Everything Changed

Four weeks ago, I was on my way to work, you know, typical Monday stuff, and everything changed in a wicked instant. Everything. My life was totally upended in a fraction of a second amid the squeal of burning rubber and the thunderous bellow of impact. Now, this is no tragedy, good people, far from it, in fact. Did I catch a bad break? I guess so. I could have died. Heck, I probably should have died, and my future is suddenly wildly uncertain. And yes, I'm a hard-working father of five who basically lives paycheck to paycheck. This is America in 2019, after all, and where finances are concerned, I'm poor from poor. Go ahead and put those tissues away, though, because I swear to you that this is a happy story. You see, finances are insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and dollars and cents aside, I'm stinking rich. I may well be poor from poor, but I'm also loved from loved, and despite that which could have or should have happened, I'm still here. After spending right at a month in the hospital, I'm at home with my wonderful wife and my precious children. Okay, my recovery is far from over, the pain is intense, and no one really knows just what I'll be capable of when this journey is complete, but life is good. Like I said, everything changed a month ago, but I'm alive, and my family, my friends, and my community are rallying behind me. People I don't even know are rallying behind me.

That Monday morning that now somehow feels like it was both eons ago and yet mere moments ago at the same time didn't seem like anything special. I got up at 5:00 a.m., like always (read: WAY TOO EARLY), and I had just about completed my thirty-minute trek to work when an oncoming vehicle swerved into my lane. Why? Good question. There really isn't a good answer to that question, not on that road, but from where I sit, it really doesn't matter. It happened. I was doing about 55 in my trusty 2005 Suzuki Reno (best $1200 I ever spent), and I'm guessing the other guy was doing about the same. He wasn't driving a Reno, though. He sat behind the wheel of a Tahoe, and for those of you keeping score, the final from that little showdown reads like this: Tahoe 1, Reno 0. 

I can remember the impact, which was kinda like taking a stiff jab from King Kong, and then there's a little gap. After that black hole in my recollection, I came to and felt nothing but gratitude. I was alive! This seemed like a miracle to me, because while I couldn't recall anything but the very onset of the crash, I knew that I had survived a head-on collision with a much larger vehicle. The notion that my wife and kids might have awoken to a knock at the door and some horrendous news loomed large in my mind, and I was so thankful that I hadn't perished on impact. That's the first thing that I recall, an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

The second thing to ping on my radar was pain, and good and plenty of it. I'm talking pain on a scale that I couldn't have imagined prior to the accident. This monumental suffering prompted a gruesome survey. I glanced about the vehicle first, actually thinking that it would be prudent to locate my phone and call my wife to tell her that my day had taken a bit of a swerve. The phone was nowhere to be found, and I remember thinking that the interior of the car looked like a Dali painting. Broken glass was everywhere. The Reno appeared to have taken a direct hit from a bazooka. My cd player was sideways. And there was blood all over the place. Blood was dripping from my face, And as I continued to process my surroundings, I looked over at my left arm. It appeared to be broken into three or four pieces, and it was bleeding freely. Okay, let's be clear, it was a gusher. 

Time for some truth, good people. When I saw my arm, two things happened. First, the mystery of the colossal pain was solved. Just looking at my arm crystallized everything--that destroyed limb was the beacon broadcasting all that agony at full volume. Secondly, a dreadful certainty sank in. I figured I was a goner, my friends. I was surely going to bleed out. I wasn't going to see my lovely wife or my amazing children again. This realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I don't recall any sort of fear where my life was concerned, no despair or remorse festered on a personal level-- at that moment, my own hopes and dreams didn't hold any value. All I could think about was my family. This would crush them. We are a family of seven, and we are a tight-knit bunch. Things were going to be so hard for my wife. My children were going to have to grapple with a glaring absence, and I could hardly bear to think about just how much this would devastate them. 

But I wasn't dead yet, and I figured God had already dealt me one miracle, so I quickly concluded that there could be no harm in hoping (and working) for another. The pain was severe enough that I could have lost myself in hysterics, and it may have been significant enough that I could have just closed my eyes and passed out. I had an idea that it would have been that simple. But I was thinking of my family, and yes, I was praying and thinking about miracles too. I decided to focus on my breathing. This is something my sensei (I have enjoyed the privilege of learning Tae Kwon Do from the incomparable Randy Misketch and his spectacular family for five years now) has promoted at length, and while a few of my peers have occasionally snickered at these exercises, I've always been a believer. So I inhaled strength and courage, and I exhaled fear and doubt. And I found my center, and I took control of the situation. 

An EMT with a radio in hand showed up at what remained of my door. This seemed odd, because I didn't feel like a lot of time had elapsed, and I hadn't heard any sirens wailing or caught sight of any flashing lights. I calmly directed him to some work clothes in the back of my misshapen Reno and used them to create a makeshift compress, which I pressed against my arm in a desperate bid to slow the bleeding. Maybe I had some success on this front; I don't know, it felt like a losing battle, particularly where my bicep was concerned. I still had the impression that I had broken my arm badly in a few places, and I figured I had also severed an artery. As it turns out, I was right about the artery. While I waged this battle, the EMT used his radio to make it clear that we were dealing with heavy bleeding and the need for a tourniquet and additional treatment was dire. I tried to get out of the car and found that my legs and my right arm seemed to be functional even though the Suzuki was basically wrapped around me. The door hadn't fared as well, though, and neither my mangled arm or the twisted vehicle would allow me to find another exit. I was trapped.

Then there were sirens, and I heard an angry old woman shouting about reckless driving. She sounded like she was ready to fight, and I was glad that she was on my side and not vice-versa. A tourniquet was applied to my arm while I was still trapped in what remained of my Reno, which was further dismantled in short order as emergency personnel hustled to remove the door and then the roof. This happened very quickly, and my view was limited; I had been covered with a sheet to shield me from all the broken glass. In spite of this, I would pick little specks out of my hair for weeks. Before I knew it, I was being loaded on a stretcher by several strong hands. 

Another tourniquet was quickly applied in the ambulance as we raced down the highway. No one told me to stay awake like they do in the movies, but it seemed like the right thing to do. So, I kept on inhaling strength and courage and exhaling fear and doubt when I wasn't too busy praying. The pain had grown stronger, but my resolve seemed to be increasing as well. I remained calm, I stayed alert, and I obeyed every command promptly and answered every question posed with great clarity--and maybe a bit more detail than was necessary. I talked to avoid thinking about the pain or wondering how badly my favorite left arm had been damaged. My EMTs were skilled and dedicated, and this gave me hope, but the pain continued to roar as I continued to bleed--and the ride to the hospital seemed to take forever.

Finally, we hit the ground running (or, in my case, being wheeled into the hospital on a stretcher by people who were running) at New Hanover Regional Medical Center. I got passed around a bit, still lucid, praying, breathing in strength and courage and exhaling fear and doubt, answering questions as needed and chatting amicably (I can't remember any of them, but I did try a few jokes) when there were no questions, though such shortages proved rare. Then I found myself being prepared for surgery. No one had been able to get through to my wife, so I was alone, but I felt optimistic--I had done all I could do, and I had made it this far. Then I overheard one of my surgeons addressing an aide with a desperate plea: "Is there anyone we can reach? It's critical that his loved ones get a chance to see him before surgery." That didn't sound so good. Another prayer went up. Another gulp of strength and courage got sucked in. Honestly, I still felt optimistic, and I was still hurting something fierce. I figured we might as well roll the dice and see if this second miracle would take. I hoped to wake up with two arms and my wife at my side, and I couldn't stand much more pain. I went under the knife with gratitude. There's that word again. For a guy whose life was in doubt, I was finding gratitude at every turn. I think it was my faith, and maybe the fact that I grew up on a dirt road.

Some say the struggle is real. I say that it runs through my veins. I went under.

The second miracle landed. Surgeons saved my arm and my life. I came through feeling blessed, so very blessed. They gave me a breakdown of the damage, and I didn't even care, my spirits continued to soar. The tally included one ravaged left arm, a badly broken nose, a fractured orbital bone, and a broken kneecap--and an awful lot of lacerations and scrapes, most of which were relatively minor. Straight up, I felt like celebrating. Yes, the road to recovery would be long and difficult. Yes, the pain was ferocious. Yes, there was still so damn much to fret over, to include the dangers of infection and the possibility that my arm might still be lost, and the knowledge that I may not be able to use it even if I kept it throughout all that lay ahead. But I was alive. My wife and kids didn't have to endure that knock at the door and all that came with it. I felt so incredibly thankful. 

Speaking of my wife, who works nights and has her phone set to avoid alerts until 8 a.m., she finally got that phone call while I was undergoing my first surgery. I would undergo five more surgeries during my three weeks at NHRMC. Since there was very little she could be told during that first call aside from the fact that I was in surgery, she drove to the hospital scared out of her mind. She has been by my side ever since, and in the last week, her duties have increased dramatically due to my being discharged from the hospital. In addition to managing my meds and working diligently to keep me as clean and as comfortable as possible, she mans my IV. She does pin care for me twice a day (I left the hospital with a stabilizing rod in my arm), and that is no easy feat. Thankfully for me, she is a strong and amazing woman, and she feels like God has used this experience to call upon her. She is beginning the journey toward being a nurse. So I'm in good hands, good people. My wife is a treasure, and I could never deserve her, but that's old news. I can't imagine trying to weather this storm without her.

The early stages were really hairy. Every trip to the bathroom felt like a round with Drago. Sleep lurked safely beyond my grasp, and a guy who lives paycheck to paycheck with a family of seven to fend for found himself on the shelf, wondering if he would be able to resume his job whenever this unexpected journey comes to an end. The prognosis was grim. The damage my left arm had been subjected to and the required treatment were both more in line with what physicians would see and recommend for a victim of a shark attack. No, my bones had not been broken or dislocated, but I had lost all that skin and tissue, to include all of my ligaments in my elbow, and the joint itself was completely exposed, drastically increasing my risk of infection. Still, I couldn't help but recall that hellacious impact, and the devastation it had wrought upon my beloved little Reno. I felt lucky. I could look at my wife and children and think about that knock at the door we avoided, and my heart would swell with gratitude. I did my best to share my appreciation with all the terrific doctors, nurses, and aides who tended to me in my time of need, offering them all the praise and thanks I could give voice to. It really seemed to touch many of them, and I was proud to do my best to lift up these hard-working people who have devoted themselves to helping others. And I kept at it with the jokes. A few of them hit the mark.

During my stay in the hospital, I would learn that I had been far luckier than I realized. While my ability* to emerge mostly intact from a vehicle that looked like it had been stepped on by Godzilla remained largely unexplained, there was a reason help had arrived at the scene with such haste. It would also explain why I saw an EMT before I heard any sirens or beheld any flashing lights. My accident had happened within a hundred yards or of the rescue squad and fire department in Riegelwood. They actually heard the wreck, and they came running. Without that particular break (and that is a monumental break, wouldn't you agree?), there is little doubt that I wouldn't have made it out of the car. I got another good break in that our hometown hospital is nothing short of phenomenal, with ortho ranking among their specialties. The surgeon who performed my pivotal first operation did a superb job, getting me off to a great start. 

So now, this fortunate and grateful dude is back home. My arm has that pesky stabilizing rod in it, and I'm wearing a giant immobilizing brace on my knee. I'm still on an IV as we work to avoid infection, and my wife does pin care on the stabilizing rod twice a day. I have one wound vac** change per week at home with a nurse's assistance, and I do the same thing once per week at the doctor's office. I am working toward a skin graft, but at present, I don't have enough skin at the wound site (my elbow) to support a graft. How long until we get there? Like many things, that is still up in the air. Could be four weeks, could be four months. Could be longer. Once we do the graft, provided the graft takes, we'll allow that time enough to heal, and then we'll do another surgery, and the doctors will repair my elbow. Yes, the joint is intact, but it won't function minus all those ligaments that I lost. Infection is still my biggest threat, and while we've come so far, a single bad break could send us back to square one. 

Once that repair takes place, I can throw myself into physical therapy, which will surely represent a battle, though I assure you all that I'm up to the challenge. Provided there are no setbacks along the way, what should I expect from my arm? Again, my future is uncertain. One thing is clear: a full recovery is not in the cards. Beyond that, some physicians have stated that I'll get pretty damn close to a full recovery while others have cautioned that I might not be able to do much at all with my arm. My job as an NDT technician requires me to perform vigorous inspections on welds in hard to reach places. It's a dangerous gig, with much of the work taking place at considerable heights. We do a lot of work in confined spaces. There's a lot of climbing involved, and there's a lot of crawling. There are volatile chemicals, radiation, and a host of other risk factors to contend with, great and small. It's physically demanding. It requires brains. It requires caution, diligence, and the ability to conquer your fears, as well as the ability to interpret and organize data, to engineer solutions and record our findings. It's quirky, truth be told, and for some reason, I dig it. And I won't be able to do it unless my left arm is at 75% or better in terms of function. My kids love softball and baseball, and I cherish pitching and catching with them. We enjoy those excellent Se Jong Tae Kwon Do classes together as a family. My life as I know it is hanging in the balance, good people.

But that's okay. I'm lucky to be here, and I'm optimistic. I think I'm going to get 75% or more out of this arm--and if I don't, I'll be okay. I still have so many reasons for gratitude that it would be pointless to try and list them all. However, some praise is most assuredly warranted here. I would start with my God, who has surrounded me with love and support. I would then point to the family I treasure and the friends who have my back like a jacket. Our church family at Pine Valley Baptist Church truly rocks, and the same could be said for both our martial arts family and our softball family. I need to dish out some props to my company and all of my exceptional co-workers. And I would not proceed here without alluding to my community at large and even all of those strangers who have thrown their weight behind me. We have a fundraiser that is going strong, we've been showered with donations, meals, and gifts. People have watched our children and helped us transport them to practice or church. Friends have moved furniture for us and tended to our lawn. We have been awed and humbled by the assistance we have received. Last but surely not least, I would single out my wife. She's my best friend, and she's the best person I have ever known.

Kristen has helped me every step of the way, and we're taking things one day at a time, rising to every challenge, embracing every success, and accepting any setbacks with grace. God is with us, and so are you, and we're going to win this one. 

You can support our fundraiser on Facebook here. Every donation helps, and even a simple share is greatly appreciated. Your prayers and thoughts are welcome; I am a man of faith, and even if I wasn't, it would be hard to discredit the power of prayer in light of my experience. My journey is far from over. My future remains uncertain, but I am blessed, and I continue to find gratitude at every turn. Honestly, I'm compelled to do another round of thank yous. I thank God again for allowing me to make it this far, and I thank him for giving me hope that the recovery I'm working toward will be our next miracle. I want to thank my wife for being nothing short of amazing. I could spend all day thanking her for being my wife, and it would not be enough. I want to thank my children for being the wind beneath my wings and the joy that dances within my merry soul. I want to thank my family and friends for supporting us and lifting us up in amazing ways. I want to thank our church family once more for being there whenever and wherever we need them, and showering us with love. I want to thank our Tae Kwon Do family and our softball family for helping us as much as they possibly can, and going above and beyond any and all reasonable expectations in their support. I would also thank the community at large once more, to include all those lovely folks I don't personally know from near and far who have joined themselves to our cause--these giving souls should be noted again for the aid and encouragement they have directed our way. I thank the skilled people at New Hanover for getting me this fair, and I stand ready for whatever tomorrow may bring with the knowledge that I am blessed and loved far more than I could have imagined before Monday, July 15.

That's when I nearly died, but more importantly, that's when everything changed for me, because that's when I learned the true meaning of gratitude. Thank you all so very much, and God bless.

*Those who know me well understand that I take my fitness seriously. I lead an active life, and my job is strenuous. Being in shape is very important to me. Several physicians have advised me that my conditioning likely played a key role in my initial survival. Leading up to the crash, I was a bit fanatical about ramping up my workouts, often to my wonderful wife's chagrin. A few people had taken note of this, and I had responded that I didn't know what fight I was training for, but I fully intended to be ready. Well, I guess that's just another good break, as it turns out, and there's no longer any mystery about my opponent.

**A wound vac is a machine that pumps fluid out of an open wound. With my elbow, it was useful in the early stages as a means to avoid infection. At present, it is more beneficial because it stimulates skin growth, so it's helping me as I work toward that skin graft.

Short Fiction - Mine

Mine

by James Wayland

“What?  You’re not scared, are you?’

“No.”  This was a question that no twelve-year old could answer honestly.

“Then come on, it’ll be fun.  We might even get some shit.”

Tyree chewed his lip, struggling with a difficult decision.  For a few years now he had yearned for a chance to hang out with his idols, Wayne and Timmy, the neighborhood hooligans, but he didn’t find breaking and entering exciting.  He was scared shitless.  If his dad knew where he was and what he was considering, he wouldn’t be able to sit without discomfort for a couple of days just for mulling it over.

Wayne had let Timmy do the talking up to this point, but now he took over.  “I don’t think he’s got it in him.” 

“No,” Tyree said at last, unwilling to back down.  “I’m cool.  Let’s do it.”

            They were farther out Blackberry Lane than the newcomer to the trio had ever ventured on his own.  The shrubbery and the moss-draped trees that curled overhead overwhelmed the old dirt road, casting twisted shadows on the three restless kids.  The boys were definitely out in the sticks--all of their phones and gadgets had stopped receiving a worthwhile signal some time ago.  They had passed two abandoned homes in various states of decay already, but the older boys had already “picked those ninnies clean,” as Wayne put it.

            He went on to brag about the ten bucks he had gotten for an old television at a pawn shop and an ancient stack of porno mags he had found in a closet on one of these outings.  Timmy had settled for an album collection he found in the attic, a heaping stack of records with offerings from Black Sabbath and The Doors.

            “Who knows what we’ll find this time?”  Timmy was anxious to get inside the old place and start scavenging. 

            “Calm down,” Wayne said coolly, a confident smirk shaping his ruby red lips.  “We’re getting there.  This is the kid’s first time on the job and we’ve still got a little walking to do before we get to our next score.  I say we light up and let go.”

            Timmy laughed and proffered a pack of Marlboros.  He had gotten a wino to buy them for him at the local Z-Mart. 

            Tyree’s heart began to beat faster.  He had never smoked a cigarette before.  This was so cool.  What if they found something really neat in there?  Maybe there would be some old comic books or baseball cards somewhere.  He suddenly found himself looking forward to this curious endeavor.

            Wayne lit his cigarette and Timmy did likewise, passing the pack and a black lighter to their new accomplice.  Tyree clumsily lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, immediately gagging and falling prey to a wicked coughing fit.  The other boys were laughing and he felt like his lungs were on fire. 

            “Easy now, little man,” Wayne chuckled.  “Just get a little at a time, all right?  Patience is a virtue.”

            “Yeah,” Timmy concurred.  “Try it again.”

            When he felt he was able, Tyree inhaled a small portion of the pungent smoke; tasting it on his tongue and feeling it grate his throat as he sucked it into his lungs.  It was awful, there was nothing good about it.  Somehow he struggled through the rest of the wretched smoke, smiling and pretending to enjoy it as his peers seemed genuinely impressed.  After what seemed like an eternity, Tyree dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and used his heel to grind it into the dirt.  That was the only part of smoking that he enjoyed.

            Shortly thereafter, they finally reached a place the boys hadn’t explored.   Tyree stopped, a sudden sense of unease gripping them.  This house looked like bad news.

“Come on,” Wayne said, nudging him ahead.

They slowly marched toward the decaying home that sagged before them, slumping beneath a loathsome burden of vine and mold.  There was a bad smell surrounding the place, a bitter aroma that was damp and earthy.

            Wayne took the lead, trying the door just to see if it was unlocked.  It wasn’t, but that wasn’t a problem.  He used his driver’s license to open it and the door swung open, the hinges creaking from lack of use.  The odor was worse inside and the interior was hot and humid.  All three were struck by how uncomfortable the old house was as soon as they were inside and the feeling grew tenfold when the door hissed shut behind them.

            “Man, this place is the pits,” Timmy muttered, wincing as he gazed around at the rampant rot and mildew that covered the walls and the uncertain flooring beneath them.

            “I don’t know about this,” Tyree said, carefully thinking things over.  This was stupid.  “Anything we find here is gonna be ruined.”

            “No,” Wayne corrected him.  “Anything we find here is gonna be really old and maybe really valuable.”

            “I don’t like this shithole one bit,” Timmy chimed in.  “I’d rather kiss a fat girl on the ass than start rummaging through this place.  Shit, we might get lice just from being close to this dump.”

            Wayne sighed.  “Quit stoking your puss and let’s see if there’s anything here or not, okay?  We’re already inside, and that’s the hard part.”

            “All right, but let’s do it quick.  It’s not like we’re gonna get anything good.”  Timmy conceded, but he did so with a smoldering glare.

            Now Wayne was more determined than ever to find something.  There had to be something.

            He set off, leading them through room after room, canvassing the first floor of the old house and finding nothing.  The other boys were right; anything that might have been of interest—like that old stereo in the den—was gone to shit.  The whole place stank and there was water dripping from the ceiling and pooling up in the floor in various places.  It was like something out of a horror movie.

            “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything,” Tyree declared.  It was a sentiment he would have liked to express five minutes ago, but he was worried about looking scared in front of his new chums.

            “The kid’s right,” Timmy readily agreed.

            “We haven’t seen what’s upstairs yet,” Wayne countered.  “Anything up there would be in better shape.”

            “Something up there is leaking,” Tyree interjected.

            “No shit.  Aren’t you curious about that?”

            “I’m not curious about anything here.  This place stinks and there’s nothing worth taking, so we’re just spinning our wheels.”

            “I wanna know what’s upstairs, kiddo, and you’re coming with me.  You’re both coming with me.  Right, Timmy?”

            Timmy swallowed hard.  He didn’t like this place any more than their new running mate, but he didn’t have the nerve to stand up to his bullish friend.  “Yeah, but come on, let’s do it already.  I wanna get outta here too.”

            “Cool.”

            Wayne led them to the crooked staircase that disappeared into the darkness above.  The windows on either side of the landing looming before them were covered with something—newspaper perhaps, but it was impossible to tell.  It was too dark to make out anything.

            “No way,” Tyree said after a single glance upward. 

            “Don’t be such a geek,” Wayne said, trying to sound tough even though a little tremor had crept into his voice.  “We’re going upstairs and then we’re gonna get out of here.”

            Tyree shook his head.  “Nope.  There’s no we about it.  You guys have fun.  I’m out.” 

            “If you’re out of this one, you’ll never be in on another one,” Wayne threatened.

            “Well, it was real swell rolling with you fellas.”  Tyree started walking and never looked back.  Seconds later, the door slammed closed behind him.

            “Stupid little prick,” Wayne spat.  “What does he know?”

            Timmy didn’t say anything.

            “Let’s do it, then.  Let’s grab some shit and get out of here.”  Wayne dug a lighter out of his pocket and started up the stairs.

            Timmy reluctantly followed, unearthing a lighter of his own and putting it to use, feeling like a complete jackass the whole time.  They crept into the gloom, their lighters good for no more than a three-foot circle of flickering light.  There were only three rooms, one on either side of the rise and one centered at the rear. 

Wayne tried the door to the right and it swung open, revealing a putrid bathroom coated in mold and grime, host to a foul stench that was impossible to ignore.  There was an inch or so of water in the floor and a steady drip from beneath the sink.  Thick black slime was leaking from the base of the toilet, and large brown cockroaches were running all over the mildewed walls.

            “The hell with that,” Wayne hissed, slamming the door and marching across to the one on the opposite side of the rise.

            “This is stupid, man, there ain’t nothing here,” Timmy protested.  He was sick and tired of this shit, Tyree had been right to get the hell out of this rotten place.  Timmy wanted to be outside with him.

            “You never know until you try,” Wayne said as he thrust the door before him open.  His eyes immediately lit up.  “See what I mean.”

The room before them wasn’t nearly as dirty as the others, but it was a far cry from clean. The window was uncovered, so they didn’t need their lighters to see in the enclosure, but the glass had not been cleaned and the dust that had gathered on the panes dampened the light.  It was a child’s room, or at least it had been once.  There were tattered stuffed animals and ragged clothes all over the floor and a pile of something neither teen could discern lying on the bed.  The closet door was open, revealing a few weathered cardboard boxes filled with battered toys. 

            The pile on the bed moved.  “What the hell was that?”  Timmy wondered.  He sounded terrified.

“I don’t know,” Wayne said matter-of-factly.  “Maybe there are rats in that pile of shit.” 

“Gross.”

“Come on.”  Wayne led Timmy closer for a better look despite Timmy’s labored pleas that they leave.  There was something large shrouded in cloth on the bed, a misshapen sack or something, and before it was some kind of an antique doll that looked like a superhero.  The figure was the size of a Barbie Doll and its costume and cape were actually made of cloth.  It was in pretty good shape and it was obviously something collectible, so Wayne grabbed it.  The mysterious object shifted again and the two boys jumped back.

            “Shit,” Timmy whispered through clenched teeth, his sphincter tightening and his heart pounding like a jackhammer.  “What the hell is that?  The whole thing moved, man, the whole thing.  Rats my ass!”

            And it was still moving.

            “Let’s get out of here,” Wayne said, backpedaling with the doll in his grasp.

            Then the misshapen object turned into the light and they could see what it was, a horribly deformed figure, massive and monstrous, its skin a mottled shade of pink so alien that the thing appeared anything but human.  The cover slid free as the behemoth rose, its bulging eyes falling on the intruders who had violated its sanctuary. 

            “Holy Christ!”  Timmy turned and fled, running for the door with a wail.

            Wayne was so terrified that he couldn’t move.  Things like this weren’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.  This was all wrong.

            The monstrosity saw the toy in his hand and roared, spittle flying from its horrid maw, showing him its fleshy gums and the spindly green teeth that lined its crooked jaw.

            “Mine,” it bellowed, rushing toward Wayne and bringing him down with a single vicious swat.

            There was a moist crunch as Timmy rushed through the door and into the hallway beyond.  He was turning toward the stairs when the only door in the house that he and his friend had not invaded banged open directly behind him.  Something was coming his way, but here it was too dim to make anything out, so the horrified teen spun, thumbed his lighter and brought forth a flame.  Timmy’s efforts illuminated another monstrosity running straight at him, this one three times the size of the creature squatting over Wayne. 

The giant knocked Timmy to his stomach and his head rolled to the side.  He found himself staring at what remained of his best friend in the bedroom they had defiled.  The monster that sat atop Wayne in that wretched space gave Timmy a warm smile and began scooping dripping handfuls of Wayne’s brains out of his shattered cranium and cramming them into its twisted mouth.

“Mine,” the thing bellowed a second time, taking hold of the doll and running back to the bed where they had found it.  As the larger monstrosity went to work and Timmy’s suffering began, the other abomination curled into a ball and began singing to its favorite toy.

           

THE END

Meet Luke Wilson and Devil Wood (Baller excerpt #2)

The pitch is simple enough: Baller is an Agatha Christie mystery on acid, with a suspended NBA player and a porn star filling in for Hercule Poirot.  These unique pals are attending a private party at a posh resort in the mountains when a blizzard rolls in.  The lights go out, a murder is committed, and things quickly spiral out of hand.  None of the prestigious guests who have gathered at WinterCrest are safe.  A game with no rules is being played and deadly gifts have been scattered throughout this remote retreat.  Can our pair of unlikely heroes figure out who is responsible and save the day, or will they suffer a gruesome fate?

I provided an excerpt in my previous blog on Baller that details what happens when one of the deadly gifts mentioned in the pitch is opened by one of the guests at WinterCrest.  You can enjoy that excerpt here.  Today, I'm sharing another excerpt that provides an introduction to the main characters of Baller, Luke Wilson and Devil Wood.

An excerpt from Baller (Warning: Adult Content)

 

Jagged black spikes loomed on either side of the winding road, proud monuments of earth and stone thrusting up into a bleak winter sky that was all but obscured by the falling snow.  The road was narrow and curvy, a winding strip encompassed in metal guardrails that would give way upon impact, spilling into the rocky crevices that beckoned below.

Luke tightened his grip on the wheel; he still had complete faith in the Jeep and his ability to operate it in these conditions, but he had never seen a storm gain strength and tenacity with such speed.  He was reminded of a dog devouring food at a frantic pace, eating as though such an opportunity may never present itself again.  As they continued on, a white haze seemed to overtake them, the blinding mist swelling as the snowfall intensified.  The wind ripped through the night, driving the precipitation into swirling torrents that danced through the air. 

“Dude, can you even see to drive?”  His passenger wondered.

Luke smirked.  “It’s not so bad.”

“Shit.   It’s a good thing you’re the one behind the wheel.  It’s really coming down.  These roads will be covered in no time.”

“They salt these roads.”  Luke continued to crane forward, focusing on the narrow stretch of pavement that was quickly being blanketed. 

“Well, they don’t salt them enough.  I think we’re going to wind up spending the night at this bullshit affair.  If we even get there.” 

“We’ll get there.  We grew up in West Virginia, man.  Bluefield’s our hometown.  This ain’t nothing new for either of us.  As long as we don’t brake too hard or yank the steering wheel, we’ve got no worries.”

“We?  Ain’t no we, man.  It’s all you, I’m just watching.  And praying.”

“We’ve got no worries.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

“I always thought you were fearless.”

“Shit.  That was before I moved to California.”

“Well, this ain’t California,” Luke said, straining to see.  He let off the gas a little, squinting as he peered through the falling snow.  “We’ll be there in no time,” he said, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice that made it seem as though he was trying to convince himself as much as his passenger.

“If you say so.”

“You know you didn’t have to come.”

“Yeah right.  The invitation you received was issued for you and a guest.  If you show up by yourself, everyone there will think you’re an asshole who doesn’t have a girl or any real friends.  And anyways, it’s been far too long, man.  I want to hang out with you.”

“Yeah,” Luke agreed.  “It has been a long time.  A lot has changed.”  He was clad in a pair of jeans and a black sweater.  He hadn’t shaved his beard in almost a month now and it was becoming unruly, but it suited him.  His leather jacket was in the backseat and he was wearing his favorite boots.  No matter how many zeros they put on his checks, Luke would always be a country boy at heart.   The private party they were en route to was a first class affair, but this was as nice as he cared to dress on a trip to the mountains.

As he veered into a curve, Luke worked the wheel a little too hard and the tires lost their grip on the slippery pavement for an instant.  “Shit,” he muttered, gingerly tapping the brake pedal as he nudged the wheel.   

The tires regained their traction and they came through it without a hitch, but his friend was shaking his head. 

“Yeah,” he said with a grin.  “No worries.”

Luke shrugged.  “That was nothing.”

His passenger responded with a chuckle. 

“Look,” Luke said, eager to talk about something else, “I was thinking about something.  Do I really have to call you Devil?  I mean, is that what you’re going to call yourself tonight?”

 “Why not?  That’s what everyone calls me now.” 

“Well, I mean, why not just go by Ricky around me?”

“Ricky?  Who the fuck is Ricky?  It would be Rick by now anyway, wouldn’t it?  We’re not kids anymore, dude.  Nobody calls me Ricky.”

“What does your mother call you?”

“She stopped talking to me a few years back.  But in her letters, she refers to me as Richard.”

“Well, maybe I could call you Richard too.”

Devil shot him a dirty look.  “Get the fuck out of here.  Richard is my father.”

“What does your mother call him?”

“They haven’t said a word to each other in over three years, but that’s another story.  He calls me Dick, but only because he knows that I hate it.  You can imagine how thrilled he is with my new life, but it is what it is, bro.  Shit, it’s not like we were the happiest family on the block anyway.”

“There’s an understatement.”

“Like I said, it is what is.  I’m fine with it.  I’m Devil, man.  Fuck it.  You are what you do.  It ain’t a bad gig, I’m telling you.  Fuck man, we can’t all be ballers and shit.” 

Luke couldn’t suppress a chuckle of his own.  “What the fuck are you talking about, man?  We’re both ballers.”

Devil thought this over for a moment.  “Yeah, but you play ball in the big leagues and I ball chicks while the cameras roll.  Both are fantasies, but only one of them will make you rich.”

“You’re not doing so bad.”

“I’m doing okay.  What?  Am I supposed to think this will last forever?  Shit, man.  I’m on the road to nowhere and I’ve got my foot on the gas.  I mean, yeah, Randy Spears is still kicking, and hell, I used to jack off to shit with him in it.  Not because of him, you know, but I’m just saying.  He did this scene with Raylene in a bathtub that I used to blow up, man.  I totally wore out that spot on the tape.  Who knew you could bust a nut that big?  It was like he opened up a fire hose on that poor girl.”  Devil stopped talking long enough for a wistful longing to creep into his eyes.  “I loved that scene, man.  It was on a collection I had, one of those tapes with nothing but six hours of scenes.  Those were the best, man, just get rid of the lousy plots and enjoy the fucking.  Plus, they were funny because the scenes were taken from various movies so there would be little bits of dialogue that didn't make any sense taken out of context.  It just sounded like ridiculous dirty talk.  'Damn, baby, you're one hell of a good landlord.'  Shit like that.  Anyway, I think that one was called Hosed and it was probably the best collection I ever had.”

“You share too much.”

“Always have.  That probably says a lot about my career path.  Regardless, Randy Spears is an exception to the rule.  Most of us don’t make it nearly that long.  Guys, I mean.  A lot of us wind up impotent, broke, and strung out before we get to have a midlife crisis, and that’s no lie.”  This potential candidate for such a woeful fate was wearing pressed khakis and a delicate knit sweater with tan loafers.  His short blonde hair was carefully styled and he was clean-shaven.  He looked like someone who should have been featured prominently in the Ralph Lauren winter ad campaign.

Luke was forced to slow the mighty Jeep to a crawl as the road wound upward in a precarious series of wicked curves.  As he deftly worked the brakes and nursed the steering wheel, he found himself wondering why he had agreed to bring Devil along in the first place.  He had wanted to reunite with his boyhood pal, but his friend had changed a lot over the years.  This could turn out to be quite embarrassing if his old chum didn’t do a better job of censoring himself at the lodge.  His friend had obviously been in California for too long.

Devil was still prattling on, explaining some of the finer points of his lurid profession.  “It’s different for girls.  They last longer in the industry, and they’re the real stars anyway.  They make the real money and on most sets they call the shots.  If you’re doing a flick with a slit with clout and she ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy, man, you better believe that.”

“No shit?”  Luke wondered, immediately chastising himself for encouraging his friend.

“No shit.  Hell, some of the best directors are aging starlets who don’t want to lube up for a paycheck anymore.  They’re the real players in this industry.  Maybe one day I’ll get my chance to get cozy with one of them.  If you’re lucky enough to dazzle one of those dames and she starts using you steadily, that’s your ticket to the race right there.  That’s what I’m shooting for.  Who knows?  Maybe one day I’ll get there.”

Luke restrained himself from commenting, hoping the conversation would end there, but Devil continued, absorbed in his commentary.  “Like Nina Hartley, man.  Nina’s a golden oldie, she’s been doing this as long as I can remember.  I bet my dad used to jack off to her.”

Luke shook his head.  This was definitely going to be interesting.  Censorship didn’t appear to be a concern for Devil.  Luke was starting to think that the aloof country boy he had grown up with had been irreversibly altered by his vulgar profession.

“Forget it,” Devil continued, though Luke had lost track of whatever it was that he was supposed to be forgetting.  There wasn’t a point to this winding opus, there was a random series of points.  Undeterred, the porn star poet marched on, gesturing boldly as he spoke.  “It doesn’t really matter. Though Nina is definitely one of the hottest blondes of all time.  That ass?  Terrific.  A perfect ten.  Maybe the best ass of all time, and certainly the best ass I’ve ever seen.  You could decorate your house with pictures of that woman’s ass and no one would ever object.”

Luke arched his eyebrows.  “I know a few people who probably wouldn’t like it all that much.  Like my mom, for instance.”  

"Your mom might surprise you." 

. . . 

Baller excerpt (Warning: Adult Content)

Baller revolves around a suspended NBA player and an old friend of his who earns a living starring in pornographic videos.  These unique pals are attending a private party at a posh resort in the mountains when a blizzard rolls in.  The lights go out, a murder is committed, and things quickly spiral out of hand.  None of the prestigious guests who have gathered at WinterCrest are safe.  A game with no rules is being played and deadly gifts have been scattered throughout this remote retreat.  Can our pair of unlikely heroes figure out who is responsible and save the day, or will they suffer a gruesome fate?

Here's a neat little excerpt from Baller that details what happens when a party guest who is up to no good stumbles upon one of the deadly gifts mentioned above:

An excerpt from Baller (Warning: Adult Content)           

Tommy shrieked.  He didn’t know what he had expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t a nest crawling with massive hornets.  To make matters worse, by opening the box he had disturbed an amber vial that had been rigged to spray.  He had been doused with a colorless liquid with an obnoxious smell.  Though Tommy couldn’t have known this, the chemical was known as 1-Pentanol.  It was the primary ingredient in the liquid commonly known as “hornet alarm pheromone,” and it was driving the big insects crazy.  Like many of their social peers, hornets can attack with the strength of the entire nest, identifying their prey with the pheromone.  

This agitated bunch was composed of some extremely large hornets, some over two inches long with heads as big as one of the rotund man’s fingernails.  The fat hornets were burgundy in color and they had thick yellow bands on their swollen abdomens. 

He reached for the lid, but it was too late.  They were coming for him, quickly vacating the box and buzzing angrily as they swarmed toward the startled man.  He abandoned his perch on the bed and screamed.

The alcohol in his bloodstream had made him jumpy.  Without thinking, he raised his weapon and fired three quick shots at the hornets that had taken flight before he emptied the clip in the box. 

He may have killed a couple of them, but that was debatable.  One thing was certain, he had definitely agitated all of the survivors even further.  Tommy flung himself at the door, knocking it open and slamming it so hard that it didn’t latch and instead rebounded back toward him, the hornets gliding through the opening.

“Son of a bitch!”  He screeched.

He turned and jumped for the stairs, landing awkwardly and flailing for balance.  He lost that battle and went tumbling down the staircase with a series of muffled shouts.  In addition to accumulating an array of bruises on his torso, he sprained his left ankle, tweaked his left knee, and nearly dislocated his right shoulder in the process. 

As he tried to stand, collapsing to his knees with a moan, one of the hornets finally caught up to him, stinging him on his hand as he flailed at it.  Another hornet stung him on his forehead.  The pain was instant and Tommy squealed even as he clapped his hand down on the hornet, trapping it against his flesh.  The little fucker stung him again and even bit him as he started to squash it, the bulging abdomen crunching loudly as yellow fluid that looked like mucus oozed out. 

Tommy seethed as he ground the hornet into mush.  Another hornet stung him on the back and he flailed again, disrupting the angry horde.

“Motherfuckers,” he roared.  “You dirty little motherfuckers!”

He dove and rolled, scurrying toward the money stowed by the front door.  The hornets continued to bear down on him, attacking as one, a buzzing monstrosity that thrived on rage.  One of them stung him on his lower back and he screamed again.  The stings were agonizing, far more painful than any that he had ever suffered before. 

Tommy was clawing his way forward, screaming.  He grabbed the money and thrust his shoulder into the door, knocking it open as he lunged out into the cold.  He slammed the door, spittle flying from his lips, but two of the hornets were out there with him, zipping around his face as he ducked and fell, sinking into the snow. 

The hornets were obviously disoriented by the cold and the gusting wind, but they were still coming.

“Damn you!  Damn you to hell!”  Tommy was in great pain and he was losing it.

He ripped his jacket off and used it like a whip, downing both of the vicious insects with a single clumsy strike.  He beat the jacket against the snow and stomped the area in which the hornets had fallen, dancing on their corpses as he trampled them, burying the big bastards in the compacted snow.

“You don’t like that shit, do you?  No, you don’t like that at all.  Lousy motherfuckers!  What in the fuck is going on here?  Son of a bitch!” 

For a few minutes he could do nothing but pace, furious, his body running so hot as a result of his fury, the multiple stings, and the booze coursing through him that he didn’t notice the brutal wind or the frigid cold. 

He was lost in a flurry of emotion, his beautiful plan marred by a situation so absurd that he couldn’t believe he had fallen for it.  Worse yet, even though he had been effectively victimized by this ridiculous scheme, he had no idea as to the intention behind such a ludicrous ploy.  He still had the fucking money and no one was moving in to take it at this, his greatest moment of weakness. 

Was it mindless terror?  A sick joke with no greater meaning?  That wasn’t likely.  It seemed like too much of a coincidence on this particular night, the night he had made his play and took his rightful place in this world.

Tommy was pondering what to do next when Lamont Fields finally eased the big double-deuce into the driveway.  Tommy was so out of sorts that he hadn’t even heard that gigantic machine’s engine rumbling as it approached.

Fields stepped out to greet him, concerned by his grave appearance.  “Damn, man, you all right?”

“No,” Tommy fumed.  “I am not all right.  I am not all right at all.  I am very, very pissed off right now.  As a matter of fact, I am so pissed off that if I were you, and I liked having my teeth in my mouth, I would probably just shut up and get back in the fucking truck.  And I probably wouldn’t say another word tonight if I damn well didn’t have to.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, I-“

“I said shut the fuck up and get back in the fucking truck!  Mouth closed, asshole!  Do you understand?”

Lamont could only look perplexed.

“Answer me!  Do you understand?”

“But I-“

Tommy slapped him.  Hard.  Fields wasn’t a man accustomed to such treatment and the indignation in his eyes was hard to miss, but Tommy couldn’t have cared less.  “Nod your motherfucking head, asshole.”

Lamont glared at him, but Tommy knew his place in the grand scheme of things and he was unafraid.  “Do you understand?”

Fields took a step back and nodded his head.