Daniel Hardman's Blog, page 6

Daniel as a Child

Lunch is over, and I walk out onto the blacktop playground with a growing sense of anticipation. Enough recess time remains for one game of touch nerf football.

Two captains pick teams, and the game begins. I am anxious to play well—success is a prerequisite for popularity, and like most fifth graders I echo Vince Lombardi’s belief that “winning is the only thing.” The game progresses, and before long our time is nearly gone. With practiced sophistication our quarterback/captain calls us into a huddle to outline our strategy for the next play. As I jog in, I hope to be favored with a major role so that I can prove my maturity and talent. Nodding at me he says “Hardman, you go long.”

“Long!” I think ecstatically. The receiver who catches a bomb is a sort of temporary celebrity. It is my chance to shine, and I am confident that I will.

As the ball is hiked, I dodge through the guarding ranks to the limit of our quarterback’s range. Seeing me, he lobs the ball high and hard. Eyes locked, I pump my legs as fast as I can, and snag the ball triumphantly. Without breaking stride I change direction, thinking about the imminent touchdown, and what a great play I am making.

Unexpectedly I feel a terrific shove from the left: an opposing team member has managed to reach me with a wild dive. By pushing me hard he stops his fall, but I careen to the right, still at full speed, and hit a set of monkey bars head first. My skull thuds dully as it strikes metal, and the bars ring faintly. My head feels strange. It vibrates in a dull, aching, but not exactly painful rhythm. I am vaguely aware that I have had a serious accident, that the football game has stopped, that I probably need help, but these thoughts don’t register fully in my sluggish, confused thoughts. What I am conscious of is a blind fury at the one who has pushed me. I am disgusted that I have not made The Great Play.

Photo credit: camknows (Flickr)

Slowly, speechlessly I move away from the cold metal to be surrounded by curious football players. Even though I am not surprised by the chorus of voices asking “Are you all right, Dan,” the question bothers me. It strikes me as selfish, as if the questioners want me to say yes to that they can continue the football game. And so I let my anger swell, though deep down a part of me is rather amused at the question. Am I okay? Does a chicken have lips?

Before I can chew out the questioners, another boy answers for me. “Of course not! He’s bleeding. Can’t you see?” I clap a hand to my head. Sure enough: the steel bars have ripped a long, bone-deep gash in the skin just below my hair line. Blood is welling up rapidly. I turn and trudge dully in the direction of the doors that lead to the nurse’s office.

Several kids offer to help me walk, but to accept help is to admit weakness; I tell them in a surly fashion that I am okay, and want to be left alone. Fortunately they ignore my protest, and walk with me en masse to the doors, steadying my rather erratic steps. By the time I reach the building, I am half-blinded by blood, and don’t want to remove my hands from my forehead, so I wait impatiently until someone opens the doors for me. I feel hypocritical for refusing help so rudely, and then expecting my friends to open the door without being asked, but I am too proud and angry at the world to apologize, or even murmur a thanks. They ask if I want someone to go with me to the nurse, but I insist that I’ll be fine, so they leave me to walk alone down the empty halls.

When I reach the nurse’s door I try the knob—locked. This annoys me. I knock impatiently. The nurse’s voice comes back through the wood: “I’m busy with someone right now.” I am surprised and a little disgruntled that she dismisses me without even checking my condition, so I hesitantly explain that I am hurt pretty badly. When she tells me (still through the door) to sit on the bench near the door and wait, though, I try to make my voice sound agreeable as I mumble a half-hearted assent.

The bench is soft; it feels good to sit down. The building is very quiet, and I fill the silence with angry thoughts about the player who has injured me, how stupid my friends are, and how wronged I have been. I am either too tired or too weak to catch the blood that runs down between my fingers, and so I watch it splash in bright red spots on the stone floor.

Watching the blood splash has a hypnotic, lulling effect. I am nearly asleep by the time the nurse opens the door and tells me to come in. I watch her expression, hoping to see surprise at my injury; I want her to realize her mistake and apologize for not giving me immediate attention. If she does notice, she gives no indication. Instead she asks me in a mild voice about the accident. She interrupts my monologue to give her standard warning (“this might hurt”), and then cleans the wound thoroughly. Afterwards she says, “Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?” I assure her in my most matter-of-fact tone that I have hardly felt it. She nods, gives me an ice pack, and calls home to arrange for stitches.

Soon I slide onto the cracked vinyl seat of our old station wagon beside my mom. “Hi,” I say quietly.

“Hello, Daniel,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” I respond with as much assurance as I can muster. I am probably in shock, and my head throbs, but actually I feel very little pain. I am, however, worried about another matter.

“Mom, how much do stitches cost?”

She thinks for a moment, then gives me a rough estimate.

“Can we afford them?” The question is really unnecessary; I know very well that the answer is no. My mom knows the situation even better than I do. She is quiet for a moment, and then she says, “Daniel, we will afford them, because you are a much higher priority than a car, or a house, or anything we own.”

I lay my head on her shoulder. It is warm and reassuring, and I can tell that my mom is offering her silent support and sympathy. Gradually I become aware of a scared, tired, traumatized child within myself, desperately fighting for expression. My first instinct is to be “mature,” to keep my emotions in check. But then I realize that my mom doesn’t have to be impressed—she loves me. A few tears trickle down my cheeks, and then an emotional dam gives way, and I begin to cry for all I’m worth. With every tear and sob a little bit of anger, fear, and anxiety drains away, until I feel completely purged. Sometimes it’s nice to be a child.

Froggies

Ponderous clouds broke suddenly, lashing the canopy of tago trees that arched into stygian gloom eighty meters above. Exotic hoots and throaty grunting from beyond the blackness floated down, mixing with a soft lap-lap of marshwater at his waist. Avis fingered the trigger of his blaster and wiped sweat from his eyebrows with a grimy hand. His comlink crackled.

“Red One, this is Red Three. We’re sweeping north. Water’s extra murky. Musta have been disturbed recently.”

The fear in the other man’s voice carried clearly through the wet.

“Roger, Red Three. Close in another fifty meters.”

The other man acknowledged in clipped tones, and Avis began his own scramble through the muck. He pulled himself onto a mass of roots, slick with slime, and half-slid, half-crawled around the massive bole of a tree, the odor of moldy vegetation strong in his nostrils. They’d been hunting the froggies for nearly twelve hours now, patiently tightening their noose of riflemen to force the bloated monsters inward. When he and his buddy were in place, the circle would be a mere hundred meters across, and they’d burn the diabolical brutes out of existence.

He shivered, thinking of their impossibly massive jaws and bulging eyes. They’d fought the humans to a standstill on this world—but for the last time. Next week human reinforcements would arrive…

Now he was in position, his back against a pebbly boulder, his blaster sweeping the focus point where the froggies would soon sizzle and wisp away as greasy, foul clouds of smoke.

Minutes dragged by.

Where was Clove? He should have reported in by now. Avis was growing increasingly unsettled. He peeled leeches off his neck and winced as blood trickled between his shoulder blades. What was taking them so long? The sounds of the night had faded, and now he could hear his ragged breathing like thunder in the darkness.

“Red Three, this is Red One. Do you copy?” His voice caught as he whispered hoarsely. Nothing. Static. He switched channels. “Red Leader, Red One.” Another switch, his hands fumbling with the buttons. “Blue Leader? Green Leader?”

No sound at all except the faint hiss.

He stumbled back into the protective shadow of the rock, nauseated with terror. A current of hot, moist air swelled around his shoulders, reeking of decaying flesh. He lurched, gagging.

And then the rock moved…

The Beauty of Gray

Photo credit: milo’s photos (Flickr)

I.

Jagged cracks of pure light

flicker flicker

draw silhouette

in the gray mist

of rain cloud and winddust.

Rumbles resonate to the ends of the sky

and flash back again.

Trees sway with the warm, restless breeze.

A few big drops of rain

slap the dry concrete

with dark damp splotches.

The wind holds

its

breath

and

lets it out with a sighing swish.

Water falls to the

gorgeous thunder rhythm,

washing the world

with staccato spatter.

Wind whips the rainspray.

II.

I drink in the storm.

Wind blows my shirt,

and wet spots cool

my warm brown skin.

The damp freckles merge.

Rain falls cold from matted hair

to make tiny rivulets

in the wrinkles of my forehead.

Trickles slowly fill my lashes,

and drop to my cheeks when I blink.

From there they run like tears,

lukewarm, to the crease of my lips.

When I open my mouth to breathe the storm air,

the rainwater slips in.

It tastes faintly

wet leaves

diluted green

sweet?

The scent of evergreen shrubs

comes strong and damp.

More drops fall from my hair

and slip smoothly down my neck and back

and tickle coolly in my ears.

I jam cold hands tightly into pockets,

hunch cold shoulders,

and blow the tickling water

off the tip of my nose.

III.

The rain falls faster.

Cars whiz by,

lights, wipers, heaters, radios on.

One passenger glances at me,

wondering

at the kid who stands in the rain.

A connoisseur, I think to him.

I puff another raindrop from my nose, and shiver mightily.

IV.

Rabonni–

I hear the song

I feel the strokes

I see the images

I know the Master piece.

Thank you

for showing an apprentice

the beauty of gray.

Built a Shelfari page

It’s been a fun learning experience to publish a book with CreateSpace and Amazon. The CreateSpace process is a bit more demanding, because they print physical books; there are more sales channels and pricing decisions to make, more proofing steps to complete, and so forth. Amazon picks up CreateSpace books automatically, although there’s a 5-7 day lag. You can choose to convert your print version to Kindle format on CreateSpace, but I didn’t like the html that got generated from the .docx file I was using for my interior on CreateSpace, so I worked with raw html and kdp.amazon.com directly.

When you publish on Kindle, you can add extras about your book using shelfari.com. I spent an hour or two and added my favorite quotes from Viking, some notes about themes and motifs, and a quick description of main characters. I think the result makes the book more discussable and interesting. See what you think:

http://www.shelfari.com/books/32462324/Viking

Interior Decorating

Love the drawings on the fridge! Photo credit: brendan-c (Flickr)

Crayoned sheaves adorn the fridge

in magnet-clipped bouquets–

stick-man family small to big,

gulls, sharp peaks, some yellow rays,

smoking chimney, circle trees,

tulips sprung from scribbled green…

An engineer, Dad tweaks the tilt,

saves straggling papers now and then.

Mom might shuffle tints to match

her curtains or her tablecloth–

but doesn’t. It’s heart, not art

that yields construction paper glory.

Fancier house just down the road from mine. Photo credit: a4gpa (Flickr)

A suitcased pilgrimmage away

another house of glory stands.

Family scenes dot its walls, too–

Shepherd, angels, holy lands,

fishers, lepers, pioneers–

sketched by children’s hands.

He might make the lines run truer.

She might make the colors glow–

but the harmony they’re after–

the perfect smiles and laughter–

is deeper than lines, whiter than hue

not about things, but who.

Viking — Interior’s Complete!

Just finished uploading the interior of Viking for Kindle and print. I’ll be picking a cover in the next few days, so we’re only a week or so away from the book being available on Amazon.