For a few seconds, all Linda Morgan heard were her heartbeat and the sound of her bare feet slapping the dirt road. She felt the red Georgia dust poof between her toes, and then sound exploded in her ears. The nine year old girl had no hope of keeping up, but she ran after them anyway, excitement and hope churning through her body and driving her skinny arms and legs like pistons. Around her, all the kids in Appalachee were gathered on the straightaway that headed toward her family's ramshackle white wooden house, cheering the two horses racing toward the finish line. The Morgans cheered the loudest.

Everyone knew about them. Eleven kids altogether - although anyone over sixteen had already fled the homestead - all packed into that one house at the end of the road. They were poor, of course. On top of eleven kids, the Morgan kids had a mama in a sewing factory and a drunk daddy who never held a job for very long. They moved frequently, and the present wooden house at the end of the road was a step up from the last house by the garbage dump.

When their daddy brought Friday the horse home, the Morgan kids might as well have won the lottery. He told them he’d bought them the horse, and they all believed it until the wisdom of passing years made it obvious he’d probably won it in a card game. It was a big deal because all the Appalachee kids rode horses. They rode in little herds, exploring the countryside and showing off down the main drag of the sleepy town. The Morgan kids had begged for a horse, but didn’t really expect one.

But now they had Friday, and they loved him. He was old, swaybacked and mean, but they loved him. He was contrary, knock-kneed, and usually did mostly what he pleased, but they loved him. The Morgan kids looked at Friday and saw a marvelous steed. They took turns riding him on the local promenades and all fought to feed him goodies and care for him.

But the other Appalachee kids didn’t have on blinders of love, and after a while the secret snickers became overt teasing. One of the older boys started it. Billy Hadley was the kind of fourteen year old who hung around groups of kids a year or three younger and picked on them. He swaggered and thought himself tough because he could push around some preteens. When he started in on Friday, though, the Morgan kids became bold in defense of their horse.

Then Darren Morgan, who was old enough to know better but always had trouble keeping his mouth shut, said “I don’t care what you say about Friday, he can beat the pants off your stupid horse.”

Billy turned around and looked at Darren with his sneer already in place. “That broken down nag couldn’t beat nobody,” he drawled.

Darren, his usual cleverness deserting him, clenched his fists and yelled, “Can too!”

“All right fart-head. Let’s see him do it,” Billy said, glaring.

“Fine. After lunch, on the road by our house. If you ain’t shamed to get beat by Friday.”

The terms were settled, the handshake was given, and Darren ran home to confer with his siblings. Laughter from the other kids made his ears burn as he raced off.

There were about four Morgan kids really concerned in the matter: Darren, Jimmy, Linda, and Jeff, in order of birth.They squatted in a huddle in the dirt yard as Ann and Eddie, two of the younger ones, crowded agaisnt their backs trying to find out what was going on.

The four looked at each other and looked at their chances.

“Who gets to ride?”

“I can ride,” Jeff said. “Friday likes me best anyway.”

“Does not!” Linda interrupted angrily. She had an empathetic nature, and was certain she and Friday shared a most precious and secret bond of friendship.

Darren, as eldest, asserted his authority. “Jimmy is the smallest, so he should be the jockey.”

They all fell silent and looked at Jimmy. Jimmy had it rough. He was small and wiry in a family of tall reedy kids, and he was a bed wetter. Big families often have one kid who is the butt of all the jokes, and the Morgans had Jimmy for that. Their mama and daddy were the most merciless; whether it was because he was a bed wetter or whether he was a bed wetter because his mama and daddy picked on him, no one cared to dissect. Mostly the other kids were just glad when it was someone else getting picked on.

Now they all looked at birdlike Jimmy with eager speculation in their eyes. Jimmy turned pink and said, “I can do it. Lemme ride him.”

The other three looked at each other for a minute. The family honor wasn’t much, but they were reluctant to trust it to the least of them. With more confidence than she felt, Linda said, “I vote for Jimmy.” Just like that, it was settled. Then Darren laid out his strategy.

They ate a hurried lunch and then Jimmy took Friday out for a walk around the fields before the race. Darren had told him, “Nothing too fast, but walk him around for a while.”

At race-time, kids began gathering along the road. Billy brought his handsome brown horse out, stepping high. Linda and Jeff started to fidget until finally Jimmy and Friday came ambling up with muffled laughter following them up to the starting line. Friday turned an irritated looking eye on the crowd and stood, working his mouth. He looked skinny and shabby next to the sleek, glossy Hadley horse.

Anticipation was running high, even among those least concerned. In a sleepy town where you usually had to make your own excitement, a horse race was Big News, even if the conclusion was foregone. A few kids tried to wager baseball cards or candy on the outcome, but no one wanted to bet on Friday.

Linda had watched Jimmy and Friday walk up to the starting line with her stomach in her throat. She looked at her brother, and felt her insides twist a little further. Jimmy perched on top of a fourth-hand saddle looking nervous but excited to be in the limelight. His bony arms stuck out like wings, and he looked so delicate. Suddenly Linda wanted Friday to win for Jimmy's sake as much as anything else.

A few kids jogged to the end of the improvised track, and the racers got ready. Alice Bone said in her big booming voice, “Ready!” Jimmy hunched down even smaller. “Set!” Billy Hadley sneered at the general audience. “Go!” And they were off, and Linda couldn’t restrain herself. Heart full and pounding, she raced after the horses.

What no one saw coming was Friday’s affinity for home. He liked the place where little loving hands were always ready to caress him or smuggle him apples. Darren set up the race so that Friday was pointed towards that ramshackle white house with its little patch of grass that Friday knew was his own. Not one of the Morgan kids hadn’t been on Friday’s back when he realized he was headed toward home. He ran for home like wolves were nipping at his heels. In fact, Linda's legs and arms still bore the thin brown lines, scabbed over, from the previous week when Friday took off for home through Alice Bone’s loose hedge of thorny shrubs.

It was over quickly. When Linda reached the end of the road, panting and dusty, Darren and a few Morgan allies were hoisting Jimmy over their heads. Linda's triumphant victory yell went unheard in the clamor. Friday strolled over to his picket to start munching grass. Jimmy looked as wildly happy as she’d ever seen him, grinning from ear to ear and holding on to Darren's shoulder. No one could believe the rickety Friday had won the day, and both horse and boy were wreathed in a fleeting glory. Linda ran to her brothers, jumping and whooping, and forgot every indignity of her life. For a moment, the least were first and her heart was joyful.

A kid approaches me slowly and almost warily.

I can tell he’s afraid of talking to me. I know the look. I used to wear it myself.

My stepfather never let us talk to anyone outside the family unless he was right there with us listening to ever word we said to make sure we didn’t say anything he didn’t feel we should say.

We were never allowed out of the house except for school and we had to come home immediately afterward. No going to friends’ houses- we weren’t allowed to have any friends outside the family, either- and no stopping to talk to anyone. And once we were home we weren’t allowed outside except into the back yard where we didn’t have access to anyone outside the family.

The boy walking up to me now is wearing the exact same look I used to wear when I was his age and trips to the library were a rare treat. He’s scared, anxious, curious, hopeful… extremely intelligent.

I can tell by his manner and the way he talks to his teacher that he’s like me in that he learned to read before starting school, and he’s reading well above his classmates’ level of books. Why else would he be told to look through the card catalogue to find a book when the other kids are being steered toward the picture books?

He’s a lot like me in that he’s probably not allowed to talk to anyone outside of the family, not allowed out of the house without direct supervision, and he’s ahead of his peers in most subjects because he does a lot of reading at home.

Like me, he’s probably discovered that reading is his only means of recreation since the drugs and alcohol so rampant in this neighborhood are inaccessible to him, and he’s not very good at sports.

I read because it was the only means of escape I had. Steve never let us go anywhere, do anything, and he had his liquor measured to the smallest fraction of a drop, hence, my drug of choice being literature.

Steve kept us locked up at home, but what he couldn’t keep imprisoned in the house was my mind. And thanks to all the books around the house, I could go anywhere I wanted any time I wanted, and he couldn’t stop me.

It’s amazing how, with a turn of a page, I can go wandering the foggy, chilly, gas-lit streets of London with Sherlock Homes and his colleague, Dr. Watson. Later, when I’m bored with Victorian England, I can always board the Erasmus and visit Feudal Japan to see what life is like for samurai under the leadership of Lord Toranaga. When I’m tired of that, I step into the virtual time machine called ”˜Hawaii’ by James Michener, and I can travel back in time to see the islands of my beloved Hawaii rear up out of the ocean, watch the first Polynesians arrive, and see the history of Hawaii unfold before my very eyes.

Like the kid approaching me, my first unauthorized contact with the outside world came from a class visit to the school library where I met the woman who changed my life.

Mrs. Doh.

Seriously. That was her name. Jane Doh. She was the first of her family born in America to Vietnamese immigrants who wanted her to have an American name, so they called her Jane.

Anyway, it was Mrs. Doh who gave me my first passport to the worlds I would spend the rest of my life exploring and would later introduce others to in the course of my duties.

Mrs. Doh wasn’t just a librarian, she was a travel agent, and the pieces of laminated paper she handed out weren’t library cards, they were tickets to places I could only imagine- and some I couldn’t begin to imagine.

I was terrified of talking to her because I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone. But after a few questions about me and my interests, she found a bunk for me aboard the Nautilus so I could explore the ocean with Captain Nemo, himself a man who had little contact with the outside world and who forbade his crew having any contact with anyone not on the ship.

I set sail that afternoon while Steve and my mother were yelling and screaming at each other again. All I remember about that fight was my mother saying she wished he’d drink himself to death. I should be so lucky.

A week later, I concluded my world tour with Captain Nemo, and Mrs. Doh promptly booked (no pun intended) an expedition to the darkest heart of Africa where I roamed the dense jungles with a boy raised by a troop of gorillas.

Two weeks and four-hundred pages later, I boarded a Guild ship bound for Arrakis and had my first encounter with the Fremen of Frank Herbert’s Dune. I couldn’t help but marvel at how much Baron Vladmir Harkonnen and Steve had in common. All that Steve lacked was Baron Harkonnen’s corpulent frame. Beyond that, they could be twins.

After that, Steve uprooted us and dropped us elsewhere. And as usual, we weren’t allowed any contact with anyone outside the family.

But this time was different. This time, I sought out the school librarian, a man named Mr. Tate instead of waiting to be introduced.

Mr. Tate seemed to sense that I didn’t need a travel agent or a tour guide. I was one. I had the potential to become someone’s Gandalf someday, and set a very reluctant Bilbo Baggins on his way to a lifetime of adventure. I just needed the proper training.

He began his tour guide/travel agent training in a very simple, yet very profound way: a short story. I had to brainstorm a plot, come up with ideas, and then hammer out an outline for my story. When that was done, I had to write the story.

It was only a page long, but it was a spark that almost, but not quite, ignited the nascent bonfire in my mind.

Two weeks later, he poured gasoline onto all that tinder with an assignment requiring me to research facts for a piece of historical fiction I had to write, and in so doing, he dropped the match that ignited the inferno: he directed me to the reference section.

My manuscript was ninety pages long and won first place in my school’s annual writing contest.

After that, poetry, horror, science fiction, history, western, fantasy, fiction of every stripe, and even combinations of two or more genres began sailing from my mind to my notebooks so fluidly it was as if my hand didn’t exist.

When I settled into a corner and began to write, it was just my mind and the paper, and as fast as my mind could create the words, they appeared on the paper. If someone were to look in my direction, all they’d see were words appearing on line after line on page after page of notebook paper for hours on end.

It was as intoxicating as any liquor, but the only side effects were a vocabulary that grew exponentially by the week, penmanship that rivaled the best typewriters out there, and a desperately-needed kick up the self-esteem ladder.

Being the fourth of eight, I was always shoved aside and overlooked in favor of the baby, or held against the standards set by the older kids and teased, humiliated, or just outright beaten, when I failed to measure up to them.

For the first time in my life, I was good at something. I could do something right. I could do something special.

It was an amazing feeling. It still is. There’s something wonderful about knowing that you have a skill- that you’re not stupid, inept, incompetent, and will have to work your butt off and be unbelievably lucky just to end up living on the streets because you won’t amount to anything no matter how hard you try.

When you discover your skill, the feeling is amazing. It’s impossible to describe, and with a vocabulary so large your nickname is Dictionary, that’s saying something for your skill.

My abiding passion became instilling that feeling in others. And now, twenty-four years later, I’m standing right where Mrs. Doh stood when I walked up to her that rainy November afternoon to ask for directions to the card catalog.

This scared, abused kid, who’s not allowed any contact with anyone anywhere at any time without his parent’s supervision and close, constant monitoring, is looking up at me with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He can get into a lot of trouble for talking to an adult or anyone outside the family, for that matter, but I’m not a stranger or just some random adult he’ll see every now and then- not even close. I’m something else entirely.

I’m a travel agent.

I’m a tour guide.

I… am a librarian.

"You're going to do what?" Vicki Adams was horrified.

"I'm going to sail a 43-foot ketch from Bermuda to Hilton Head, single-handed," said Jake.

"You haven't sailed a boat in twenty years!"

He anticipated his wife's arguments. "First, I'm going to take a refresher course. I'll only go if the weather is favorable. I'll take modern survival gear. I'll be careful."

"But why?"

"I need some inspiration for my next novel."

"But, Jake, you haven't published your first novel yet!"

"No, but I will. And I need to start the next one. I want to write about the sea. I want to experience the power of the sea in the most primitive ways possible, roughing it, exactly the way sailors did, 400 years ago. I need to feel what they felt, so I can write honestly about their experiences."

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?"

"Probably not. That's kind of the point, I think."

Vicki took a long time to come around. Eventually, he was able to convince her that he had thought through his plan, and that she would not be able to talk him out of it in any event. He'd taken early retirement to write, and he was going to write.

He didn't know all that much about seafaring in the age of sailing ships, except that he wanted to write a novel about it. And what better way to get inspiration than to follow in the footsteps of the nautical heroes of the past?

* * *

"Good morning. I'd like to charter a boat for a few days. I'd like to sail it single-handed."

Al Harris, the old salt at Bermuda Yacht Charters, had seen the likes of Jake many times. The world seemed to have an endless supply of middle-aged or older men, seeking to recapture a sense of adventure, to say nothing of their youth, by going to sea alone. They had more money than common sense. The owner of the Charter business made a fortune off of these customers. They'd pay whatever it took, including exorbitant insurance fees, to go out for a couple of days in the Atlantic. Most of them made their way back safely after finding out that life at sea wasn't the soul-rejuvenating experience they thought it would be. None of them ever sued when things went badly--it would go against their iconoclastic sense of themselves.

"Do you have any particular type of boat in mind?"

Jake looked around the marina, and spotted a good-sized ketch. The name on the transom sold him: Inspiration.

"That one."

"That's $15,000 per week."

"No problem."

Al sighed. "Sign here." He wondered if there had ever been a boat named Trying To Prove Myself In My Midlife Crisis By Sailing Away Alone.

* * *

Jake sailed the Inspiration toward the Carolinas for a few days. The weather was perfect: gentle breezes, warm air, clear skies. The Inspiration's autopilot kept her on course, motorized winches made quick work of sail-handling, and the GPS system made navigation a snap. That left plenty of time for Jake to stand in the cockpit, at the helm of his command, trying to get a sense of what sailing must have been like hundreds of years ago. Mostly, he felt bored, which puzzled him: He hadn't ever heard of sailors being bored.

On the third afternoon, Jake saw a squall in the distance, and steered towards it, hoping to make the voyage more interesting.

It soon became more interesting than he had bargained for.

A 43-foot ketch, skippered by a relative novice, is no match for an open-ocean squall. Jake was ill-prepared for the ferocity of the storm. The wind was soon howling at 40 knots, and Jake had forgotten to reef the sails. He allowed the overpowered boat to run with the wind, but within seconds the Inspiration broached and rolled onto her side. Water poured into the cabin, but the boat's self-righting design asserted itself, and she rolled back upright. The automatic bilge pumps pumped the seawater overboard, and Jake was soon back in business.

He hadn't learned from his mistake, though, and the Inspiration broached again. This time, the mast came down, and the boat was helpless. Jake waded over to the navigation console and grabbed the VHF radio microphone.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the sailing vessel Inspiration. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday."

There was no response. The lights flickered. Jake switched the power source to the emergency battery and tried again, yelling to be heard over the roaring wind.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the sailing vessel Inspiration. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday."

Nothing.

Another enormous wave broke over the ketch, rolling her on her beam ends a third time. A locker in the galley broke free of the hull and crashed across the cabin. The broken stump of the mainmast speared through the side of the hull, followed by a torrent of green seawater. Jake was up to his knees, now. The boat was laboring to right herself again, but it took much longer than before, and Jake was sure she wouldn't survive many more waves.

The radio was still silent. Jake looked around for the satellite phone, but it had fallen out of the cabinets into the water. The mast was yanked back out the hole in the hull as the boat took another wave, and more water poured through the breach. Jack reluctantly concluded that he would have to abandon ship, and picked up the microphone one last time to announce his intentions in the blind.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the sailing vessel Inspiration, sinking 208 miles due west of Bermuda. One soul on board, taking to the life raft."

Jake threw the microphone down and waded back to the hatch. He fought his way through the tangled rigging of the downed mast and pulled the lanyard on the life raft container. He was relieved to see it inflating, just as the training video had shown. He took one last look around at the wreckage of his dreams, and jumped into the raft, zipping up the canopy to keep the wind-blown seas at bay. He never saw the Inspiration again.

* * *

The storm lasted another three hours, and Jake had spent the time huddled in the bottom of the raft. The raft was well-stocked with survival gear and food and water, and the canopy worked well to keep him out of the weather. He'd taken a short nap, and had eaten a little freeze-dried food. He knew that his deployment of the raft would also activate an emergency radio beacon that would pinpoint his location for the Coast Guard.

As the weather eased, Jake unpacked more of the survival gear. He put marking dye in the water, got the flares ready and sat back to wait for rescue. There was little left to do.

All things considered, survival at sea was boring.

Two hours later, he heard an aircraft. He unzipped the canopy of the raft and stood in the opening, scanning the sky. A Coast Guard helicopter was flying straight towards him. Within fifteen minutes, he was aboard the helicopter, flying back to Savannah, Georgia. He was taken to the hospital there for evaluation, but it wasn’t really necessary. There wasn't a scratch on him.

* * *

One of the first things Jake did was to call his wife. "The doctor says I'm fine, honey," he said. "I'll be here for a couple of hours so they can finish the paperwork. But I'll catch a flight home, soon, I promise. See you then, Vicki. Love you!"

Jake looked up as a hospital volunteer entered the room.

"Mr. Adams? You asked for pen and paper?" She offered them to Jake.

"Thank you," Jake said.

Jake took the cap off of the pen and began to write.

Jack Caine looked for survivors as he rowed the lifeboat through the towering waves, the seas crashing all around him. Sharks struck at the tip of one oar, and he had to beat off a giant octopus with the other. The rain fell in buckets, and the wind howled like a banshee.

There was no response....

Jake smiled. Clearly, his adventure had been worthwhile.

Excerpts from the diary of Sgt. John Devenish, Expedition Archivist (deceased):

Himalaya Sagarmatha Zone, Nepal
Chomolungma (Peak XV) Base Camp.
3rd April 1855
Weather: Clear, windy. Temperature -4c.

The mood in the camp is at a very low ebb, I am afraid. After the early elation of completing our journey across Lhotse from Khumbu, and the establishment of our Base Camp here at Chomolungma (henceforth to be known as Peak XV, in accordance with Her Majesty's Royal Geographical Society), it is particularly disappointing to fall foul of the Captain's disapproval in such a manner. All of us feel we have let him down badly - our enthusiasm and zeal regrettably causing us to momentarily forget our discipline. Cpt. Andrews has retired to his dwelling and has not been heard from since the incident. Pvt. Selkirk is preparing supper at the moment; I fear it shall be a repast we partake in silence.

Notes: Garrigan has begun his Post Mortem on the creature.

4th April, 1855
Weather: Light snow. Windy. Temp -3c.

Andrews in a better mood at breakfast, and gave one of his speeches that never fail to motivate and leaven the spirit. While he apologised for his surliness the previous day, he forgave our actions and somehow managed to make us feel they were excusable. There was even some laughter among the men. The man is a true enigma, and is held in the highest esteem for good reason. The irony of it all is that it was our first major success that caused the situation!

Notes: The dwellings Jones has fashioned continue to function admirably in the bitter temperatures. Although extremely weighty, the brass shells of the domes contain the ingenious steam heating system Jones incorporated into them and provide excellent shelter from the elements (we have nicknamed them “Kettles”). It is comforting to listen to the gentle creaks and hisses of the pipework at night. No-one is looking forward to sleeping under canvas when we proceed to the Advance Camp, but the Sherpas have abandoned us after the incident yesterday; the kettles are simply too heavy a burden for only seven men.

Forward Team named as:
Capt. William Stewart Andrews, Team Leader
Sgt. John Devenish, Expedition Archivist
James “Birdie” Jones, Engineer & Armourer
Pvt. James Selkirk, Cook & Quartermaster
Noel Garrigan, Doctor
Pvt. Gerald A. McCulloch
Pvt. Roy Elder

5th April, 1855
Weather: Intermittent Snow; high winds. Temp -3c.

After breakfast, Cpt. Andrews invited Garrigan to share the Post Mortem results with the men, saying that the information contained therein was pertinent to our mission. Garrigan was reluctant; but had little choice other than to comply. (I get the impression the two men do not see eye to eye. Garrigan is unpopular, as a sawbones he is considered of poor mettle. One suspects his involvement in this mission may not be entirely altruistic).

He confirmed that we had indeed found, shot and killed a specimen of our mission's remit - a large, powerful primate, hitherto undocumented by science. It is well suited to the environment hereby. It has sizeable teeth and claws, and alive would be a fearsome predator. The stomach contained little more than meat, so it is assumed the thing is a carnivore. (How petty of him to point that out - what vegetation flourishes in snow?)

Furthermore, the creature’s anatomy was surprisingly alien to that of the great apes. Garrigan claimed difficulty in determining the sex - the genitals were underdeveloped and indistinct, leading to his speculation that this may be an infant.

Cpt. Andrews addressed the men again, and urged utmost caution should we encounter an adult specimen - and reminded us again that our objective was the capture of a live animal. Pvt. Elder (he who had fired in haste) had the good grace to lower his gaze at that.

Notes: Forward expedition scheduled to depart on the morn.

6th April, 1855
Weather: Clear skies, mild. Temp -1c.

The forward party assembled for the hike to the higher ground. Birdie checked each man’s armaments - we had all been issued standard Culver Wesson Bolt Throwers, but as Mission Leader, Captain Andrews wielded the quite magnificent Cuthbertson & MacAndrews Mark IV (quickly dubbed the ”˜Yeti Cannon’). Sunlight glanced off its glass acid flask as we set off, casting odd green sparkles across the snow. The damnable thin air soon caused problems; most of us struggled under the weight of our kit. The Captain had no such difficulty, and spurred us onward with constant encouragement. One unsavoury incident occurred shortly after lunch, when Pvt. Elder questioned the sense of proceeding any further. The creatures are so rare, he ventured, that it was unlikely we would see any more. He suggested we should consider any further pursuit as folly.

Cpt. Andrews was distinctly unimpressed. His voice was strong and clear above the rising wind, shaking with emotion.

“You serve Her Majesty, lad. For the glory of Her Empire. Until you fulfil your orders, you will consider this mission a failure. You will consider yourself a failure.”

His glare ranged over all of us. Not a man dared speak another word. Andrews turned and pressed on. Thus inspired, the rest of us followed.

Notes: Luckily, camp pitched by evening as weather deteriorating appreciably.

7th April 1855
Weather: Heavy snow. High winds. Temp -6c.

A Disaster. Our camp was plundered during the night. The supply tent had been looted and our provisions damaged or vanished. Worse, Garrigan and Selkirk were missing. Their tent had been torn asunder and was flapping in the wind. Of the men there was no trace; the drifting snow covering any tracks. Ever the realist, Cpt. Andrews informed us of his intention to abandon the Advance Expedition, and return to the 'Kettles' to regroup. It would be suicide to continue with the few supplies remaining to us. We would spend the day searching for Garrigan and Selkirk, then descend in the morning.

I cannot fully recount the horror we found that afternoon. After hours of searching, Pvt. McCulloch happened upon bloody footprints in the snow, which led us to the two missing men. Decency prohibits a detailed description of the atrocities visited upon them, but they had clearly been rendered for food. Icicles formed from blood hung all around them.

Back at camp, The Captain ordered hourly watches around a defensive perimeter. Gas Lanterns did little to illuminate the darkness as the storm set in around us.

Notes: Morale very low. The Captain holds the men together only by sheer force of will, it seems.

8th April, 1855
Weather: Blizzard. Temp -12c.

I don’t know when the attack began. I was awoken by the familiar hiss-thud of the Culver Wesson, then the ear shattering percussion of the Yeti Cannon. I ran from my tent, grabbing my own weapon. The driving wind and snow made long range combat virtually impossible. The creatures were well camouflaged, and eerily fast. One only got a fleeting impression of their hideous bulk. Cpt. Andrews fired again, and the night lit up. I was horrified to see hundreds of red eyes reflected all around for an instant; then something reached out of the maelstrom and pulled off McCulloch’s face as if removing a wet balaclava. Terror nearly unmanned me, then, but I could hear the Captain screaming defiance. It gave us strength. Beastly howls echoed around the mountainside.

We held them off until they vanished with the dawn; but as the sun appeared over Peak XV, only Andrews and Myself remained alive to witness it. Exhausted, aching and bloodied, we fashioned a rudimentary windbreak from some of the carcasses, and stretched a canvas over it. The stinking, matted fur was at least warm for a while.

Notes: Unable to move due to adverse conditions, we await nightfall. Ammunition running low. So cold. God help us.

8th April. (later)
Weather: Snow, bloody snow. Temp ?

Shaken awake by Cpt. Andrews, late afternoon. He had divested himself of his greatcoat and leathers, and was holding them out to me. His beard was white with frost, but he seemed indifferent to the cold.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said. His voice was dreadfully tired, yet he had never looked more vital. I prayed for some of his courage, but a tear slipped down my cheek. From somewhere above I heard that awful howling begin again.

“They’re coming... we aren’t going to make it, Lad. It'll all be over soon. But I’ll give them something to think about first, by God.”

Incredibly, he grinned. In the face of it all, he grinned. Never have I been more filled with awe at the human spirit.

We shook hands. Then, without another word, he picked up the Yeti Cannon and stepped out into the fading light.

It is seldom one has the privilege to witness such courage; my fingers are black with frostbite but I deem it my duty to record it in this journal. They will say Andrews was a fantasist whose ambition doomed us all. I pray that one day this account will be found and the truth be told: that William Stewart Andrews died a hero.

I hear them getting closer. The sound of gunfire. The howling.

The Lord is my shepherd Oh God they come

It would be, Robert though, too damned easy to lie in bed and let the world turn without the help of one Robert A. Stock. The covers kept him warm and the dogs were a comforting presence against his back. He could feel the chill of the room nipping at the tiny bit of his nose that wasn't buried.

The dogs felt the change in his breathing and Blackie came over and put her nose right up to his. She never licked him, that was Ginger's job. If he didn't want a nose cleaning by spaniel tongue, he would need to move. Robert groaned and pushed the covers back. Cold air rushed in and seized his joints. He moved each joint listening to the cracks and pops. I sound like a breakfast cereal, he though.

The dogs watched him with their deep brown eyes. They lay on her side of the bed as if they missed her as much as he did. Probably they did. Robert took his first painkiller of the day and washed it down with the water beside his bed. He was sure the dogs sipped from it in the middle of the night, but he couldn't find the energy to care.

After making sure that he could move, Robert picked up the tension bandage that was the next part of his morning routine. He carefully wrapped the stump of one leg then the other before putting the prosthetic limbs on. He could give up and just use a wheelchair, but the house wasn't designed for wheelchairs. He would have to move. He wasn't ready to move. The house was full of memories of her. She may have left him, but he wasn't ready to leave her.

He held the canes and levered himself to his feet. It was strange, standing on legs that ended just below the knee, but he was getting used to it. They said that you could get used to anything in time. He looked at the empty side of the bed. They were idiots.

Robert walked to the kitchen and fed the dogs. He put them out, then made his own breakfast. No noisy cereal for him. He made oatmeal, thick enough to stand a spoon in, then poured on milk. She like sugar and raisins with hers. He used to tease her that it wasn't oatmeal but pudding that she ate for breakfast.

God, he missed her. If life had been fair, they would both have died in that crash. Instead he had been left with no legs and a broken heart. Well, if life was easy, anybody could do it.

Robert washed his dishes then put the dogs on their leashes. He clipped the leashes to the breakaways on his wrists.

They walked along the sidewalk stopping at the usual places for the dogs to catch up on the local news. It had been long enough since the accident that people didn't feel they needed to say anything more than 'good morning'. He didn't mind, but it was painful watching people trying to find words for the unspeakable. He made his way down Main St. nodding at folks. The gal at the post office came out and gave him a hug and Blackie and Ginger biscuits. She had never said anything, but Robert knew she understood.

He reached his shop and opened the door. Kent was sitting at the counter and waved at him. Robert let the dogs off their leashes and they trotted over to the corner that they had claimed the first day he brought them to work. He went back to the workshop and sat on the chair that Kent had adjusted with endless patience to fit Robert's needs. Robert picked up the guitar neck he was working on and looked at it critically. It would do. He picked up some 200 grit sandpaper and went to work.

The door chimed off and on through the day. Kent chatted with people and sold them music or strings or whatever they needed. When the crash had put Robert in the hospital for months of rehabilitation, it was Kent who had kept the place open. He was just a punk kid that Robert had hired to run the counter Saturdays and maybe teach a few lessons. That punk kid had changed his schedule at school and started opening the store from after lunch until early evening. He had changed his classes from art and music to business and accounting. He did everything but cut his hair short to keep this place open.

Kent was the reason Robert crawled out of bed in the morning. Robert couldn't imagine doing what this kid had done when he was that age. Now he walked down the street and worked on his guitars while this extraordinary young man ran his business for him. Robert started laying out the fretboard. His hands ached and he swallowed another pill, then went back to work.

Kent came back sometime later and put a cup of tea on the counter where Robert could reach it, but it wouldn't get dust or varnish in it.

"Pretty good day," Robert said.

"Steady," Kent said, "You've got a good name in the community. People want to support you. It doesn't hurt that dude mentioning that he plays one of your guitars."

"Really? Who was that?"

"I don't remember his name, they've just started up."

"So when are you going to start up?"

"Someday, maybe." Kent went to the other bench and checked the fittings for an electric guitar in the body he had finished. It looked jet black until he moved it, then colours ran across the guitar. Kent had said it was car paint. "This is ready to get hooked up as soon as I have the neck on." The neck was painted with the same black, but without the colour. He deftly fitted the pieces together and tightened up the assembly. He checked to see that the neck was square.

"Looks good to me, Kent."

"Says the guy who will only make acoustic guitars." The electronics fitted in their places quickly. Kent soldered the connections, then strung the guitar.

"Try her out." Robert followed the young man into the front of the store and sat on a drum stool.

Kent grinned and plugged the guitar into one of the demo amps. He hit a few chords then went into a screaming solo. He didn't notice the door open and a crowd of kids come in and listen open mouthed.

"Man," one said, "That was wicked! I wish I could play that way."

"You want to try her?"

"Nah, all I can do is Guitar Hero."

"Here, this is easy." Kent started playing the chords from Smoke on the Water. He got the kid to give it try, then one of the others. They laughed and joked at each other then left. Kent hung the guitar up with the others.
"I could never talk to kids that way," Robert said.

"I find that hard to believe."

"There's a reason I don't teach."

"You sure taught me a lot."

"Really?"

Kent picked up another guitar and started playing. This time it was a gentle tune on an acoustic.

"I came in looking for work so I could pay off a fine for vandalizing the pavilion at the park." Kent changed the tune to a minor key. "I figured I would work for a few weeks then just take off. Do you remember the job interview?"

Robert shook his head.

"You made me sit down and play something. I played some hard rock garbage that must have made your eyes water, but you picked up another guitar and started playing some chords. You turned the noise I was making into music. When we'd finished you told me I had the job, and that I could practice with any of the guitars whenever it wasn't too busy."

"I remember now." Robert picked up a guitar from a stand and started playing. Kent joined in. No hordes of kids came into see what was going on, but that was all right.

"I couldn't believe that you would just let me play music. It was the first time anyone had just trusted me. I decided I was never going to let you down."

"You haven't," Robert put the guitar back. "This is why I still get up."

"I just knew I had to keep the store open for you."

"Not the store, Kent. You." He picked up an electric guitar. "If I had a son, I couldn't have hoped for more." Robert grinned and began playing a heavy metal riff. Kent picked his jet black guitar off the rack and plugged it in. He started playing a solo over the riff that had the windows rattling.

Making noise into music.

His heart beating a tattoo against his rib cage, Edward Manning gripped the mane of his dark, stately mount and swung himself up into the saddle. He glanced out at the masses of onlookers that filled the stands and box seats that were set along one side of the racetrack.

There were so many people! To a new jockey, it was relatively unnerving.

Edward’s mount, a two-year-old Thoroughbred colt named 24 Karat Gold, snorted impatiently and shifted his weight, glancing back at his rider with anticipation. This would be their first race, both of them, and the thought of all the pressure they were both under was staggering.

For Karat, as Edward called him, it was because he was an unraced colt from an obscure pedigree. His owner, Matthew Walker, was more of a hobbyist than anything, and so no one expected much out of him.

Edward’s setback was fear. Just a year before, his best friend and mentor, Jose Rodriguez, had been involved in a terrible accident during a race. The track had been sloppy and his horse had lost its footing. He had jumped from the saddle, only to get his foot caught in the stirrup and be crushed under the weight of the seventeen-hand-high gelding he had been riding. This had been followed by a glancing blow to the head by the hooves of a passing horse. It was a miracle that he had survived, but he was now paralyzed from the waist down.

Now here was Edward, preparing to begin his jockeying career at the same track where his friend’s career had ended.

“Time to line up,” came a deep voice from beside him.

Edward glanced over to see Mr. Walker. Unlike most racehorse owners, Mr. Walker acted as the trainer as well.

Now there he was, astride a placid bay pony. He would be leading Edward and Karat around the track before the race. Edward gulped, then nodded. It was now or never. With that he urged his mount forward, lining up behind the other six racers who would be accompanying him on the track.

“You can do it, Eddie,” came a familiar voice by the railing.

The young man shot a wondering glance in the direction of the voice, and his eyes opened wide in surprise when he saw the face of none other than Jose, seated in his wheelchair and clad in the same silks he had worn on the day of his accident. A bright smile lit up his bronzed face, and he lifted one hand in salutation.

But now they had swung around the track, the ex-jockey blending in with the other specks that made up the crowd of onlookers.

Soon the racers had been loaded into the starting gate, and Edward bent low over Karat’s neck in preparation for the race. He could still see the spot in which Jose’s horse had fallen, now nicely smoothed down for a new year and a new race.

There came the bell! The gates flew open and the horses bounded out like streaks of lightning.

"Great," Edward thought to himself as he watched the other horses speed ahead, "There’s no way we can win this race."

Seven furlongs, six furlongs, five furlongs to go now, and still Karat seemed to be content to run at the back of the pack.

"So much for this," Edward sighed inwardly as the wind whipped about his face.

Just then Jose’s words flashed through his mind.

"You can do it, Eddie."

Was it possible?

Just then, as the three furlong mark whizzed past them, Edward saw an opening. It was now or never. He had to try.

With that he flicked the reins. Instantly he felt Karat tense, and he himself tightened his muscles as the horse shot forward into the midst of the pack.

Specks of dirt sang past the young jockey’s face, ricocheting off his cheeks. The thunder of horse hooves rumbled in his ears and the tang of horse sweat filled his nostrils. He could hardly even hear the roar of the cheering crowd.

Just then the two furlong mark flashed by.

“Go, Karat, go!” he urged, more for his own sake than for the horse’s.

Karat seemed to know this was the end, however. As Edward waved the whip next to his face, urging him on, the colt seemed to throw himself into a whole new realm of speed.

To Edward, it was as though he were no longer riding a horse but was, instead, sitting astride a missile that shot along the surface of the earth. Faster, faster, the colt went, his neck outstretched, nostrils flaring, ears plastered against his head. Already he was riding abreast of the lead horse.

Then there! That was the one furlong mark. For a moment everything seemed to go still. There were the shouting onlookers. There was the finish line. And there was Jose, cheering from his wheelchair, his eyes fixed upon Edward and 24 Karat Gold.

"Yes! We’re almost there!" Edward thought to himself.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the horse running beside him, every muscle in its body flexing beneath its dust-laden coat. Could they really beat this horse?

With one last burst of power Karat surged ahead of the lead runner, crossing the finish line ahead of the other horse by just the length of his nose.

Edward could hardly believe it as they gradually slowed their pace. They had won!

Momentarily he glanced back at the onlookers, and his heart swelled with pride and astonishment when, at the same moment he glanced back, he saw Jose take hold of the railing and hoist himself up, out of the wheelchair, still waving one fist in the air and cheering wildly.

“I guess,” Edward whispered to himself as he and Karat were led into the winner’s circle, “anything’s possible.”

Loren Vega was an unlikely celebrity. He was an unassuming man, in good shape but not imposing. His unmemorable face and olive complexion helped him blend into crowds on both sides of the border. He did not seek out notoriety, but his exploits-more accurately, their aftermath-were featured regularly in the news media. Vega was well aware that his life depended on his anonymity. If the identity of El Pistolero Gris were ever revealed … well, it would be toss-up as to whether the cops got to him before the cartels did.

Hated as he was by both sides of the endless drug war, El Pistolero’s methods had nonetheless gained him many admirers. His bloody vendetta against the cartels had long since become the stuff of legend, and his uncanny ability to breach their security and kill at will had elevated him as some divinely appointed angel of death in the local imagination. The anti-drug forces were not immune to his visitations; Vega had forcefully evaded capture by those who disapproved of his vigilante approach more than once. In the eyes of his supporters, the cops he had killed most likely had been corrupt, and the world was better for their passing.

Jorge Garcia was the most ardent supporter of all. He dreamed of being a pistolero himself, fighting to reclaim the streets of Ciudad Juarez for the normal people. Garcia devoted his life to discovering all he could about the mysterious Gray Gunman. This mainly consisted of studying news reports of drug-related violence, charting them on a map of the region, and trying to predict-thus far unsuccessfully-where El Pistolero might strike next. He fantasized about meeting him and offering his services and becoming his trusted lieutenant. He was sure they would make a great team.

Garcia was much closer to meeting El Pistolero than he knew. As chance would have it, he and Vega both frequented the same cantina. Both men preferred to sit at the bar, so it was almost inevitable that one day Jorge Garcia would pick an empty stool that happened to be next to one that was occupied by Loren Vega.

Vega had watched Garcia come in, of course. His stool at the end of the bar gave him an excellent view of the door and provided the option of exiting through the kitchen should the need arise. The first thing Vega saw was that Garcia was armed, the bulge of a shoulder holster revealed by a badly-fitting jacket. Vega surreptitiously moved his hand closer to the (much better concealed) pistol under his own jacket, but he breathed more easily as he watched the skinny young man approach the bar with an ill-advised swagger. Cartel members never dressed so poorly, and cops swaggered with the best of them. Vega pegged him as a dumb civilian who thought packing heat made him a big man.

“Hola amigo,” Garcia said as he climbed up next to Vega. He nodded at the television above the bar with a pundit working himself up over the previous night’s murder of a suspected cartel member. “El Pistolero sure is the man!”

Vega immediately directed his full attention back to Garcia. “Who?”

Garcia blinked in astonishment. “What city you live in, man? El Pistolero Gris. He goes after the drug cartels. Kills their men whenever he can. Any time there’s a drug-related murder and the guy got away, it was probably him. Man! If I could only shake his hand and buy him a drink. It’s inspiring, you know?”

“No doubt,” said Vega. He was aware that he had admirers, but he had never met one like this. Perhaps he might have some fun with him. A little ego-stroking wouldn’t hurt. Vega waved the bartender over and ordered two beers. “Let’s go sit in a booth and talk some more about this Pistolero,” he said. Garcia’s face lit up as if he could imagine nothing better.

Vega picked a booth in a corner next to a fountain. As long as this fool didn’t climb on the table and proclaim his love to the world when he found out who he was talking to, nobody would hear their conversation. “What’s your name,” he said as he slid onto the vinyl bench.

Garcia told him, returned the question. Vega smiled with one side of his mouth, as if laughing at a private joke.

“Loren Vega. But you seem to be a lot more interested in my … secret identity.”

Garcia’s mouth dropped open. “For real? No way, man, you’re kidding right? You’re really El Pistolero Gris?”

Vega’s smile straightened up and expanded to both sides of his mouth. “Nice to meet you, Jorge.”

“Man, this is the best day of my life. I’ve wanted to meet you for so long!”

“That’s very flattering,” said Vega. “But why? If you believe that guy on the TV, I’m not a very nice man.”

“Well, Mr. Vega, I really admire what you do. I hate what the cartels have done to this city, and I think it’s great that someone- you -stepped up to do what needs to be done. The cops and the federales-man, they don’t do anything because they’re all on the take. You just shoot them all and let God sort them out.”

Garcia leaned across the table, his eyes hopeful.

“I wondered- I’ve always dreamed -I wondered if maybe I could join forces with you, you know, be your partner?”

Vega managed not to laugh out loud, but it was close. Forget ego-stroking; this was an all-out ego-tickling! Before he could respond, Garcia hauled out the pistol- a small 9mm with an attached silencer that was so huge Garcia could barely get it out of his jacket. He laid it on the table with a flourish. “I have a gun and everything!”

Vega pulled a white cotton glove out of his pocket, slipped it on and casually examined Garcia’s weapon. Compared to his .45, the 9mm was a peashooter, but even peashooters could do damage at close range. The silencer was just ridiculous, though.

“Why do I inspire you, Jorge? Why not find inspiration in an athlete, or a movie star?”

Garcia started to answer, but Vega interrupted him.

“It was a rhetorical question, Jorge. I’m a homicidal sociopath. Nothing inspirational about me. Your admiration of me does not improve your life in any way. If fact, it does you no good at all since I prefer to maintain my anonymity.”

Ridiculous the silencer might have been, but it worked. Nobody noticed the unassuming man leave the cantina and blend into the crowd outside.

Enjoying the warmth of the sun on the dry grassland plains, the pair casually followed the worn, earthy footpaths that meandered their way through the ancient thickets of flowering dogwood and prickly fruit bushes.

"Isn't inspiration found in life itself?" replied White Dove, as they continued to chat and pick the ripened blueberries, placing them carefully into the delicately-woven juncus basket.

Little Dance, tall and strong for his twelve years, pondered for a moment and cast his eyes toward the horizon.

"Over that hill and beyond, where our scouts keep a watchful eye; and only a little further where they can no longer see, lies the unknown. What good is it to dream our dreams when tomorrow may not grant us the time or presence to capture and keep them?"

White Dove smiled proudly at her son, she knew that his questions were a welcome indication of his inquisitive mind. Even as a little boy, he had enquired about all things with great curiosity.

"What is it you wish to capture? What is it you want to keep? True freedom means no ropes that bind. Does the wandering buffalo not sense danger as the hunter approaches him? Did it matter that he was in one place or another? He is born, and so he must live; every second, and every day. Brief or long-lasting, he must breathe the gift that the Great Spirit granted to him. He must accept what he has with gratitude, but must never forget that this gift is not his to keep, or to abandon - it is only his to share."

"So life must always be a struggle with fear, and even submission?", he asked. "No matter what, our plans and our desires comes second place to destiny?"

Deciding to rest a moment, White Dove sat upon the rocks that lined the path and she looked down to watch the grazing Mustangs below.

"My son, you must ask yourself what inspires you and brings warmth to your heart and uplifts your spirit. Is it the foal who dies in the wolf's jaws; or from the bitter cold of the harsh winter snow, or is it his playful prancing as he runs wild and free with his brothers and sisters? He is born and so he must live, even if just for a fleetng moment in time. A tiny moment is all anything has to exist; you will know this when you become an Elder, but if you know it now, it will serve you well."

She gave a deep sigh as she remembered her younger days and the love she shared with his father.

"What of the Brave who gave his life fighting the enemy in order to save his people? Is it his accumulated wealth and possessions during life that we remember the most, or his courage and dignity at death? Who should you declare the winner; the hero or the coward, the friend or foe? Is each not equal, depending upon your point of view?

Life can be cruel, Little Dance, but it is also very beautiful. We must understand that everything has a duality; both dark and light and it is only our kind hearts and our thoughtful minds that grant us the inner vision to answer all questions, not our selfish whims or material desires. We must search deeper for inspiration, my son, as not all the pages are open in the book of life."

She lifted herself up from the rock and continued to gather the blueberries. After a short while, she took the most plumpest and handed it to her son.

"Before you eat, study it. My own hands have plucked it from the bush and so I have caused it to die a little sooner, but the sacrifice it offers is continued nourishment and life to you. If you agree, then you must ask what will you give in return. If you disagree, the you must assume that your life is as insignificant as the berry's."

With that, the corners of her mouth lifted in a playful smile. She wondered if this lesson might help or hinder his understanding and, going about her business, she waited patiently for his response.

Little Dance held the tiny berry in the palm of his hand and considered his mother's words carefully.

"Then it is acceptance and appreciation I must learn. To acknowledge that all life, and even this humble berry, means more to me than I immediately realise. Is that right, Mother?"

White Dove grinned and confirmed her son's smug smile with a nod of her head. She snatched the berry from his hand and promptly ate it, giggling as she did so. Little Dance laughed and grabbed a handful from the basket and ate those.

"You are correct, my youngest. We too easily forget that all life exists upon the rock that dwells with us and in the relentless wind that blows the tumbleweed across the plains. You must ask how important are the rocks and the wind. Remember, the ground supports us and the winds spread the seeds. Everything that ever lives and everything that happens has purpose. It is not our place to deny our destiny, instead; it is our lesson to know that we must embrace and cherish it."

With that, White Dove hugged her son and kissed him tenderly.

"I happily sacrifice my life to you", she whispered gently in his ear, "for you are the dormant seed that became the nourishing fruit. No matter where the wind takes us, we will always belong together".

Little Dance wiped the tears of love from his mother's eyes.

"I understand", he said thoughtfully.

Little Dance politely took the basket of blueberries from his mother and smiled. Holding hands, they chuckled mischieviously as they made their way back home.

**

Little Dance, the Elder, looked down once again across the wide stretch of grassland. Already the landscape had changed beyond recognition; the blueberry bushes and the Mustangs had long gone, replaced by the cold steel tracks of the new railroad that sliced through the soil like cruel blades of a sharpened knife. Roads spanned out in different directions and telegraph wire glistened in the morning sun, resembling fine silver thread as it tapered toward the horizon. A different Age had come to pass.

The cool morning breeze caressed his long mane of braided white hair and memories of his mother's voice echoed on the wind. How loving and wise she was. There will always be change, nothing ever stays the same. We must learn to accept, for we are powerless to stop destiny; but we are able to change the way we deal with it.

We must all learn to enjoy each precious moment and expect nothing from this world. The inspiration we seek lies within, not without; and is achieved not from what we take, but from what we offer freely to others.

"I understand. Thank you, Mother... and thank you, sweet blueberry."

The young artist sat silently in the corner of his apartment, simply tapping the armrest of his aging wooden chair that he’d affectionately dubbed “the chair of thoughts” as it was where he would come to just sit and think on days like today. Rain tapped in a slow dull rhythm on the window that looked out onto the city. The TV droned some where in the background, its low glow the only light in the small room. The artist had a problem, quite a common one, but an annoyance nonetheless. A blank canvas stood staring at the artist pleading for him to paint on it, but the artist could not… this was his problem…inspiration. After churning out painting after painting, the artist’s idea and inspiration reservoir had finally run dry. He found himself in the doldrums, unable to find any ideas that might fill his sails and blow him across this stretch of hopelessness.

The artist ran a hand through his thick black hair and pulled out a small box of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. He opened it and pulled out a crooked but smoke-able cigarette and wedged it between his soft lips, he had no love for “coffin nails”, but he was in too deep to quit at this point- the addiction was just too strong. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out his trusty Zippo lighter, a remnant from his days in college, filled with more memories than it was lighter fluid. He flicked the igniter a few times before the flame finally appeared- flickering seductively in the darkness like some exotic dancer, it mesmerised the young artist. “Perhaps it could light up my ideas up again?” the young man thought to himself with a smirk. He moved the flame to the tip of the cigarette and lit it before blowing out the flame, shutting the lighter and putting it where it belonged, close to his heart. The artist inhaled deeply taking in almost a quarter of the cigarette; held the smoke briefly, before releasing it cross the gloom of his apartment like a dragon in its den.

He sat quietly smoking and pondering, searching desperately for any form of inspiration. He looked out the window hoping to find that which had come so easy to him as a child. The grey dreary city stared back in its rainy bleakness, offering no alms of inspiration for the poor artist. His mind sunk into a deep and dull boredom…boredom? The artist smiled recalling his days as a kid. “Boredom is the mother of inspiration”, at least it was back when he was younger; and it had brought forth ideas full of wondrous weirdness and awesome oddity. Boredom was a something that had to be escaped at any cost and the artist had always done this by thinking of outrageous and outlandish fantasies and thoughts. By doing this he was able to evade the boredom and in the process he had created pieces of art unrivalled in originality and character which he later incorporated into his works as a young adult.

As age had descended upon him, his over-active imagination had become rather dormant, silently reading a book in the corner of his mind gathering dust, desperately yearning for the day it might return to fulfil its beloved duty. Today was that day. The man stood up and strode up to the window which over-looked the city, tossing aside the used up cigarette as he did so. He stood at the window and scanned the lacklustre fusion of concrete and metal- the concrete jungle, its infinite dullness spanning on and on. He felt the boredom creep over him, and he found himself grinning as madly as Doctor Frankenstein as his once dead imagination sprung to life once more- this time more vibrant than ever…

The earth shook tremendously and a horrific roar filled the air. The hair on the back of the artist’s neck stood erect and his spine tingled with anticipation; his were eyes filled a childlike delight not seen in years. He leant forward and looked intently into the city- and then he saw it… the 500 ft monster- no no not just any old monster, it was the king of cheesy Japanese monsters, the epically proportioned Godzilla. It stood toe to toe with the monolithic skyscrapers, crushing any in its path- undeterred by the rain, the scaly monstrosity made its way the through the city making the miniscule humans scuttle away like cockroaches discovered in a pantry. The beast roared raucously before stopping abruptly. It jerked its head to the side- almost as if it had seen the artist… it changed its course, drawing closer and closer to the apartment, leaving a trail of twisted metal and destruction behind it. It reached the window at which the artist stood and leant down so the only thing visible was its gargantuan eye ball staring menacingly at the young man who was rooted to the ground with both excitement and fear.

The creature faded away as the artist’s fantasy came to an end. The artist smiled devilishly and grabbed his trusty brush set. He stood before the canvas brandishing his brushes and he eagerly readied his paints- his inspiration had finally returned to him…

INSPIRATION (in-spuh-rey'-shun) n. 1) a thing or person that inspires

Quite a simple definition, eh? Something or someone that inspires us.

How, then, can such a simple definition seem so difficult to achieve … and yet be so easy to obtain?

I’ve aspired all my life to be an inspiration to others. I’ve known inspiring people, and I’ve envied them; people who have allowed those around them to become better persons, to make this world a better place. I have wanted to inspire others to do their best, to laugh when their heart is breaking, to hold their head up when they’re beaten down, to lend a helping hand to the downtrodden.

But, alas, inspiring others is not my purpose on this earth.

I met a young lady three years ago; I will simply call her Denise. Denise was working two jobs to make ends meet. At one time she was married to a man she’d known most of her life and, as happens to a lot of young people, had seen her marriage fail. She had traveled across the country, both as a wife and by herself, had held many jobs, and eventually ended up near her home.

Denise has struggled most of her life. She divulged to me that she (although a college graduate and incredibly intelligent) has a learning disability of sorts; an inability to remember, if you will. She also told me that she suffers, and has most of her life, from depression and insomnia. She doesn’t like her job and doesn’t like her apartment, and is trying desperately to make changes that will give her something she seems to have never found.

She is looking for happiness.

Denise is in her mid-30s, so her life hasn’t really reached its mid-point yet. She has quite a while to live feeling as unhappy as she appears to be.

I met Denise at work, at our second jobs. She was intriguing from the first day I met her, mainly because of her calm demeanor and her radiant smile. I never heard her complain ”“ not once. When others would rant and rave over late nights or difficult assignments, Denise merely took it all in stride. I was drawn to her quiet confidence early on.

And we became closer as we worked together. I learned all of these things I’ve mentioned about her over the course of the past year or so. I was amazed to hear how she felt about herself. Denise doesn’t hold herself in a very high regard. As I’ve come to know her, I’ve discovered that she feels like a failure, at her job, in her relationships, at most things people consider living. Occasionally she’ll discuss her failings aloud, but more often than not it’s just something that you see in her eyes.

She is, after all, human; more human than most.

And she is, without a doubt, one of the most inspirational people that I’ve ever known in my life.

Here is a woman that has absolutely no idea how wonderful she is. She’s suffered from one failing (self-conceived or not) or another most of her time on earth. She’s struggled to find love, happiness and her niche in life. She lives day to day, trying to make ends meet. And by her very presence she inspires everyone around her.

Her smile is both captivating and charming. Her intelligence is so broad that I am continually humbled when discussions of anything other than sports are broached. Her mere presence in a room brightens the lives of everyone she touches.

Denise has a rare gift: she can hold a conversation with a professional, a priest, a prince or a pauper and be on equal footing with each. No one feels out of place talking to her. She knows, by virtue of her heart, exactly what a person needs at any given moment.

She is, as I said, an inspiration to everyone she touches.

And the greatest shame in her life is not in any financial struggle, or job security, or depression or insomnia. No, the shame of Denise’s life is that she has absolutely no idea how wonderful she is, and how she inspires every person in her life to achieve that which seems unobtainable.

From her I’ve discovered that trying to be an inspiration is an impossible task. If I want to inspire others, I must do as Denise does, with one simple act: I need to live life as best as I can, every single day, and show others that quiet dignity and an honest heart are enough to get anyone through the toughest of times.

Thank you, Denise. Thank you for inspiring me beyond words, and thank you for showing me how simple it is to matter to others.

I will never forget what you have shown me … and I will always aspire to make you proud.