Next Excerpt

Sam’s fingers brushed the pipes on the big engine in the tavern. It was empty this time of morning, most of the people still in their beds, nursing their hangovers from the night before. The janitor was behind the bar, cleaning up the tiles and emptying the trash bags to prepare for the next day of business. Sam bolted upright, adjusting his jacket casually as he looked around, making sure no one else was about to walk in on him fiddling with the object like a curious child. He felt himself become a bit more confident seeing that he had some sort of privacy and crouched back down. The numbers were mismatched from the last time he looked, now reading “8164.” He carefully snapped each number off and replaced them in the order he once saw them in. As he pressed in the 6, he could hear something tick inside. His head snapped up, looking at the bar, wondering if the janitor heard anything. He saw the top of his head as the janitor bobbed up and down, cleaning out a shelf by the sounds of the clang of empty glass bottles clanging in a bag.

He slowly poked the 6 again only to not get the same effect as before. He poked each of the other numbers, still not getting any reaction. Finally, he stood up, frustrated with himself that he had believed that old man from the night before in the first place. Sam kicked the engine, just below the digits. The sound of one of the metal clips on his boots against the brass engine rung through the tavern, causing the janitor to look up from his work.

“You okay, kid? That thing don’t work, it’s just art. Kickin’ it ain’t gonna do a damn thing,” he let go a throaty chuckle.

Sam blushed, quickly looking away from the man. “I’m fine,” he managed to get out.

“Watch your step on your way out,” the janitor returned to work. Sam looked over at him then to the floor at the exit, wondering what he meant. There was no liquid on the floor; there was no shine, no sign, no wet marks before the welcome mat. Sam let go a heavy breath and shoved his hands in his pockets, both disappointed and embarrassed for himself. He took a step to leave through the front door when his foot slipped on something unseen. Sam fell backward, crashing onto his back.

Before he could open his eyes, he could smell dirt. And manure. And something else, something that wasn’t quite familiar to him. He took his hands out of his pockets and went to feel the ground beneath him. Dirt. Dry dirt. He could feel the sun on his eyes, the warmth covering his body. He sniffed the air once more. It smelled burnt. Sam opened his right eye, just a small crack. The sun wasn’t high in the sky, but it wasn’t setting, either, which meant it was sometime in the morning still. Both eyes opened and he looked around, still frozen on the ground in the dry heat already forming on him.

To his right lie a pile of wood and he could hear heavy breathing from several mouths behind him. His eyes opened wide as he scrambled away from the noise and to his feet. To his surprise, there were not one, but three horses behind him. Each had old fashioned saddles on them, the leather very worn through use. He looked down, and saw that they were tied to a wooden post, just like how Sam remembered in old Western films. He poked the horse in front of him, yanking his hand back as quickly as possible. It was real. He placed a hand on the horse’s rear, it still didn’t move, but the tail twitched a bit. He tucked his elbows into his sides and began to tip-toe backwards, away from the creatures.

His back hit something, causing him to freeze, all the color having gone from his face. He slowly turned his head and looked behind him, out of the corner of his eye. Nothing. He lowered his hands and relaxed, and took a step forward, swiveling on his heel. In front of him, standing tall, is what looked to be a rugged soldier from the civil war era. He had on a blue uniform with brass buttons down the front and a white collar peeped out from underneath the tabs of the uniform on his neck. He had an unshaven chin, but the sideburns were grown out and long. A tuft of hair on his upper lip was scuffed up under his nose. This tall man was looking down at him, his hat still level atop his head. His scowering look made him look even more menacing to an already frightened Sam.

The man harrumphed, clearing his throat, causing Sam to jump a little. He was real, too. “H-Hello,” he choked. The other man looked at him, his gaze moving up and down Sam’s body, judging every little detail.

“You expect to go to war like this, boy?” The man’s gaze was locked on Sam’s cleanly shaven jaw.

“War?” Sam’s mind was rattled as he tried to remember details. Was he really in 1846 or did he wake up in the midst of a reenactment?  

A Letter Home

Sam fumbled his pockets for a pen, finally finding a scrap of paper to write on. His fingers found the familiar plastic in his pocket as his eyes darted around quickly and then to his hand. He took a deep breath, his mind racing about what he would write about. He looked up at the bright blue sky, a sky that was even bluer than the sky that he knew. There wasn't a cloud in sight. Sam's empty hand found the paper and the tin he would put it in once he finished writing. His legs curled beneath him and he pressed the crinkled thick paper on his leg to write. His hand shook as he struggled within himself to remain calm.

My name is Samuel Benson. I am writing this in the year 1846. I am not from this year.

His hand was shaking still, his mind suddenly drawing a blank. He couldn't think of what to write. He scribbled out the last sentence and took another long breath, putting his pen back to the paper.

I am not from this year. I was transported back in time. I am from the year 2012, which is where I got this pen that I'm writing with. 

Sam scratched out the last part again. The tip of his pen made circles above the paper as he adjusted and readjusted himself to write. 

I am in the beginning of what is to be known as the Mexican-American War. I know we will win Santa-Anna, because that's how it is supposed to play out in history. I hope to keep history the same. I write this letter to those who will read it later, just in case I mess everything up. This war is supposed to last a year and a half, in which America will gain Texas. I've met Ulysses S. Grant, a man who is a junior officer here, where he will become a Senior Officer in the United States Civil War, which is to come soon after this. Grant moves on to become President of the United States. If none of this has come true, then I am sorry. I promise to do my best to keep history the way it's supposed to be. I have a sister here, Natalie Benson. I'm still trying to find her, and I guess that's why I'm here.

Sam leaned backwards to stretch out his back and take a look around. He was seated in the back of one of the buildings, near the horses. There were various tears in his outfit, including a torn medal from his overcoat. Sam gently put down the paper on the ground and reached for his medal. The fabric was torn, revealing the cardboard card underneath. The metal medallion was tucked into his pocket, torn from the ribbons. He took off the medal and placed it next to the paper, putting the metal on top of it. He picked up the piece of paper and folded it up neatly, careful to press it into the metal tin. He then took the medal and the medallion and placed those on top of the paper. Sam closed the tin, running his thumb across the metal, feeling it for one last time. 

Sam looked down beside him, and then back up in front of him. A horse was reigned nearby and for a moment, his gaze was lost in the rippling muscle of the horse's body. Sam shook his head and began to dig into the dirt  to make a hole. He put the tin inside the hole, and proceeded to cover it back up. He kicked around excess dirt so that no one would be tempted to dig up what he had buried. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Sam slowly began to walk away, looking up at the blue sky, wondering if he would ever be home again.

The next chapter.

I apologize for not writing as much as I should have been. I have pages of handwritten notes, but I do not often get around to typing it up in a story-like format.

Sam approached the machine now that the crowd had dissipated. The blood was gone, as if it was never there in the first place. He put his finger to the pipe, the spot where he had touched before, and it was dry. Not even a glimpse of what it was before. Standing up, he turned and looked around the room. The old man that was once in the corner was gone. Will, however, was back at the bar, laughing with the barkeep. Sam shakes his head and walked over to him.

"Will, was there a guy in that corner?" Sam's fingers brushed his forehead.

Will turned and patted Sam on the shoulder. "Guy in the corner? What are you talking about? There hasn't been anyone over there," Will seemed slightly confused.

"I swear there was just this strange guy sitting there. You know, old, beardy, drunk guy?" Will shook his head. Sam's face fell into his hand. "There was someone there, I'm telling you."

"No, there wasn't. You sure you're okay? Did you see anything?" Will looked over at the barkeep who shook his head. "See? Even he agrees."

"Okay, then have you seen Nat?" Sam asked, looking anxious.

"I-uh-actually yes. Yes I did. She's uh-she's at the alley, last I heard. She was looking into some photographer's stuff and was asking about getting her picture taken. You know, girl stuff," Will told him, his eyes looking over Sam's right shoulder.

Sam took a deep breath and tried to relax. If Will was telling the truth, he'd see her later. That meant that he hallucinated that whole scene with the strange old guy, but he could handle that. He'd take a hallucination over losing his sister any day. "Come on, I'll buy you another drink," Will pulls him into the seat beside him. Will motions to the barkeep to make another glass like the one Will has. Sam watched dryly as the barkeep grabbed a small glass and dropped in two cubes of ice. The clink of the ice against the glass felt like it rung inside Sam's ears as he watched the man turn behind him and quickly look for a bottle from behind him. He picked up a glass bottle and unscrewed the cap, popping it open. The amber liquid moved slightly in the large container before it was poured slowly into the small glass. The barkeep poured just enough to cover the ice and slowly slid the glass over to Sam, careful not to spill a drop. Sam picked up the glass and brought it to his lips, tasting the amber liquid. His face scrunched and he shook his head. He placed the glass down carefully, feeling the warmth in his throat.

Will and the barkeep looked at Sam and back to each other and laughed. Will patted his friend on the back, encouraging him to take another sip. Sam looked at Will out of the corner of his eye and took the glass to his lips once more, this time taking a much larger taste. Sam coughed, the bitter warmth flooding his core. Will motioned to the barkeep to make more, insisting on shots. “Come on buddy, my treat,” he said. The barman whipped out two very small glasses and put them in front of the young men. He turned and grabbed another bottle this time, a dark bottle with greenish tint. He poured it for the boys and the coffee-looking liquid filled both glasses. Sam and Will looked at each other and then up at the barman, then back to each other, smiling. They each took their glasses and knocked them back, placing the shot glasses back on the bar.   

Finally Sam leans back, the familiar buzzing feeling just starting to form in his head. It was relaxing, soothing to him. For a moment, he felt as though he were elsewhere, not at a steampunk convention.  

Lately I've found myself wondering what I should be doing with myself. Like most other people, I wonder mostly about the future and how to get there. What should I be focusing on? What do I enjoy doing most?

Science, technology, engineering and math. STEM. These are things I am good at. I can perform these tasks well and have sparks of innovation. But that's just one half of me. One half of the brain. I am also well-endowed in the fields of literature, language, and the fine arts. That is the other half of me. So which do I choose to be my dominant field? That is the question that has yet to be answered. I can perform the STEM tasks daily, but it grows tiresome after so long. My body grows weak and cannot function as well as it could. But STEM provides the finances I need. The arts do not. The arts I can do on my own schedule and I can never be out of energy nor resources to continue to create. It is a passion. STEM takes away from this passion, as the energy that would be used to create is then used for it.

So yes, you can do both. But the one you choose will be your dominance. It will overwhelm your life and leave you with little left.

How I wish finances were a thing of fantasy and it needn't be worried about.

Sneak Peeks!

In order to work on plot, I've constructed an interview with my protagonist, Sam, about what is going on in the story. The interview takes place in the tavern where Sam discovers that his sister, Natalie, is missing.

The large man was seated at the corner table, all by his lonesome and carefully watching the scene. His eyes looked around, darting back and forth between Sam and Will in front of him. He took his glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips, the cold fluid feeling warm in his throat. As he set down the glass, he noticed Sam turn to him. Will was distracted by something across the floor and moved to investigate it, ignoring his friend.

Sam felt drawn to the stranger. As if something were calling to him. He approached the man, and sat down in front of him.

"Good evening," the throaty voice whispered to him. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation, my young friend."

"My sister's gone." Sam looked down at the table, fiddling with his gloved hands on the wood. The older man nodded and took another sip.

"When did you notice your sister disappeared?" He asked, leaning in.

"When I went to the bar here in the tavern and noticed that big thing sitting right over there. I thought to myself, "Wow, Nat would love this." Then I looked around, and noticed she wasn't here with me," Sam began picking at his thumbnail in anxiety.

"And when did the crowd show up?"

"I don't know. Shortly after I realized she disappeared, I went to the vendor area and searched for her. I must've been gone a few minutes, though, because when I came back, there they were."

"If she's only been gone a little while, why are you panicking? Enjoy the convention. Have a drink," the older gentleman said, taking a flask from his waistcoat and offering it to Sam.

"No, thanks," Sam waved his hand in front of his face. "I was only allowed to take her along with my father's permission. I had to promise I'd keep her safe and out of harm's way."

The older man put the flask down on the wooden table and looked him hard in the eye. "Now what could possibly harm her?"

"I don't know. Maybe some weird guy took her, that probably happens a lot." Sam shrugged and lowered his gaze once more.

"So you think someone took her? Blimey, it's a convention. Everyone's here to have their own fun, not ruin everyone's day," the man leaned back and patted his large stomach.

"All I'm saying is that that's what I hope what happened."

"What do you mean, you hope?" The old man blinked a few times, his heavy eyebrows brushing together.

"When I went through the crowd, there was some spots of blood on that machine. It was still red and fresh, but not enough to make me think someone got really badly hurt. Just some drops here and there, probably hoping for some sort of effect," he said, looking back at the device in the middle of the room.

"What do you think that machine is?"

"I don't know. It kinda looks like an engine taken apart with a clock on it." Sam looked back at the man, then back at the engine.

"A clock? What if it's supposed to be a time-travelling device?" The old man raised an eyebrow.

"Ha, don't be silly. We don't have those just yet." Sam smiled an leaned back.

"'If you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be true.'"

"Yes, but are you insinuating that whoever took Natalie took her elsewhere through time?" Sam's green eyes slowly moved back to meet the older man's, but were distracted to the bushy eyebrows and unshaven face.

"Look at the clock. What do you see?"

Sam turned and squinted his eyes. "3... 3:45. And there's another dial with some numbers on it, but I can't quite tell what it is."

"There are. Take a closer look. What do those numbers say?"

He got up and took a step closer to the engine. "18... 1846," he said as he returned to his seat.

"Do you think that's a year?" The man's hands had folded beneath his chin.

"That's the year that the Mexican-American War started. Are you saying what I think you're saying?" a skeptical look grew over Sam's face.

"I very well may be."

"But that can't be. We don't have time travel yet!" Sam exclaimed, slamming his hand onto the table.

"Then look for her. Search the streets. The rooms. The people. You will not find her." The old man smiled a crooked, toothy smile as he spoke.

"How do you know all of this?" Sam leaned in real close, finally able to see the man's dark green protruding eyes.

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

Going to try my hand at a new script tonight.

Sam set down his bottle on the far end of the table, rushing to join the growing mob. As he fought through the crowd, one of the larger gentlemen was knocked back into him and in the fight to gain balance, ripped off one of the medals from Sam's overcoat. Sam looked down at the man, barely registering what had happened before he jumped over him and deeper into the crowd. The sounds of his metal trinkets and plates clanged with each movement, slowly becoming the only sound in the room.

He was only vaguely aware that the DJ had stopped the music when he finally got to the middle of the crowd. In the opening lay a large, shiny metal object with exposed gears and pipes. It was enough to make Sam stop and scratch his head, knocking his top hat off, wondering what the spectacle was about.  As he leaned in, he saw something more. There were dark stains on the pipes, almost too much of a dark reddish pigment for rust. Upon looking closer, he realized that the spots were blood, and fresh blood at that. Sam reached over and began to examine the device closely, ignoring the clock face with some of the exposed gears underneath.

Something sharp pricked his finger. He wrenched his hand back and slowly blood began to come out from the small prick. He rubbed his hand on his pant leg and then finally looked up. He was the only one looking closely at the contraption in the middle of the room. He stood up abruptly and then began to straighten his coat and vest, the movement of his hands keeping focus off the fact that they were shaky. Before he could turn, a hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Aye, ye know what happened 'ere?" came a low, gruff voice from behind him. Sam snapped around to find a large man standing behind him, his large beard scraggly with age.

"E-excuse me?" Sam stuttered.

"Ye know what happened 'ere?" Sam could smell alcohol strongly in this man's breath. "Thar be a lass 'ere, just a moment ago," the man began, taking note of Sam's confused look.

"And what happened?" Sam took a step back from the man to tolerate the smell. The man's beard rustled as he spoke, the white hairs becoming evident with the exaggerated movement of his jaw. The man's green eyes is what caught him most, almost mesmerizing Sam with their intense gaze.

"Nobody's sure, lad. What ye see thar is one of them crime scenes," he gestured behind Sam. His hand caught Sam's gaze for a moment, the large scar across the back and gnarly knuckles prominent. Sam's gaze then followed the hand to the half-built device behind him. He returned his gaze back to the other man's quickly.

"Where is she?" Sam demanded, his heart dropping into his stomach. The man in front of him shrugged, infuriating Sam so that he took his gloved hand and grabbed the man's arm. The piping around the wrist shifted over the leather, the small LEDs lighting up with the movement. "I think I know who she is. You have to tell me where she went!"

"I dunno that, lad," the man stood his ground and straightened his shoulders, the suspenders on his shoulders straining against the movement.

Another hand grabbed Sam's shoulder this time, pulling Sam away from the stranger. "Sam, you should go wash up," the familiar voice of his friend echoed in his ear. Sam turned to his friend, a sharp look in his eye.

"Why?" he snapped. "Will, if something happened to Nat you know I'll be killed."

"Because you look ridiculous and you could probably use some cold water splashed on your face. We'll find her, but you gotta remain cool," Will calmly stated, gently trying to push Sam to the men's room. Sam gave in then, realizing that he needed to stay calm if he was going to find his missing sister. Will let go of Sam's arm when they were in eyeshot of the restroom and watched as Sam walked in before turning around to go back to the crowd.

Sam went to the sink, and looked closely at himself in the mirror. His short hair was standing up in places, his cheeks flushed with color from the energy. His brown vest was adorned with various medals , a pocket watch chain dangling from the chest pocket. Underneath was a brown-striped long-sleeve button up shirt, which was partially concealed by the leather brown overcoat. As he turned on the faucet and began to wet his hand to run through his hair to try to tame it, he realized he wasn't wearing his hat. Which meant his goggles were also missing, the very goggles his sister, Nat, had just bought him earlier that day. His heart skipped a beat as he whipped around, anxiously looking for his hat. He turned off the faucet and dashed out the door, only to find Will standing outside, holding Sam's hat.

"You lose something?" He chuckled, giving it over to Sam. Will adjusted his rolled up sleeves, straightened his vest and snapped his suspenders while waiting for Sam to adjust his heavy hat.

"When did you notice Nat was gone?" Sam asked, trying to calm down.

"About an hour ago, I just figured she found something interesting and would be back when she wanted to. She's not five anymore," Will said.

"Yes, but Dad said that if I lost sight of her for just a minute that he'd kill me!" Sam exclaimed.

"Chill, I'm sure she's fine." Will patted Sam on the shoulder.

So having a blog is where me, the writer, sits down and tells stories, right? Or what if I just want to sit here and go off on a tangent and rant about something? I guess I could do that, too.

But you wanna know what gets me though? I haven't written anything in a while, but even if I have a block of not writing, I'm usually able to come up with some sort of topic to write about and just get all of my emotions out. The past year though, it's been a little different. Maybe it's because of the lifestyle changes being so dramatic, but one can really never tell, can they? Unless you're a psychologist or something, then I guess you can make some sort of hypothesis.

Hypothesis. It's a weird word. If you break it down, it means "boosted statement for consideration." But why the boost? What does it have that it needs a lift? Is it too short to see over the dashboard and onto the road? Is it vertically challenged in such a way that it can't reach the cabinets and needs supporting ideas as a ladder?

So that's my thought for today. The English language is peculiar, indeed.

A couple of days ago I found myself wondering what I should do with myself since I'm currently not going to school. See, I would be going to school, but the whole financial thing got in the way and left me empty and unsure of myself. Not that I've ever really been sure of myself in the first place. But here I am, not too far from where I began, wondering if I'll ever go much further.

But since this is going to be my first post, this should be a general introduction to me, who I am, and what I'm about. Except, I'm not sure about that. If you look on your right side of the screen, you'll see that I put a little blurb about how this blog is supposed to be right-brain versus left-brain, and that's where we encounter a problem. There's just too much going on at once.

For those who aren't already aware, there is this theory that the "right-brain" is your creative side, while the "left-brain" is your logical side. Most people are one or the other, maybe a majority of one and some of the other. But me, I'm nearly split down the middle. I went through high school doing math faster in my head than with my calculator while still being able to draw a portrait. I'm not saying I'm this wonderful artist, but I would give it a fair chance to say I've got a little bit of talent. But anyway, these two halves of my brain are in a constant collision, all of the time. I've never really learned how to suppress either side so that one side can become dominant, so it just does what brains do and it works. Kind of like the CPU on a computer. Except a dual-core. And with feelings, etc. You get the idea.

About me. I'm actually been learned in the technological field, mostly in electronics. When I was younger, say around 11 or 12, I decided that the best way to make a life for myself was to pick a trade I was relatively good at and just go for it, and that's how I ended up where I am today. If it wasn't for that move, I'm fairly certain I would be a major in creative writing in some local community college. Which is fine, don't get me wrong, but it's difficult to make a living off of liberal and fine arts. I've actually been writing since I was a little girl, but I'll save the cute little memoirs for a later post.

What I mean to get at is that I'm an artistic nerd with a love for tech who's just trying to find her place in the world, one step at a time, who's hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone out there in the big world would like to hop along for the ride.