Adam's Date

Adam rolls his eyes and looks away, but his exasperation is obviously all for show.

“I met Lydia just a few nights ago. I was trying to forget the whole lot of you, actually, after your Valentine’s Day fiasco. That’s another story, though.

“I was out dancing, having a good time although no one was catching my eye when I heard this deep boom—louder than the bass in the club. I danced my way away from the women and toward the door.

“Outside, a big black hummer was engulfed, just completely engulfed in flames. A crowd was beginning to form and Lydia was in this crowd—though I didn’t notice her yet. I was a little preoccupied with the black giant that stepped out of the blazing hummer like the nothing was amiss.

“Immediately, he registered as abnormal. What Shaq-tall black guy walking unfazed through fire wouldn’t though? Oh, and then there was the big-ass ninja sword he had strapped to his belt. But he just up and walked away, like the sun was shining on him and everything was peachy fucking keen. Hell, I think a butterfly landed on his nose while Mr. Bluebird rode shotgun on his shoulder and three dozen woodland creatures sung and played around his feet as only woodland creatures can. Plus, he was registering as weird; supernatural, I suppose.

“My eyes scanned the crowd and that’s when I saw Lydia, though, I didn’t know her name yet, of course. She, too, seemed a little, off, shall we say? I noticed her, the golden hair, the slightly pale coloring, and her perfect body. I marked the way her eyes followed Shaq when he walked casually in the opposite direction. I watched as she, without noticing me, walked away from the explosion.

“I’m not stupid; I knew she was tied to the explosion. I felt it in my gut. But I chased after Shaq first. It wasn’t until I caught him that I realized he was more Samuel fuckin’ L. Jackson than Shaquille O’Neal.

“That dick had a MASSIVE attitude problem. Major. He didn’t want me tagging along. He threatened to kill me two—no—three times.

“I told him I just wanted to help him out. I told him it wasn’t everyday that I saw a man climb out of a burning hummer unharmed. He told me to get lost. He told me he didn’t want to be responsible for my life.

“It was obvious he was on some sort of mission. I figured that I might actually learn something from him. There wouldn’t be any fighting or bickering. So, I told him I’d help out—if he’d give me a weapon.

“He argued he didn’t want to be responsible for my life. He claimed that his mysterious superiors would kill us both if I were mixed up in, well, whatever he was mixed up in. So, I dropped the only information that could have helped me through the door: I told him there was a blonde woman watching him very intently and that she seemed a little strange.

“He spun around instantly and we stalked off toward Lydia. All the time, he told me I needed to get lost. As soon as we were close enough to see Lydia, he lost interest, spun, and went in the other direction again.

“I figured then that my best chance at learning what had happened lied with the woman. So, I walked right up to her and slipped my arm into hers.

“I said, ‘Where’ve you been beautiful? I’ve been looking for you all night.’ She was intrigued with my forwardness. I asked her out for a drink and she suggested we skip the formalities and just go back to her place, if I were interested.

“With her arms covered, it was hard for me to tell just how much warmth she had. I dedicated myself to discovering what exactly she was, at the very least. So we hopped into her sports car.

“She drove like a maniac. I slipped my hand onto her leg and made small talk. She asked me why I wasted my time with small talk. ‘A good way to pass the time,’ I said. I slipped my hand farther up the inseam of her tight, leather pants.

“There wasn’t much heat. Probably wasn’t any heat, I thought but I couldn’t stop there. That wasn’t enough evidence. So my hand slipped farther up to where her legs met her body. Still no warmth.

“I thought then that my life might be over. I was dedicated to see it through, though. Up the elevator we went to her hotel room.

“We fucked all night long. Her body felt a bit different—cold, of course. She was also hard and strong and pushed me to my limits. I made sure to do the same to her. I had to keep her interested, right?

“Not long before sun-up, her teeth began to prick at my...neck. Apparently, orgasming repetitively all night long, is just the foreplay for a vampire’s meal.” Adam smiles a little, but the smile falls away seconds later.

“Playfully, I told her, ‘I plan on surviving this night, darling, so don’t bite too hard.’ She grabbed my shoulders, spinning me to face her on the bed. Her cold nipples were rigid as she thrust herself against me. Her arms slid down to my wrists, icy, unbreakable steel. She held my arms taught as she traced her fangs longingly against my throat.

“Forcefully, I told her, ‘I will live to see the morning.’ She laughed, pushed me onto my back and climbed onto me, sinking around me, drawing my focus away from the cool chill of her abdomen rubbing against mine, those pert nipples against my chest and my arms, pinned. Her hips distracted me, drawing my mind from the danger and into ecstasy.

“Her hips worked back and forth again and again, until I was moaning. The first tickles of that blonde hair fell across my neck. She was still laughing, even as my voice worked itself toward a crescendo. Her lips were the candy given to my childish neck. Her fangs, the razor-truth of reality, tore into my throat and my cry orgasm became one of pain.

“You cannot imagine a pain like that. It was fire and lightning ravaging the inside of my body. It was glass exploding behind my eyes and frigid talons rending my heart. I only allowed it for a moment but within that moment, I lived and died a thousand times.

“No, you cannot imagine a pain like it. It took most of my strength but I managed to imagine a barrier between myself and her. I imagined her being thrown away from me.

“The thump of her body slamming into the wall of the hotel room brought me back to myself.

“She hissed, ‘What are you?’.

“I said, ‘I’m a real man, the first one you’ve ever met, and I’m still interested if you are, but I will LIVE through this night. When that sun comes up, I’ll be watching it rise.’

“Like a broken record, she whined, ‘What are you?’

“I told her, ‘I have no idea. Why don’t you come over here and help me find out?’ She looked skeptical. I said, ‘Seriously, fuck me now. Then help me figure it out.’ That was all the invitation she needed.” Adam chuckled and adds, “She crossed the room a little more carefully that time. But she had no qualms crawling back onto my lap. I had no qualms about having her there either.

“She was slightly warmer those last few times.

“Just before sun up, I exchanged cell numbers with her. We agreed to meet again later in the week—which became last night. Do I need to go over that again? Or the phone call?”

Adam waits expectantly.

3 A.M. # 94 - Life Story

I had no idea where to start. Her icy eyes pierced through me and it made me nervous. I’m a guy; I shouldn’t be nervous, but there it was. She just kept staring and I couldn’t help wishing to be elsewhere.

So, I opened my lips and lied.

“We were poor—couldn’t afford much when I was young. I’m an only child and my parents were working all the time.” That wasn’t exactly a lie, they did work all the time but we certainly weren’t poor. I was on the verge of poor now, but hey, that’s the cost of fucking up in life. Maybe she knew it was a lie? Those blue eyes masked everything or anything going on in her head.

“Anyway, we couldn’t afford much so I had to suffer the bullying of kids. Kids are ruthless. Once, I remember, a group of us—or them circling me. Two of them had baseball bats and the rest of them just stood there, arms crossed and glaring.

“Horror writers just don’t know horror. They don’t write about that, and if they knew horror that’s what they would write about. Anyway, that was my childhood. Just like everyone else’s: fucked up.” Did she catch my slip? Did she know that I had been one of the ones with a baseball bat?

It does not really matter because I kept lying. I kept digging myself in further. She just sat there, smugly silent and observant. Bitch.

“I survived it all, of course. Worked my ass off in school. I was loved by every teacher.” More lies. Some pitied me though, foolishly. “I made it into college only the money or scholarships wouldn’t cover everything. I dropped out, started dealing drugs.”

“And now here I am, sitting on a shrink’s couch.”

3 A.M. # 130 - Monotony

Pressed against the wall, Andrew closed his eyes. They swarmed over the wood chips, the monkey bars, and the swings like tiny, barbaric apes. One bellowed then charged him.

Andrew opened his eyes because of the cry. The brute pumped its small arms forward and back, accelerating toward terminal velocity with surprising ease. Lips parted around feral teeth.

Chip Brewster, that one’s name is, Andrew thought. Chip was six years old, already failing class and known as the meanest red-headed bully around. Chip’s sharp teeth glimmered hungrily.

Chip screeched; Andrew's heart leapt within his chest. The brute closed in and Andrew fell to his knees, curling up into a fetal position. The beast slammed the wall.

3 A.M. #96 - One Moment

Water pelted the metal sink. He stared out the window into a world bright and young. Hot water scalded his left hand but he ignored it. If the bright world looked in, it would see his nasty grimace.

The phone in his right hand flashed. The ringing repeated ceaselessly. The click, click, clicking of the over-sized wall clock was louder. Minutes passed. Still no answer. His hand blossomed red.

Trembling, he shut the phone off and set it down on the tiled counter. The black clashed with the grainy white of the 1950’s tile.

Click, click, click.

The scent of lemons and cleansing agents danced around his dark mood. His face blossomed red. He lifted the phone from the tile, clicked it on.

Beep. He hit redial and the same malevolent, seven tones played for the eleventh—no twelfth time.

Sore tenderness crept along the heat in his left hand. He withdrew it and the plate from the burning water. The phone rang and rang and rang. Mocking.

He pressed the end button.

His left hand shot out. The plate sailed across the 1950’s kitchen to smash in the living room, above the fireplace. Its white ceramic bits splashed against the stone mantle, chiming like a chorus of windchimes.

The front door creaked open. Her heels clattered against the hardwood floors, slowly.

His left hand reached again into the hot water. Against his battered flesh he felt the solid curve of the kitchen tile.

Her heels tapped impatiently first on the hardwood, then on the checkerboard linoleum. He turned to her, breathing in her scent. Perfume, stale smoke, lingering alcohol, sex and death.

The Early Bird...

Been up since 4:30 am. I twisted, turned, somersaulted, and did all I could but no comfort was to be had in my bed.

So, I decided to give myself a morning. I drove out for breakfast, nowhere special, just some place with coffee, peace, and enough space to write a bit.

I hand jotted about two pages which is a lot for me to handwrite.

Leaving the diner, I was struck by the empty parking lot of the mall. The sun was just beginning to come up and it was as if the world had been scoured clean. A profound sense of emptiness hit me and I was reminded of all those zombie movies I've ever seen.

Anyway, I've a couple other things to do before I subject myself to "working".

Good morning, world!

Warm up: Cat Lady

“Susie? Susie?! Where are you, darling?!” Mrs. Stengel squeaked, her left hand groping about in the darkness. A tumultuous bellow of thunder slammed into the side of the house shaking picture frames and inciting knick-knacks to dance. She steadied herself with one gnarled hand.

Lightning erupted, illuminating the living room ahead of her. Susie was pawing again at the front door. Every time she slipped out of her cage, it was the same thing. She always charged for the front door, always tried to pry it open. Curiosity would certainly kill that cat if she made it outside. That was why Mrs. Stengel had installed a padlock to the inside of the door. Susie had somehow manipulated her way past the deadbolt and the chain last time! No repeats of past mistakes.

“You’re just frightened by the storm, honey,” Mrs. Stengel soothed.

Susie wasn’t buying it. Her head jerked right and left, searching for an avenue of escape.

Mrs. Stengel’s right hand tightened on the metal shaft behind her. “Come on, dear. It’ll all be okay. We’ll just return you to your home downstairs where you’ll be kept safe and sound away from that storm. It certainly is a doozy!” The thunder boomed again, emphasizing the old woman’s words. Her old arm snapped out, bringing the net down around Susie’s head.

Susie whined and mewed as Mrs. Stengel cautiously lifted the net and clamped two fingers tightly on her ear. More mewing. Mrs. Stengel pinched tighter, tossing the net to the side entirely. “Now we’ll just take you back downstairs. You’ll see. It’ll all be better downstairs. You can play with the boys until this nasty storm passes.”

Susie kicked and whined and clawed but Mrs. Stengel’s grip was unbreakable. The door to the basement slammed shut with finality as they descended the staircase. Frustrated minutes passed as the old woman slowly descended the staircase.

The boys were huddled in their own cages, faces turned away. Susie cried out as the door swung open and she was shoved again into the cell. Taking no chances this time, Mrs. Stengel wrapped a chain around the bars and the door and applied a heavy duty lock. “That should keep. No more running away, Susie.” She turned and murmured, “the things I endure for taking in the neighborhood strays.” Mrs. Stengel hobbled up the stairs.

From above, another booming sound shook the house. Once the basement door shut again, Susie burst into tears.

“Don’t worry,” one of the boys—Sammy, she thought his name was—whispered. “Our parents are coming for us. Soon yours will, too. I just know it.”

Warm-up: You Cannot Run

Only two feet away, rain drizzled into the alley, bombs bursting against the cracked asphalt, scouring the city of its filth. Axe was lost in that photo again, dreaming of that picturesque Hallmark life, that sort of life so few ever attain. Framed in front of a grandiose manse, three beautiful faces stared out of the photograph, a happy husband and wife and their smiling daughter.

Perfection, or at least, damn near it. Better than this place, he knew. The cost was high—it always was. That is exactly why so few could reach that dream.

Axe rubbed his grubby finger along the daughter’s jaw line. He cursed as a smear of grime was left in the wake. He searched for a bit of newspaper, something not smelling of piss or excrement or booze, and scrubbed at the image. Some of the color rubbed off. A tear tugged at the corner of his eye.

Delicately, he gave the picture a kiss and slid it back into the newspaper padding beneath his shirt.

Winters were harder here. Everything was harder here. There was no roof above his head save for the corrugated cardboard box. That roof would melt through tonight because of the rain, he knew. Tomorrow would be spent scavenging for a new home or some temporary fix. Maybe he could beg for a box from the soup kitchen.

Beg. Once, such a low act would have made him cringe. Once. Now, times were different. They said you cannot run from your past. He had to, though. Anonymity became necessity. Axe cursed his fate.

“What do they know anyway?” he questioned the night or the storm. “I’ll do what I want, when I want. Yes, I will.”

A torrent of water suddenly ripped through Axe’s cardboard roof. Startled, he leapt out of the box, slipping on his newspapers and blankets.

Thunder silenced his groans and curses as he crawled to his feet in the alley. A bolt of lightning illuminated his home and the enormous rip in its center.

“Alex?”

Axe straightened; the hairs on his neck immediately erect. Cautiously, he turned his head, casting a glance at the entrance of the alley. A shadow hovered at its edge. “No,” he hissed, spinning. Axe—Alex backpedaled. The shadow stepped forward.

“You cannot run, Alex.”

“I—I—I,” he stammered, still edging backward.

“You gave us quite a bit of trouble. Who could have guessed you, so lazy and glutted on the wealth and perfect life you once craved so desperately, would give us so many problems.” Alex could hear the smile on the man’s face. “Two years! By God, you survived on the street alone and unseen! Tenacity! That sort of tenacity will make you a wonderful addition.”

“M—M—Madeline and Joanna? What about Madeline and Joanna?”

The shadow paused its pacing and held its hands down and out to its sides in a strange manner. “They will live out their lives mostly unmolested, unless they should seek us out as you did. Our dealings are with you and you alone, right now, Alex. You knew the price when you signed. Now, it is time for us to collect.”

Warm-up: Wordy monologue

“I’ve always loved words—always. There’s a beauty there and a rhythm and, gods, do I love rhythm. Listen to them! See them! If you can, feel them. There is nothing—almost nothing—like their caress.

“Words dance around and around, a wild movement filled with vivid color and razor-edged shape. Description, that’s where it all is. Description is what it is.

“Some people like math but I’m a words person. Words are description! Math is explanation. Math speaks one language—and it’s a beautiful language in its own right because it is universal but math rarely, if ever, describes. Math explains. Math is the musty, monotone teacher at the head of the classroom.

“Words are alive. They’re breathing and showing and telling, too, but more often they’re just out there living and doing and being. It’s so hard to just be, at times. But words do that.”

Warm-up: Flik's Fall

Just a little warm-up writing (so to speak)...
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He patted the beads of sweat from his forehead and reached for the water skin. The march could not stop here; not beneath the boughs of eternal fire in this damned forest. On all sides the withering branches burned ceaselessly. Curiously, the bard began to compare the blistering, black branches to a child’s stick-drawings. This artist had smeared reds and oranges and yellows across the image.

Another bead of sweat collected on Flik’s brow. They would not stop here, in the thick choking smoke, in the withering heat. There must be a clearing.

The gnome gulped down a mouthful of water. Around him, the weary faces of his companions were cast in a lurid light by the tunnel of fire. He listened closely to the cadence in their unique rhythms and mannerisms, observing and collecting each quarter beat and each beautiful melody. Exquisite music hid even within the ragged bickering between the Ragesians and Councilman Bower.

A haunting tune tugged at the bard’s senses. He snapped his eyes to the molten path ahead. Through the haze, he could make out a patch of light—a clearing. With a whoop, and a half-leap, Flik sprang ahead as quickly as his little feet could carry him. The rest were not long to follow.

The clearing was not much, just enough. A chasm stretched across the old road, its rim lined by the ever-burning forest. Still, the hole in the earth was large enough to pull the trees back and open the fiery tunnel. Fresh air flowed into the clearing along with a bit of that haunting melody.

Intent on deciding the path forward, no one else seemed to notice the tune. Flik focused on the sad key of its notes. It was incomplete, some notes lost on the wind, but whole in its own right. Something primal stirred within the chords, something that stoked the heart of this burning forest. He shuddered.

“It doesn’t look safe,” advised the councilman.

The Shahalesti elf took a long glance at the edge of the canyon. “The burning brush hugs too tightly to the edge. This bridge is the safest way to pass."

Councilman Bower sighed and set his jaw with a grim determination. “Fine. We’ll take it slowly, though. The cracks—"

“There are cracks in the bridge!” Flik chimed in. “This will make a great tale! Chased into the ever-burning forest of Innenotdar by the cruel fist of the Ragesian Army, the valiant heroes and heroines survived the heat and smothering smoke to find a chasm passable only via a crumbling bridge!"

“It’s not exactly crumbling,” corrected the elf.

“Are we done standing around?” demanded the Ragesian woman. She moved past the councilman, stepping onto the bridge. Everyone watched as she walked across, edging around a sizable hole.

“Me next!” Flik shouted. He ran out onto the stone, his friend Arc only a few steps behind. The view was incredible, stretching off hundreds of feet in either direction. Eighty feet below, fires burned in the scrub brush. The cliffs were stark, sandwiched between the oranges and reds of the flames.

The hole in the center was large, easily large enough for a man to fall through. Being smaller than a man, Flik clung to the railing as he passed. His eyes searched downward, noticing a few spots that were devoid of the flames. One of those spots was filled with water and what looked to be a broken carriage.

The haunting tune magnified in Flik’s ears when he stared down. He released the railing of the bridge to cover his ears. Flapping, flickering lights poured from beneath the bridge.

“Bats!” the bard shrieked. “Fiery bats,” he spit as bile rose from his stomach. Like everything else in the forest, the bats wore a skin of eternal flame. Blisters boiled upon the gnome’s flesh as he released his ears and swatted.

More and more of the beasts poured up from beneath the bridge, engulfing his body. Spinning, the world lurched in Flik’s mind.

He stepped off the bridge, into the hole.

The bats fell away quickly, so far above. Hanging between the bridge and the burning brush beneath, Flik could hear that strange melody beckoning to him with its primal energies just as the earth below called him to its bosom.

Pure Evel - Explained

I tried to fit way too much story into two few words. My original draft was five hundred words long and I had to cut it in half for submission.

When I first saw the picture of the motorcycle, my mind leaped instantly to daredevils and specifically Robert Craig "Evel" Knievel. I'm not an Evel Knievel or a daredevil expert at all. I did some quick internet research to give myself some basis to churn out a story.

I decided to eulogize Evel, who passed away last year, with my story. The best way I could do that was to imagine what his arrival in heaven would be like. If I were Evel, what would I want eternity to be? Daredevil jumps, of course!

So, I decided it would be perfect if, in heaven, God (or the boss) set aside a 'customized 'little piece of heaven' for every deserving soul. Then, he'd commission a few archangels (Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Raphael) to design and build upon that piece of heaven.

All that was left was for the boss to do a final inspection and for St. Peter to bring the new arrival in.

I thought it was a fitting eulogy. Having to cut the entry down to 250 words removed a lot of the subtle hints I gave regarding the setting. Ultimately, I feared many people would not pick up on what I was saying.

Still, I really enjoyed entering and I had fun working past the block that has been plaguing my writing. It was definitely a fun learning experience.

Pure Evel (Clarity of Night)

The following was my entry for the Clarity of Night competition. Sadly, I didn't place this time but there's always next time. Ultimately, I think I tried to just cram too much into too few (250!) words. In a couple days, maybe I'll explain what I was trying to do with this story.

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The boss shifted, his clear blue eyes taking full measure of the new highway. Contrasting the flat, scrub horizon in either direction, the asphalt arched high into the air before plummeting like a rock cast into a chasm. At a nearly impossible angle, the stretch of road fell nearly vertically before wrenching upward to end at a drop. A flashing sawhorse barricade blinked repetitively at that precipice.

He strolled to the barrier where Mike, Yuri, Ralph, and Gabe waited patiently for praise or criticism of their work. Beyond the barricade was nothing short of a slice of heaven. “You couldn’t find any helicopters for the jump?” he teased.

Mike chuckled. “We figured some rattlesnakes and cougars would be nostalgic for his first jump.”

“Besides, we don’t want him to bore too easily,” Gabe interjected. “There’ll be more shows. We’ll use helicopters then.”

“It’s well done, boys,” the boss drawled. “A bit too much light, though.”

Yuri chimed in, “I’ll kill the lights soon as the star arrives.”

“Perfect.” The boss glanced at his watch. “Pete will be here with the new guy soon. Usher the fans in, kill the lights, and fire up those flaming hoops.”

“It’s your show,” Pete cheerily chimed as he handed over the helmet. Robert Craig mounted the machine, its carburetors growled beneath him. Rings of fire flared to life. Fans erupted in cheers. Craig spurred the Harley into motion, the front wheel screamed in the air as he raced toward eternity.

Clarity of Night

Hi all. I hope all is well.

I submitted my entry for the Clarity of Night short fiction contest a moment ago. Hopefully, it'll be up by tomorrow (it is titled: Pure Evel).

Everything else is still ... going. Finished up another big project at work and I'm looking forward to the next week or two of refocusing on my "real" job. Still P90X-ing.

Edgar

To anyone out there reading, I'm trying to get back into writing more constantly. I plan on posting sequential snippets of writings (every two or three days), just to try to find my groove again.

Feel free to comment. I won't mind any criticism.

----------X----------X----------X----------

Edgar fired up the cigarette. His lungs sizzled with relief. With the back of his trembling, meaty hand, he mopped a layer of sweat from his brow.

The crowd traipsed before his beady eyes, cockroaches scrabbling across the streets. They moved against the neon tapestry of the city, hustling between clubs, casinos, and strip-shows. A rapid tribal drumming clashed against heavy guitar wailing, giving life to the macabre dance.

The stink of sweating flesh suffocated Edgar. A few raindrops splattered atop his head.

His eyes locked on an aberration in the crowd. A shadow stood unwavering against the sea of bodies passing both around and through it.

Edgar gulped. He stepped back slowly. It mimicked his movement. The neon lighting tugged at its edges unnaturally.

Faster, Edgar spun on his heel. He crashed into a line of kids. The cigarette slipped from his lip, dying in a puddle on the sidewalk. He spat an apology and glanced back.

The shadow slid closer. A cold chill lanced his spine.

Edgar shoved the kids aside. He darted down the congested street.

Whisper to me...

Recently, I threw my hat in the ring with the Whispers short fiction writing contest. My entry is
Beneath the Ash (Entry 35). If you have a moment, pop over there and read a few of the stories.

I've been jotting a bunch of ideas down for my writing recently, so hopefully I'll put my fingers to type and pop out a few stories soon.

What a week!

What a week.

Classes officially finished up Monday and grades were turned in yesterday. The result: Straight A's. :D (pushes nerdy, taped glasses up onto bridge of nose and gives a smug grin)

Today, my first published bit of writing went on sale!

Its been an amazing week so far (despite my 12-hour work days--even work is seeing a lot of productivity this week). I can't wait for a chance to breathe so that I can just sit back and bask in the accomplishment.

Oh, fall classes start next week. So I should probably bask quickly...

Uninspired

I woke up this morning to find myself completely uninspired. (Woke up is relative, really. We were up late last night...till after 3 am and even though I grabbed those 6-8 hours of sleep, I was by no means awake when I stumbled out of bed). Hell, I wasn't even awake after two cups of coffee.

A blinding fog had rolled in to engulf my creativity and general brain-power during the night. I had had so much prepared for today to accomplish. When I sat down this morning, there was nothing but disorientation.

I popped onto my publisher's site to find a design journal for our book. He praised my dedication to the project. That lifted my esteem...until I realized I could not pump any writing out for him.

I stared at that stupid, flickering cursor for awhile and then, fed up, retreated to my private space to read and shower.

My laundry is almost done (the one chore that desperately needed to be accomplished today). I can take heart in that--and in my slowly waking mind.

Maybe it will be time to write soon.