Today's Lyric: "It's a time for heroes,
When our back's to the wall"
A time for Heroes
I woke this morning with a sore throat. That set the tone for the day. I've been very depressed the last few days. Nothing specific is bothering me, but events haven't helped. I feel bad that I can't help lutron after his injury. I can't imagine what I could actually do to help, but I feel frustrated. My brother experienced a similar, even more severe, injury years ago and lost fingers from his hand. I couldn't help then either. Residual guilt/frustration? My son Joe and his wife Lisa have moved as of today. They have left town to take up residence in Bloomington, IL. Your basic bummer of a week.
I ordered a "superman" pan pizza from Papa John's tonight. I don't know what's "superman" about it, but I won't be ordering it again, the combination of ingredients isn't pleasing to me.
I'm working on a space-opera right now. I'll put it somewhere reachable when it reaches 10k words. I haven't written an "action oriented" piece in a long time. I have been using a product called Writer's Dreamkit to form up a story once I have come up with the basic idea. So far I like the product and the process.
Nowhere to turn
They were coming down the ramp now, bound to turn in his direction. He slid from shadow to shadow as best he could, praying that distance and good fortune would keep him hid. His pistol was clutched against his gut, a rock-hard bundle of nervous fear. Underfoot the rubber coated decking was silent. The only sound he heard was their tread as they advanced toward him. Finding a cubby intended for a waste bin, he slipped inside and pressed his back against the wall. The wall yielded under his weight and he turned in pleased surprise - the back of the cubby contained a waste chute. It was big enough that he could slide into it. As he backed in, seeking for purchase with the toes of his boots, he was spotted. One shot slammed the wall above him. He had time to return fire just once then he was into the chute and falling. He prayed to who or whatever determined his fate that it emptied into something less fatal than an incinerator. Mid-entreaty his feet slammed hard into a steel deck-plate and he fell, flopping onto his back, slamming his head hard. Groggy and disoriented by the blow he rolled his eyes trying to take in his surroundings. He slowly discovered he was in a steel cube some twenty-five or thirty meters square. It was featureless save for a metal ladder against one side that led to a hatch. He rose uncertainly, still wobbly on legs that had been slammed too hard against the floor. He made his way to the ladder, climbed slowly, one step and pause, another step and pause, until he was able to reach the hatch. He pushed it cautiously open and found himself in a stadium-sized room obviously the central waste repository for the outpost. In the normal course of events it would be a while before invaders concerned themselves with waste disposal. If only they hadn't followed him down the chute...