, where the sun dived towards its western slumber and clouds began to gather all around us.

Simon hopped back behind the wheel north of Oklahoma City so I could watch the storms rolling in, and I got quite the thunder storm fix by the time we neared the Kansas-Oklahoma border. We drove in and out of heavy rain all the way to Josh and Meagan’s house, both of whom I texted back and forth over the last three-ish hours of our trek. Boy was it a relief when we pulled into their driveway and could get out of the car for good at last. Since it was raining, we took our essentials inside and promptly passed out in the bed awaiting our arrival.

We didn’t do much all of Saturday, besides recuperate and chat with our hosts. It was nice to put some faces to the multitude of names Simon had run by me. Having worked and lived in Kansas for a handful of years, and being quite the social bug, he has friends all over. Josh and Meagan are a hardworking couple with three kids, Ana, Gage, and Maddox. Me being in the mindset of preparing myself to have kids, I observed how the kids behaved and the parents parented, and learned all I could. Maddox, the youngest, shocked me with how fast the tears stop as soon as he wasn’t frustrated anymore. He liked playing a game on the Kindle but, being around age 2 or 3, his mastery of the game and using the tablet were limited.

Tears take place of speech. At his age, he wants to express more but his brain hasn’t developed enough yet for speech, so it’s quite frustrating for the kid.

Josh is someone I’ve played a bit of WoW with, so it was cool to finally meet another person behind the pixels. He and Simon played WoW together as well, but they became friends through work before that.

Saturday I met Brent and Jessie. Brent’s the kind, comedic guy, and Jessie is another kind person–actually everyone from Kansas was really nice. Jessie had just met me but she helped me with hair, makeup, and photography for the wedding, so kudos to her!

During a trip to Walmart to get food and drink, I got to observe men revert to boys while in public. I caught Brent, Josh, and Simon throwing dog toys at each other, to the dismay of an employee. Thankfully they picked up after themselves, only to be childish in another department. I returned to Meagan and Jessie, and much more peaceful shopping.

Later that same day, I got to meet yet another WoW friend named Hunter. He’s Tammy’s 13-year-old grandson, and his eyes lit up when I told him who I was in WoW. We all enjoyed a treat of grilled–yes grilled–pizza and lots of alcohol. Grilling pizza is actually delicious. It gives the crust a crisp, brick oven baked flavor. On top of that, I tried a sip of several different alcoholic drinks before settling on raspberry vodka in pink lemonade. Yum!

To end the evening, I joined in the fun of playing Call of Duty online after watching Brent, Simon, and Josh have some fun. They gave me a crash course in the controls as a match loaded, but my brain defaulted to Halo and xbox controls, despite the PS3 controller in my hand.

I had the guys laughing for the duration of the three matches I played. At first, I’d gasp and panic while trying to aim every time I spotted an enemy, to which they told me something along the lines of to stop screaming and start shooting. I did. I died a lot but my enemies steadily started dying to my button mashing just as much. At one point I turned around and reflexively mashed buttons at the sight of an enemy in my face. A knife pops up in place of my gun and I get the kill.

“Oh, my god! I’m alive! How’d I kill him like that?”

They told me which button was assigned to the knife but I died a humiliating death at the next melee opportunity. Consciously replicating a happy accident is tough.

I must confess I reverted to shy mode for the first few days. I buried my gaze in my cell phone, playing a war game. After a quick chat with Simon, I forced myself to leave my phone in my purse and be more sociable. I wanted these people to like me and feel comfortable with the person Simon was about to marry.