Something That Matters: Part Six

>“I can’t remember the last time I woke up drunk, with blood in my mouth. Shoulda stopped drinking when I thought the whiskey tasted cut,” your dad says, voice as cold as iron

>Dad’s face is hard; carved out of granite, sculpted at sides by eons of storms and erosion

>In comparison, you are Samantha Garlen, fourteen years old

>Your features are gentle and wimpy; but now, they%apos;re mostly stained with tears and snot; the pollen of a late summer afternoon clinging to your trembling whiskers

>Dad bends down at eye-level, almost squatting

>“I reckon that it was you mixed up my drinks, huh, Sam?” He says, face so close that you can taste the ash on his breath from the cigarette smoldering away in his mouth

>Smoke tendrils whisper off the cigarette, with not so much a question or accusation, but a statement of fact:

>“Can’t make my drinks right when you’re not trying to kill me; can’t make em right when you are,” dad grumbles, amber eyes narrowing behind a curtain of acrid smoke. “Useless, that’s what you are, kid. Fucking useless.”

>Dad spits into the dirt

>You squeak in fright when he turns back to look at you, face twisted up in hate

>“I’ll give you a job, you little bitch. Which arm you draw with?”

>You know what he’s going to do

>He always talked about it

>You shake your head in violent refusal, fear rooting into your legs

>“Dad, don’t,” Jacob says, voice clipping in his throat

>You feel a trembling hand on your shoulder – Jacob’s

>He’s shaking almost as hard as you are

>“Your right sleeve – roll it all the way up, past your shoulder, or I’m going to do it for you,” your dad’s eyelids drop like guillotines as he glares from behind the haze

>He reminds you of a dragon

>“Mixing up a man’s drinks with who knows what, so you can split while I’m out? That’s cowardice. Cowardly behavior. I’m going to make you my ash tray, you gutless little retard.”

>Dad caught you and Jacob trying to run away, and it was Jacob’s idea to get dad plastered beyond belief while you make your escape

>You’re pretty sure your brother mixed some pills in dad’s bottle, too

>When dad woke, he practically ran the both of you down at the rail car yards, catching you and your brother carrying armloads and trash bags full of clothes, money, and comics

>Your life, surmised in a trash bag

>How fitting

>You tell yourself that if you told him the truth – that you had no hand in any of this besides packing yours and Jacob’s bags – you’d only make things worse for the both of you

>Frustrated tears well up in your your eyes, and you evasively look down at your feet, as if the words are written beneath the rail yard gravel

>You stammer, and you squeak like a machine gun, but the words won’t assemble on your tongue-

>Dad’s impatient hands strip your sleeve upwards, like a butcher preparing a cut of meat

>Right past the shoulder

>“DAD!” Jacob says, shouting his voice raw

>His grip tenses into your flesh like a sculptor working clay

>At last, dad’s focus shift away from punishing you, and onto Jacob, who stands at your side

>“You don’t need to hurt her, you fuck. We learned our lesson. We’re not going to run away,” your brother says, tremors in his voice

>Smoke tendrils – midnight black – whisper from dad’s cigarette and drift up into the sky, and burn off in the fading sunlight

>You look up, into your brother’s bruised and angry face

>His jaw is set like a trench line; a line to hold; a position to die over

>Just like dad’s

>Their eyes burn with the same hate; a superheated metal, like the coils to a your kitchen stove

>Despite how his voice shakes when he speaks…

>…he’s still Jacob…

>…and he’s still your father’s son

>“Was wondering when one of you was going to say something,” Dad says slowly, rising to his full height, towering over Jacob

>Dad’s ears stick up straight, like horns

>“Figures it’d be you.”

>Dad jerks his chin to the ripped open garbage bags, backpacks and gleaming aluminum bat, piled against the side of his rusted white sedan

>“You two got some big ideas running off like you did,” dad says, working his greasy work shirt up over his waistband to reveal his pistol tucked against his appendix. “All your effort, and you only brought that bat and each other to keep safe. I thought I raised a smarter son.”

>Your brother doesn’t answer to dad’s taunting

>Instead, Jacob’s efforts go towards maintaining that hard-nosed composure

>Dad scowls harder, his lower lip trembling as rage boils in his stomach

>“What, all that shouting over your dumb fuck little sister, and now you ain’t got words for your old man?” He pauses, sucking down smoke and poison from his smoke. “What, you think you’re a man now? Barely a week over nineteen and you still can’t look me in the eye. Some kinda man.”

>Dad’s expression is cold as it flickers off your brother…

>…and onto you

>A mechanical PING fills the air

>“I know what will get you talking, oh son of mine,” dad says in a calm puff of smoke

>You and Jacob look towards the old sedan, where your dad marches off to

>When your dad returns from the car’s interior, he’s holding onto something

>Your stomach flips when you see it…

>He squats in front of you again, a fresh cigarette planted in the garden of his lips, which he lights with…

>…the car’s cigarette lighter – a tangled circle of angry red steel coils glowing in dad’s hand

>“Roll up your sleeves. I’m not going to ask again.”

>You roll up your sleeves, entire body wracked with terror, fighting the need to vomit

>If only you were brave enough to move

>To run

>To take a chance…

>…against dad’s gun

>Jacob’s grip tightens on you, as dad holds the car’s primitive lighter up to your face

>The coils are red-hot, and distort the air around them

>“Dad,” Jacob starts, sounding increasingly nervous. “Don’t- don’t hurt Sam. Please? She didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who had the idea to run away. I was the one who mixed those pills into your whiskey. If you have to punish anyone…”

>Jacob’s courage falters as he see the lighter, still pink with heat, hovering over your shoulder

>“…punish me,” Jacob says with a hard swallow

>Dad ignores his son’s pleading and snatches hold of your wiry little arm with a grunt, still chewing on the nub of his cigarette

“P-P-Please don’t…” you squeak, legs going numb

>“Don’t worry,” dad says, speaking only to Jacob, “you%apos;re getting yours, right after I mark this little retard as my ash tray.”

>You shake violently

>Jacob’s nervous grip digs into your shoulder flesh

>You try to focus on your brother%apos;s stabilizing presence

>Try to focus on the tender, worrying grip he works into your shoulder

>Try to ignore your own father’s heavy hand around your delicate wrist, shackling you to him

>Dad brings the lighter towards your brown-furred shoulder

>“All you are to this family is a burden, Sam. And that’s all you’ll ever be,” dad says, staring into your amber eyes, his half-lidded with boredom. “Even your brother her thinks so. Look at him, trying to protect you.”

>Something that Jacob says in a scared whisper makes it through terror’s great filter

>“Be strong, Sam. You can get through this,” he says

>Your eyes slam shut right as dad slams the lighter onto your arm, instantly scorching the fur just below your shoulder

>A shock of pain hits your like a freight train

>The smell of burning fur and your melting flesh beneath…

>…makes you scream out in agony, voice echoing alone, like a ghost wandering the rail car yards in search of a cure for pain

>Your heavy feet stamp into the dirt like a kick-drum as your own father twists the lighter against your tender flesh

>The scent of dust and gravel; pollen borne on the wind

>The acrid reek of cigarette smoke twisting into the sky like ruthless vines

>The reek of melted skin and fur fused together…

>…you suck all of these scents down, and allow them to pollute your lungs

>In that moment, you want their cancer

>Beg for them to produce an absence in you that love cannot fill

>An absence in the heart – the size of your fist – where your courage stutters

>You want to void the soul

>To cash that check

>Dad smears your molten skin against the lighter, and another rips another scream out of you

>What would Samurai Outlaw do right now, struggling in the torturous grasp of a villain?

>In your mind’s eye, Samurai Outlaw fights back

>Samurai Outlaw is quick on her feet…

>…as the hooded vigilante breaks free of her captor, toned legs streaking towards…

>…her brother’s baseball bat, polished to a high shine, resting against the villains mecha…

>…and in a flash…

>…she spins the bat into her hands, a knowing smirk forming beneath her cowl as she sprints into a leaping swing

>Are YOU Samurai Outlaw?

>Is this the moment that breaks your fragile cowardice?

>Do you have the courage to stand up for yourself AND your brother, your steadfast ally?

>You, Samantha Garlen, however, surrender to the pain

>Dad releases his vise grip as your arm begins to anesthetize itself

>Guess you’re not Saumrai Outlaw after all

>When your eyes unglue, you reluctantly examine your shoulder

>A large ring of cauterized flesh now covers your upper arm – a place where your fur will likely never grow back

>The wound bubbles and oozes with blood and pus

>It looks like your arm is melting, or boiling over

>It’s ugly

>And it feels ugly, too, as you investigate the flesh with a trembling finger

>The minute your little fuzzy paw makes contact with your bubbling arm, another shockwave of agony rips through you

>“Your turn,” dad says, gumming around a new cigarette

>Dad grabs Jacob’s arm and strips his sleeves upwards, like yours

>Jacob winces, but tries to remain stoic and strong

>The mechanical PING of the car’s super-heated lighter ejecting from its holder makes your heart skip

>“And when we’re done here, you, me,” he glances at you, like an afterthought, “and your wimp of a sister are going to take a little walk.”

>“Whatever, you old fuck,” Jacob says, voice shuddering

>A distant train horn booms in the sky over head

>A few minutes after Jacob is done fighting his own pained screams, you find yourself in a spot you’ve been in before

>This is a place that beckons with familiarity; like a wild fox asking you to follow it

>You stand on the tracks again, small frame fitting neatly in the ties, as if dropped into a steel jail cell

>Even without bars physically keeping you in, you don’t think you can escape

>Ahead of you by some yards is the old tunnel that carves through the hills

>It’s dark when you peer inside, despite the light of the young sunset, still gilding the scene in gold

>A tunnel with no light;

>the barrel of a gun,

>loaded

>You’re at the rail yards, the waning sunset striking derelict equipment, red-brick buildings no longer in use, that refuse to fall

>Rusted old freighters – like the decaying bodies of old giants – groan in the sunlight

>The late afternoon sun glazes you in a nervous sweat

>“When I was your age, Sam, my dad brought me to the tracks every single day. We was poorer than we are now, and my old man knew weakness when he saw it. Couldn’t have weakness. Still can’t. So I dodged freighters til’ I could barely move. He said, ‘Son, if you want to make your life worth living, you gotta run so close to death that you can see his eyes; smell his fear. Until you face that cold, pale man… without no fear… you ain’t nothing but a gutless coward.’”

>Your dad takes a huge swig from his flask, and brushes away the residue with the back of his paw

>His massive frame sags against his pared car

>Jacob watches you, only a few feet to your left

>And his eyes are like rough-cut pine and sunset

>“I know Jacob’s been bringing you out here to jump ties; harden your guts, just like I taught him. A Garlen family tradition. Only…”

>Dad spits into the dirt and grass, mashing it with his heel

>He turns his eyes back up at you, molten honey boiling in his skull

>“You ain’t family. You ain’t blood,” he growls towards you

>It’s about then that you hear the banshee-howl of an unassuming train on approach

>The sound rides out of the tunnel like a gasp of wind

“I-I’m sorry, d-dad…” is all you can say as you fix your eyes on a pinprick of light – no bigger than a sparkler – emerging from the darkness

>Dad can only respond in sharp fits of laughter in response to your genuine apology

>It’s then…

>…the ground beneath you starts to quake

>“You’re always sorry,” dad says, taking a heavy, amused pull on his flask, “but you ain’t never gonna own up to it. You’re a goddamn coward!” He roars, sick with joy and glee

>Dad begins to address you and Jacob

>He yells over the sound of two-hundred tons of steel meeting the tracks

>The rush of the wind, the push and pull of the train’s approaching engine begin to swell in your ears like locusts

>“I want a good clean dodge out of you, no bullshit. No jumping before I tells ya. And if your faggot brother taught you right, then this should be easy. It better be; I ain’t raise no cowards!” Dad booms

>Jacob is closer now, his voice breaking over the heralding click of the rails beneath your feet shifting in their concrete bedding

>“You’re not a coward, Sam. Don’t let him trick you into believing what he says. It’s how he works,” Jacob says. “C’mon, just like we practiced. One good dodge. Then it’s my turn. And then we go home, okay?”

>It’s…

>…that easy?

>The worry in his voice is palpable

>This… this isn’t like the other times you had to to dodge (all of them F-grade failures)

>This dodge is under the eyes of that bastard of a father

>Jacob moves to stand next to dad, his mouth set in a hard, determined line

>No kindness in the eyes of your audience

>No soft-approach on his features

>Only cold determination

>And a command:

>‘You can do this. I taught you how.’

>The light at the end of the tunnel swells, a steady electronic flame, birthing itself into a star

>You squint, even using an arm to cover most of your sight

>The shaking in the ground forces your legs to harden and calcify on the spot…

>…if only to keep from falling over

>Like a beam of sunlight shot the black tunnel, the train’s light traces your diminutive, shaking frame in gold

>You try to steady yourself, try to wrangle a hurricane of impulsive thoughts with a thread of rope

>Dodge too early – failure

>Freeze up – die

>The train horn blasts again in panic

>Surely, the conductor has to see you standing at the tunnel?

>What does it matter anyway?

>It takes trains like this several miles to stop

>“HOLD!” Jacob commands

>Vomit rises in your throat

>You’re really a coward, aren’t you?

>A gut-puking coward

>The sound of the train’s horn, its brakes skipping off the ties…

>…you can’t move your legs…

>…

>…YOU CAN’T MOVE

https://youtu.be/2U3P1T6Wa6k

>“HOLD!” Jacob is nearly right beside you again, his voice throaty and raw as he yells over the train’s approach

>The train barrels forward, towards your frozen little body, a hurricane of smoke and steel

>That same rush takes over your head

>“READY!” Jacob commands

>You can hardly hear his voice now

>Or the train’s shriek, for that matter

>You don’t even feel the ground beneath your feet

>You feel like your head is swollen, like a balloon; untethered from the earth; string snipped

>Your frantic heart thunders in your skull

>Blood pulses in your temples as your heart skips against your ribs

>And no matter what you do, what sound you’re able to isolate

>No matter if its the sound of the birds shrieking in the trees makes it through your filter…

>That train – that ugly fucking twist of metal, bleeding thick tendrils of God’s black breath

>….unstoppable…

>…moves forward

>The warm blood rush takes over your head

>The sound of Jacob shouting, voice desperate and hoarse, breaks through

>“JUMP! JUMP, SAM!”

>It all returns in a whirlwind

>And the horn shrieks, one final effort to move your frozen body

>By now, you can feel the heat burning off the train, hear its ear-splitting horn

>You see the conductor, even

>A human

>So worried that he’s going to kill some kid

>You wouldn’t do something like that to some random person, would you?

>You try to move when Jacob shouts again, and your legs refuse to budge

>Maybe…

>…maybe, deep down, you want that train to hit you?

>“Sam, JUMP! Please!” Jacob sounds near tears

>You want the oblivion

>How much better would everyone’s life be without you?

>Without someone to take beatings for?

>Without another mouth to feed?

>And with your eyes shut tight…

>…you pretend that you are Samurai Outlaw

>And this is Samurai Outlaw’s tragic end at the hands of a monster of a father

>No heroes to follow after, no story to continue on

>A final issue

>No reprint

>“MOVE!”

>Your body surrenders to the rush, unwilling to save itself

>Just a few simple feet of track now exist between you and the blissful arms of oblivion

>You stretch your arms wide, to receive that fate

>“Sam!”

>In your peripherals, Jacob takes a sprinting lunge

>He tries to throw his arms around you, stealing that embrace from the train

>And the force of his love for you…

>…knocks you off of the tracks…

>…and sends you crashing towards the sun-baked clay of safety

>Your father starts forward, and for the first time in his entire fucking life, he looks terrified

>And it’s right as you pull yourself up that you catch a glimpse of Samurai Outlaw on the tracks…

>…and somehow, she looks an awful lot like your brother, trying to sit up on the tracks

>But Jacob doesn’t look at the train, barreling towards him

>He looks at you

>And his amber eyes are filled with the most worried kindness you’ve ever seen

>The relief that washes over your brother lasts a hummingbird of a second

>Jacob’s mouth starts to work with words you will never hear

>Because with a final, mechanical howl…

>…as if he was never there to begin with…

>…Jacob is whisked away by a storm of steel

>And the train rolls on

>The cops that the county sent over were told to look into a ‘suicide’

>But you – Samantha Garlen – know that’s nowhere near the truth

>As far as you or dad are concerned, the crime here is murder

>And you’re the culprit

>Two human investigators sit across from you at the small kitchen table, where you and your brother once ate quiet, peaceful meals

>Dad leans against the door frame – the one with the bullet hole, now plugged with cheap fill, and painted over

“W-We tried to t-talk him out of i-it,” you stammer, leg pounding uselessly into the air while you’re seated at the kitchen table

>You’ve never been tall enough to reach the floor

>And while you told ‘your side’ of what happened, you couldn’t look the cops in the eyes

>Somehow, you thought that they’d know it was you

>So you washed up as best you could before they came over

>You brushed out the neglected tangles of your fur

>You put on Jacob’s old clothes to hide the bruises and burn marks

>You had to look presentable and ‘stable’ to the officers, after all

>And while you spoke at length of your brother’s alleged suicidal ideation, you tried to speak loud and clear

>Hurt, even scared…

>…but clear

>Instead your voice only came out in worried squeaks across the freshly washed table

>The officers nodded and took notes either way, the scribbles of their pen no doubt spelling out ‘murder’

>Then officers top writing and set their notebooks down, both of them with eyes heavy as water

>“We’re sorry for you loss, Samantha,” one of them says with a dark sigh

>It’s not the scripted, forced sympathy you got at school, either

>It’s a burdened kindness; no doubt one of the worst cases either of them will take this year

>One of the officers claps you on the shoulder your dad burned

>You squeak and fight back the pain as the officer’s watery blue eyes meet yours

>Eyes drank on starlight and concern, half shuddered by a heavy brow

>“Listen, Samantha. If you ever feel like you need someone to talk to about this…” the investigator produces a pamphlet from his back pocket, “…just dial the number down here.” He points to a phone number on the glossy slip of paper

>You accept the pamphlet – a lifeline – with trembling little hands, pretending to read it out

>It appears to be a counselor’s phone number

>One who specializes in loss and grief

>“It’s a county service we offer to juveniles, free of charge. You don’t need to feel ashamed about what happened to your brother…” the officer trails, eyes finding your fathers cold, hard stare., “…or feel alone either.”

>The other investigator takes notice as well, his eyes wandering out the kitchen, regarding the cheap fixtures with a modicum of disgust

>“You’re saying Jacob didn’t leave a note? Nothing?” He says to dad, only curious

>“Nothing,” dad returns in a calm breath. “Goddamn idiot was raving about kill himself, and then up and did it; smeared himself on the tracks for nothing.”

>The officer takes a few quick notes

>“What about his mother? Is she available?” The officer asks, pen hovering in the air

>“Gone,” dad says coldly. “Hasn’t been here since the start of last year. She was a cheat, and when I confronted her about it, she up and left.

>At that, the officer nods to his partner, who is taking far more detailed notes

>Dad’s eyes flicker over to the officer’s notepad

>A scowl contorts his already dark features

>“You don’t believe me or something? My own son – my flesh and blood – killed himself, and you’re-”

>“Standard procedure, mister Garlen. I just need to make some notes for my report,” the investigator nearest you says, jotting his sentence shut

>The human then narrows his gaze towards dad; a look of disgust

>You catch dad’s hateful stare – a non-verbal cue to take the heat off of him

>So you stammer to life, like a performing street animal

“J-Jacob always s-s-said he was going t-to…” you trail off as you swallow the bitter gal of your own lie, “…hurt himself… b-but I never th-thought he’d g-g-g-go through with it.”

>God, you liar

>You’re worse than dad

>Jacob wanted to LIVE – and he died trying to ensure you had a chance, too

>YOU got your brother killed

>And dad knows it

>The sudden urge to hurl yourself at the officer’s feet and cry ‘YES! I was the one who got my brother killed! It was me!’ materializes in the form of a non-verbal scream

>You clench at your ears as you shrink ever-smaller into clothes that aren’t yours

>Without saying a damn fucking word

>One of the kind officers nods in approval, sympathetic blue eyes watching you struggle

>“Nobody should have to go through something like this – especially at your age.” He rises from the squealing old chair. “Got everything, Clemens?”

>‘Clemens’ moves to pack up, patting his belt

>“Yeah, I think that about wraps it,” he says, eyes giving your kitchen one last sweep

>His focus lingers on dad

>Clemens’ mouth falls open, eyes narrowed, as if he’s about to ask your dad a question that could change your world

>But Clemens hesitates, and his focus passes over to you, shrinking down in your chair, pretending to be the smallest thing in the world

>Clemens levels a pen your direction

>“Actually… Samantha? Can I speak with you some more? Maybe in private?” He says

>Dad’s eyebrows raise, and whatever semblance of pleasantries dad’s had shown to the officers now slips down his face in the form nervous sweat

>“What for?” Dad huffs in an anxious puff

>The officer gives dad a hard, accusing stare

>“I just want to speak to your daughter,” he says, turning has back on your dad, facing you with a sympathetic smile. “Is that alright, Samantha?”

>…

>This…

>…is your chance

>You could spill everything to this officer

>The years of neglect and abuse, piling up on your body like roadkill along the high way

>All the endangerment

>The psychological torture

>You could show him your history – written across your body – if you just lifted Jacob’s old hoodie

>You could get out of here, you know?

>If only you weren’t such a coward

>You’d be getting out alone

>You’d know that Jacob gave his life so you could have this one chance

>And you know you don’t deserve it

>Not after all he’d built for himself got carried down the tracks…

>…saving your life, which you so willfully abandoned

>Like the bug you are, your distraught eyes flick towards dad

>Dad’s face is ashen and pale

>You know what he’s saying, all without having to utter a single word

>‘Don’t make this worse for yourself.’

>You turn back to the officer, who is waiting with a sympathetic hand on his notebook

“I-I’m sorry. I d-don’t think I can t-t-talk about my b-brother any m-more,” you say, throwing your face to the side to try to hide your lying eyes

>The officer’s expression softens into a disappointed frown as he pushes the pamphlet across the table towards you

>“Alright. Well, if you ever want to talk to us, your father has our card. And if you ever need to talk to someone in private about what happened – just call the number on the pamphlet, okay?” He says

>You can’t even look this helpful man in the eyes you’re so disgusted with yourself

“A-Alright. T-Thank you,” you say

>With a sigh, the two officers thank your dad

>“Again, we’re sorry for your loss,” Clemens says, before tipping his hat to you and dad and heading out the front door

>Dad slams the door behind them throwing on all the locks

>And he watches from the peephole as their car roll down your block, before banking a right onto a nameless street

>Dad turns to face you, and you can see lightning in his eyes

>In response, you push back from the table, your chair squealing in protest

>“Don’t bother running, boy,” dad says, voice straining through hate and grief. “You ain’t runnin, not this time.”

>‘Boy’?

>“You’re going to pay back what you stole from me,” dad says, voice breaking in a slurred staccato. “You’re going to give me my son back, you little bitch.”

>And for once in your life, you can see tears welling in your father’s sunken, bloodshot eyes

>Tears of pain and grief burn a path down his rounded cheeks

>You can’t be Jacob, because Jacob was too much like dad

>And you’re nothing like that

>But…

>…you can use what your brother tried to teach you

>Be brave

>Be strong

>Dad advances forward, slowly, shambling, body vibrating with hatred

>“You little fucking bastard,” his voice nearly breaks into a sob, “you little fucking THIEF!”

>You’re frozen in the kitchen gutless as always

>So you try to stand tall and puff out your chest

>“You ain’t my kin. You ain’t my blood. All you are is my burden!”

>Dad shuffles into the kitchen, shoving aside the little table that stood between you and violent oblivion

>“One day – I promise – you’re going to pay back what you owe him. What you owe ME,” dad says, voice breaking

>Your eyes shut tight

>And your body starts to tremble

>Even as you try to hold yourself as tall as your brother once stood

>But you’re not him

>You’re not even a sketch of the outline of the surface

>You are Samantha- no, SAM Garlen

>You’re weak

>Born without a spine; a circus freak

>And you deserve everything that’s about to happen

>“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, though you don’t think dad can hear you through his cloud of rage

>Your fingers reflexively clench the pamphlet those investigators gave to you, like it was some kind of a life raft in a horrible storm of tragedy

>And then the pain comes, loud as thunder

Sam, Composite

A poem for Sam, by Oliver Hart

Brave chips of amber,
fleeing ever-downward,
like comets borne on
wings of silk
and lead.

Guts of a rabbit,
evasion by habit;
a negative number
that divides
two into
one.

A heart made of muscle
the size of your fist,
with fear in your lungs,
fire in your chest,
swing from the heel;
give ‘em hell, kid.
Until cowardice can’t tell
right hook
from left.

Oliver Hart

Author of Foxing, The Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.

Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall