M.L. Crabb's Blog: The Command Deck, page 8

A very Summer Post

The year was 2004, the place, Iraq.


We worked 12 hour shifts (sometimes more) 6 days a week, so midday chow was the thing to look forward to. It was the event. We’d pile into our squadron’s white pick-up trucks or bread trucks—yes, you read that correctly.

Bread trucks.

I don’t know if a bread truck vendor donated a bunch of them or what, but we had them, and they had been painted white to match the pick-up trucks. Hey, it was a truck that could haul stuff!

Anyway, we’d pile into them. On this particular day, it was a pick-up truck. We climbed in the bed of it; flack vests, helmets, and all, and prepared for the excitement of lunch.

As it went down the dusty roads, a spring-like breeze drifted over us. We couldn’t believe how nice and cool it was. We kept asking ourselves, how hot was it? It couldn't be more than 80!

* Read footnote for more info!
We had a thermostat in one of our buildings that recorded inside and outside temps (see above pic). Temperatures would get upwards of 120 degrees, so on our way back, we made a game of guessing the number. Most of us guessed in the 80s.

Ready for the big reveal? Want to make a guess yourself?


It was exactly 100 degrees.
100 on the dot.

* Footnote:
I scoured my old digital photos for something hotter, sadly I either didn't think to snap a pic until it was too late, or I took it on my disposable camera and the photo is buried in a photo album somewhere. But this was the norm even though some days it was 120.  

The nice, breezy 76 degrees inside was for the benefit of our equipment (it had to be kept cool). 

The ticks you see on the wall were left by a previous Airman. They ticked each day they were there. I guess they weren't having a good time. 

July Update

Sisters
I finished the first wave of revisions! I will get through this, gosh darn it. Now it’s time to go back and look at the story as a whole. There were some things I missed in the beginning—The early chapters had everyone sporting their universe’s version of the iPhone 6.

The year is 2002, and that is a big nope! They should be struggling with flip phones. I mean, back in the day, if you wanted to text an s, you had to hit that button four times!

I’m hoping that my zeal for editing the early chapters over and over again when I started the project will make this a lot easier. And no, I couldn’t hold onto that editing obsession as the story progressed. It was a great idea, but I grew too impatient and just wanted to write.

As I’ve stated before, when it comes to editing, I have the attention span of a gnat…even that is being too generous because there is my eternal battle with insomnia. If I didn’t get any sleep the night before, you can forget it. I have way too many instances of insomnia to revise as quickly as I'd like to (especially between work and my other duties). Insomnia sucks, and I wouldn’t wish this constant battle on anyone!


Here's to the second round of editing and revisions!

Objects in the Mirror

Another post-apocalyptic fic!Will Shar's trusty car and rifle get her family to the safety of Aunt Jess's farm? What will they find when they get there?
Be wary of the drones. Be wary of Greed. Be wary of daylight. 
OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR ARE NOT WHAT THEY APPEARA post-apocalyptic ficlet by MLC
The relentless rumble had finally died down for the evening as the sun disappeared into the West. It was the end of my watch and the start of our nightly journey. I lifted my AK-47 above my head so that I could stretch the sleepy muscles in my arms. Even at this hour, the Georgia humidity made me feel as though I was swimming in my own sweat.

Drawing a deep breath, I slung it over my shoulder and picked up my box of ammo. As I crept back into the alley, I could see the silhouette of our tiny car nestled between two brick monoliths of another era. Rick was right. This place was safe because it died in the 80s.

I walked up to the back and tapped the window with my knuckles. Our daughter, Sammy, was already awake. I could see her shadow moving in the backseat as Rick slept. He shifted when I tapped it again. The sluggish air around him did not last long, for he was sitting up and opening the door within seconds.

One could not afford to be slow in this world.

“Mommy, are we at Auntie Jess Jess’s house yet?” Sammy asked.

“Shh,” I cooed, leaning over. “Another day or so.”

Ever since They came, everyone began fleeing the cities, but even the suburbs were no longer safe. Rick slipped out of the backseat and took his place at the wheel. I sat in the passenger seat and placed the ammo box between my feet. I rolled the window down.

“I’m sick of being quiet,” Sammy groaned. “I want to play outside.”

“Everything will be fine when we go see Aunt Jess,” Rick said. The engine purred, and I tensed. The sound roared throughout the alley like an avalanche. Our car inched forward, its tires rolling over the cement. I rested the barrel of the AK-47 against the door and watched the vacant street creep closer and closer.

They preferred to kill us in daylight, but I was not about to take a chance.

I pictured Aunt Jessica’s farm, the sprawling hills around it--her horses, cows, and her giant, three story house. It was nestled away in the woods, far from civilization. They weren’t interested in the woods.

I pictured the twisted remains of our cell towers and power plants and shuddered. It was clear They wanted to destroy us and smash what little spirit we had left.

As Rick turned onto a back road. I watched a ragtag of pickup trucks and SUVs slink past us, their headlights turned off just as ours were. Rick stopped to let them pass. Their crawl must have been something like ten miles an hour.

“Where are they going?” I wondered, for they were heading towards Atlanta.

“To fight,” my husband whispered. “They’ve got stores of weapons in the back. Look.”  A chill swept over me. Sure enough, their truck beds were packed with Army surplus supplies and a host ammo boxes.  I gripped my weapon as temptation dared me to follow.  I knew better. Those poor souls had no chance against fighter jets and aerial drones.

A white pickup truck held the rear with the American and Gadsden flags streaming from its tailgate. The driver shined a flashlight at us. Two blinks. It was an unspoken hello and good luck out there.

Temptation was fleeting. I don’t think I could ever bring myself to go back to our blackened cities with their crumbling stores, apartment complexes, and death. Change the filter of the images on my dead phone to black and white, and our hometown looked like something straight out of World War Two.

My stomach growled. Great. Just great. Sammy probably heard it and was about to cry. We were almost out of food and water. Sure enough, the poor child began to weep. I shifted the rifle and rolled the window back up. I didn’t chide her. What was I going to do? Get mad at her for being hungry?

***The car shuddered and rolled to a stop. This was it. We had used up every last drop of gas. There hadn’t been a gas station since we left that abandoned highway town, and now daylight was beginning to breach the night sky. I drew a weary breath. Where would we sleep? We certainly couldn’t do it in the car. If They didn’t end us first, the summer heat surely would. I gazed at the trees in the distance.

“Pull out your map,” I whispered, but I could hear him already shuffling through it.
“Holy shit, Shar! Look!” He shoved it into my lap and thrust his index finger on it. “We are here.” My heart raced. I spotted the red marker I drew around Aunt Jess’s property, not depicted on the map, of course.

“We could walk there and be there by night fall.” A low rumble ripped through the air.

They were awake.

We scurried about the car, collecting just the bare necessities and stuffing poor Sammy into her little red wagon. I was the sharp shooter, so I got the gun, and Rick got to pull her.

“Hurry!” I hissed. “They might have the drones out!” I gazed up. They’d be heading for Atlanta, but who wanted to risk some hotshot asshole spotting us and picking us off for fun from his cushy little control tower?

We hurried off the road as Sammy gripped the sides of the little metal wagon.  The trees would give us cover.

“Uuuooouuuoouuoouuu,” her voice went, and she laughed. Good. Better to laugh than to cry.

***Every muscle in my body screamed in agony. My jeans had long since chafed my thighs, making every movement painful. Sammy whimpered and whined, shooting me wistful looks as I struggled to keep up. I felt like she grew smaller and smaller with each passing second, but it did not matter. Aunt Jess’s house was dead ahead. I could see it through the trees. One of her horses neighed in the distance. I blinked sweat away from my eyes.

I staggered on, and it felt like forever until we were standing on her porch. Rick rang the bell. Moments later, the door opened with a squeak. Aunt Jess’s sky blue eyes pierced the growing darkness.

“Sharon?” she asked. “What are you doing here?” The door was cracked an inch. I couldn’t make out her expression.

“Yes, it’s me, Auntie Jess,” I moved closer and pressed my palm against the door frame for support. “I’m sorry about the unexpected visit. Our home was destroyed in the initial attack.” I leaned against the house, my strength waning with every word I spoke.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any room.” Rick grabbed my collar and pulled me back just in time—Aunt Jess slammed the door.

“What?” I blanched. “No,” I whispered. “She…she was supposed to offer us a room on the third floor…We’re…we’re family. This can’t be right.” I rang the buzzer.

“Aunt Jess!” I cried. “Aunt Jess! It’s me Shar! I’ve got little Sammy with us!” When the door held still, I banged my fist on it. “Aunt Jess!” I screamed.

A window flew open on the left. I jumped.

“No means no. Stop screaming! You’ll attract Them!”

“Aunt Jess,” I croaked, stepping over to that side of the porch. “People are dying. Mom is…they got her, Dad, and Uncle Ken.”

“I don’t have any room.”

“Just one room on the third floor,” I begged. “People are-”

“No. And if I catch you sleeping in my stables, I will send my dogs after you. I do not give handouts.” I watched her slam the window shut and cringed at the sickening sound the lock made when she secured it.

Blackness swept over me. This couldn’t be right. We were family. She was my mother’s sister. Stars studded my vision, draping her front door in a snowy haze.

“Shar,” Rick shook my shoulders. “C’mon, not now. I need you!” he paused. His voice sounded like it was far away. “That abandoned church!” he cried suddenly. “Remember the one you told me about, the one you and your sisters used to play Anne of Green Gables in?”

Yes, yes. The old church. It would provide shelter. He shook me again and grabbed our last water bottle. He poured a few drops into my mouth. Yes, yes, there was that stream by it.

“I’ll take us there,” I rasped. A low growl pressed through Aunt Jess’s door. The window flew open again.

“Get off my property!”

~FIN

Yester Year: The Eternal Summer

Yester YearThe Eternal SummerA ficlet by mlc
I drew a deep breath, my steps haggard and limp, as I walked through the jagged ruins of Yester Year. Sweat dripped down my back, making my shirt feel like a second layer of skin. I sat down on one of the charred blocks and looked at the parcel in my trembling hands.

The sun was starting to dip into the West, a sure fire sign that I needed to hurry up. Wheezing, I leaned over and closed my eyes. Just a quick break, I told myself. Then it was another sprint, but I’d be home, and Nana would get her medication.

My eyes fluttered open when a sudden gust of wind brushed my back. It chilled the sweat for a brief moment, and I watched it rip a dead plant from its roost. The light brown thing tumbled around the ruins without a care in the world.

My eyes followed it until it hit the side of a block twice the size as the one I was sitting on. That one had imprints on it. That one was proof that Nana’s crazy stories had actually happened. I didn’t like going near it.

Yester Year. I clutched my side when it started to cramp. The wind tore something white from the old foundation, hurling it my way. I reached my foot out and stepped on it.

“One more minute,” I whispered as I stretched my arm out to grab it. Sometimes you found some good shit from Yester Year, but most of the time it was garbage. I lifted my sandal, and sure enough, it was a tattered cup.

“How did you manage to survive out here all these years?” I plucked it from the ground and inspected the faded wording on it. Nana might like it, I decided, so I stuffed it into my satchel.

I frowned when I looked at her parcel. I don’t know how we’re going to get the next batch. Getting this one was hard enough as it was. We were running out of scrap medal. Minute up. I clutched the precious bundle against my chest and broke into a sprint.

I needed to get the hell home before curfew.

The ground was already rumbling with their monolithic monsters—I could feel it in my feet. It was time to pump my legs as hard as I could. Pain throbbed everywhere my body could feel it. No pain, no gain. 

My neighborhood appeared in the horizon a few moments later. Its shabby roofs quelled the rising fear brewing within. The old trees, vacant husks that clawed up at the brown sky like silent horrors, mocked my half crazed sprint. This stupid drought, I thought. It’s making them lash out. 

On the flip side, they had to give us more rations whenever things got bad. Where and how they got those rice cakes jammed packed with calories, I would never know or understand. Nothing grew in these parts. Nothing.

***
“Please stop wasting your resources on me,” Nana rasped, her voice wavering with each word. She stared at her lap as my dad dropped two pills into her palm.

Closing my eyes, I started counting. Thirst was beginning to scrape its way through my veins to the point of no return. My throat felt parched and scratchy, like a wool blanket.

“You are almost out of copper, Ryan,” she said. “This is the last trade on my behalf. I’m eighty years old. You and Karla have many years left in you.”

“You’re my mother!” Dad placed a hand on my shoulder, jarring me from my trance. I moved out of the way to watch him kneel before her. He took her hand and kissed it.

“You protected us,” he murmured. “I was ten, but I remember. I remember how you sheltered me and Mike, how you hid us when the Black Shirts kept bombing us.”

I walked away. I hated it when they got like this. Those two never learned to just shut the hell up about the past. No one thought about the second civil war anymore. No one cared. As long as the Feds kept bringing us those sweet rice cakes and water, it didn’t matter.

No one cared about some orange weirdo dictator from fifty years ago. Not a damn person. Dad was just a baby back then! I stopped at my room and rubbed my temples. It was the thirst. Oh please let us get an extra bottle of water tonight. Please. 

I walked into my room and picked up my tablet, well it used to be Nana’s, but I liked to pretend I was the fucking shit with it sometimes. I walked over to her old desk and sat down.

“Oh yes, Ma’am. Numbers are in your favor. Your scrap yard has tripled.” The words sounded stale and echoed off the walls. With a sigh, I set the relic down and turned on the old radio we had salvaged five years ago.

Trumpets and drums thundered a strong, masculine tune. I closed my eyes. For what it was worth, the Feds were good story tellers when they weren’t busy kicking down doors.

“Good evening citizens, your regularly scheduled program will air momentarily. We have some breaking news.” I sat up straight. They never interrupted Curfew Nights. Never.

“It is with great pleasure to let you hear it from the Marshal himself!” The Marshal’s military jingle rang throughout the room. I held my breath. The Marshal!? He was going to speak!? My heart raced. We had an old picture of him stashed away in Dad’s closet. Nana refused to go near it or eat in its vicinity. We only pulled it out when the Feds delivered our rations.

“My fellow Citizens of the Federated States,” his voice boomed. It was loud, strong, and manly. I felt my cheeks flush. No one knew how old he was or where he came from. He was just there. There to save us all.

“We’ve done it. We’ve found a way to reverse eternal summer, but it requires teamwork like we haven’t seen since the days of old, and by old, I mean before the selfish gene took our ancestors of Yester Year prisoner,” he paused. I leaned closer to the radio, my ears craving every last bit of him.

“Citizens between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five are officially a part of The Marshal’s taskforce and will be conscripted into service immediately. Your families will receive extra rations and water tonight as a salute to service. Only together, can we end this perpetual nightmare that has burned our world.”

What? Conscripted? I bit my lower lip. No. there was no way I wanted to be a Fed. Never.

“My young friends will be taken to my solar facilities to begin manufacturing equipment needed to end this hell.”

Wait.

Work. Manufacturing and building shit. That didn’t sound like driving tanks and kicking doors down to me.

I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled.

“Your families will continue receiving extra rations, water, and medical care until the deed is done, and when it is done, there will be no need to scrimp and scrounge just to make ends meet. Your children and grandchildren will have Falls, Winters, and Springs! Together, the Federated States will prevail!”

Trumpets blared as a canned applause poured through the little radio. I looked at my watch. What perfect bloody timing.

7:59.

I grabbed my diary and one of Nana’s dolls from Yester Year.

8:00.

Bang, bang, bang! 

“IT'S THE FEDS, OPEN UP! RATIONS, WATER, AND WE'RE HERE FOR KARLA WALTERS. OPEN UP.”

It was time to go.

Hashtag Update

I am happy to say that I’ve completed Sisters! *Sheds a tear* This story has been near and dear to my heart ever since I started writing it. And now comes the hard part…

Revision.

Let’s just say that I have the attention span of a gnat when it comes to editing pages and pages of writing.  I’m pacing myself and doing it in increments, but the draw back to doing it in increments is time. If I let more than a week go by without cracking it open for an edit, I forget what’s going on (life has a funny way of shoving itself past your hobbies).

Here’s to chugging through the first round of revisions! And because I can’t do a blog post without mentioning the Man in the High Castle…clever transition of topic because yeah!

I’ve migrated everything downstairs to my Project Grasshopper shelf. ♥ I’ve hung the alternate reality NYC painting I did (finally!) above it and started a sister painting for the Pacific States!
There are a few things I want to tweak and add to the shelf (especially for the Pacific States. Their poor section is completely bare even though they have a million dolls ♥ ). The Reich section is the exact opposite; they have the Smiths and Joe dolls, but they’ve got a lot of stuff.

I plan to paint a few more Reich dolls and get/make some Pacific-Japanese themed items in the near future.

As always follow me on Twitter and Instagram for my latest Sisters and High Castle stuff!

Grasshoppers and Dice

Travel season at work is officially over for the year! I like traveling and seeing new things, mind you, but it’s nice to be back on my normal schedule.

The ultimate ode to retro futurism
For those of you who follow me on Twitter and Instagram, you can see that I’ve already picked my devotion to Amazon’s the Man in the High Castle right back up! I can’t help it. The show is damn good. It is unique in every way, and I hope they continue writing excellent characters in Season 3!

Progress on Project Grasshopper: my fan project.
I cannot wait until it’s time to migrate everything to the actual shelf! This will be an on-going project, one of those things that will never end.

It’s also time to jump into Sisters again. Because the project requires so much research, I had to put it down for a lot of our travel season. ...Then there's the fact that I sort of wrote my characters into a bind! I will figure out how to get Ann, Werner, and Kathy out of the trouble I got them into, so help me gods!

Imagine a level 1 teenager (Kathy), a level 4 rogue (Ann), and a level 7 warrior (Werner) up against a Demogorgon—up against three different Demogorgons in three different places.

They keep rolling ones.

I need to get them rolling tens at the very least, for in storytelling, you can’t have everyone rolling twenties all the time. ;)

Project Grasshopper

I’ve been tweeting about it and posting photos, but since you can only convey so much through 140 characters, here’s a look at my The Man in the High Castle fan project!


I got the idea from the awesome resistance radio packages the official marketing team (I’m guessing it was that department) sent out to people on Twitter (oh, and trust me, you would all know if I got one. The world would not be able to contain my screeches of delight!). I figured that the odds are stacked against one tiny person, so I decided to create my own little High Castle haven.

Project Grasshopper!
I ordered (and assembled) a retro shelf and am going to decorate it with themes from the show. This is going to be one of those on-going, I-will-add-to-it-piece-by-piece (aka, when my paychecks allow and as I find the perfect relics) projects.

The first pieces I ordered:


The beautiful shelf I ordered just for this project:


This is where I initially planned to put it, but I’m not so sure now because the lighting in that area isn't the best for photographs:


If anyone has any tips for lighting up an area like this and making it look natural, I am all ears!

Sisters Progress Update

I finished writing the first half of Sisters! Parts Zero (Innocence) and One (Survival) are done. Now comes the most difficult part of their lives yet.


Part Two's theme is destiny. Allegiances are made and loyalties are tested. I am looking forward to powering through this section. If Innocence and Survival gave me FEELS, I can only imagine how Destiny is going to be! 
A window into their worldThis is what their nightstands would look like in real life (click to view full size)

Here is a closer look at my Kathy and Ann peg dolls

The Man in the High Castle Season 2 is a Masterpiece

Let me tell you how amazing Season 2 of The Man in the High Castle was.


I originally wanted to write an in-depth review that covered every single aspect of the new season right after I saw it, but I know it would take ages and be twice as long! I knew I’d enjoy it, but what I didn’t anticipate was how much I would love it and how emotional I’d get as I followed the characters along in their different journeys.

I just want to say that I feel like THIS is the show I’ve been waiting for my entire life! I know that sounds a bit overboard, but I’m being honest. It truly is a masterpiece.

I’ll just breach the surface on a few things and drop a huge spoiler alert. If you haven’t seen it yet and want to avoid spoilers, don’t read any further.


The writers nailed everything that makes an excellent story, three dimensional characters and what I call ‘beautiful tragedies’ (just to name a few things they got right). You find yourself rooting for characters you’d never appreciate otherwise.

Here are a few highlights worth mentioning:

Juliana Crain: I know a lot of people didn’t like her in Season 1, but the beauty of it was that I thought she was perfect. You have this ordinary young woman in this alternate world who is suddenly forced to question her existence—everything. Her actions and reactions are imperfect, and, above all, human. Any one of us could be in her shoes and behave exactly the same way.

To put it best, “Imperfection can be beautiful.” ~ Juliana Crain

In season 2, there were times I rooted for her, times I cursed her, and times I wondered who she was. In the end, she chose kindness, redeeming herself for getting that news reporter killed (oh, how I loathed her that episode!).

Obergruppenführer John Smith: This is someone who appears to be the typical ruthless, Nazi villain at first glance. But beneath his black uniform is a caring husband and father who will protect his family no matter the cost.

One of the beautiful tragedies I mentioned is the relationship between Smith and his son, Thomas. Season 1 throws the powerful, confident Smith a wrench in the mix when Thomas is diagnosed with an incurable disease. In the Reich, this means death.

Throughout Season 2, you see him doing everything he can to hide his son’s illness and to protect him. But in the end, Thomas decides to turn himself in to be euthanized. Thomas’s final scene brought tears to my eyes.

The writers could have gone the cheap route and had the son killed by an accident or by an angry resistance fighter, but no. They had Thomas CHOOSE for himself—after everything his father went through to keep him safe—and that is what makes The Man in the High Castle one of the best written television shows of all time.

The Grasshopper Lies Heavy

Anyone who knows me and/or follows me on Twitter and Instagram knows what a huge fan of Amazon’s the Man in the High Castle I am.


Season Two will be here December 16th, and I am hyped! I haven’t been this excited for the sequel of something since…well, since I can remember! All of the clips and sneak peaks they’ve released give me high hopes that Season Two will be just as awesome as Season One.

Come December 16th, I’ll be tip toeing around the Internet and avoiding spoilers like the plague. Oh, I’ll be watching the first episode that night for sure! I’m not one to binge watch something in one sitting. I just need ten spoiler-free days, and that’s it!

I’ll spare you the info dump on my avoid TMITHC spoilers plan and drop some doodles and things I’ve done since Season One!

Who else is excited for season two?