Welcome to my first instructional guide to surviving the banalities of life! If you’re like me (and considering my readers are comprised of friends and family, I’m guessing that you are), you sometimes have to sacrifice convenience for budgetary concerns. But that’s no reason not to get the most out of whatever low-budget predicament that you’ve managed to get yourself into. Sometimes you just have to stretch those tens of dollars just a little further, and I’m here to help you learn the tricks that I’ve come up with to get you to that goal. But before you can get to wherever that you’re going, and begin spending your rent money on nostalgic baubles and touristy crap, you need to need to actually physically transport yourself from where you are to where you want to go.

Airplanes are amazing, but having to plan out your excursion at least a month in advance can be a little overwhelming. Who knows what’s going to happen thirty days from now, or if your boss will even remember to honor your time-off request (you did remember to submit one, right?), or if that weeping sore around your ankle will keep growing, forcing you drop your novelty [insert destination city] t-shirt and commemorative shot glass cash on a trip to the doctor’s office and some sort of fancy topical wonder drug? That leaves cars, buses, bicycles, trains, or just hitchhiking. If it’s a journey to be undertaken by more than just one person, we can automatically eliminate the bike or thumbing down the freeway options. It’s highly doubtful that you have the time or fitness level to make the trip on human power alone, and if you’ve got a kid (or more), the best you can hope to accomplish is a couple miles distant from your front door.

Cars might seem like the next best option, but I assure you they are not. There’s the fluctuating gas prices as you pass from state to state, and the constant hunt for serviceable restrooms, because members of your party can’t hold it in long enough to make it to the Rest Stop. And if you can’t drive straight through the night, you’ll probably need to shell out a little more for a hotel room. Then there’s parking, depending on your destination. Oh, and can’t forget figuring out directions if you can’t afford a GPS. Factor in some money socked away should catastrophe occur, and we’ve all but ruled the mighty horseless carriage out. However, if you can cash in a favor, and talk a friend into playing taxi, it might be worth reconsidering.

I guess that you could take a bus to wherever you are going, but… I don’t imagine that that’s an avenue we’re truly interested in exploring. If you have to take the bus to start off on your journey, just stay at home and lock yourself into the closet and breathe in dirty laundry for much the same effect, with the added benefit of being able to get out whenever you might wish. Also, slightly more leg room.

So, with every other option now exhausted, we turn our gaze to the once-mighty backbone of the American Experience: The railway. The prices stay the same whether you book passage today or half a year distant from tomorrow, and the rates are slightly cheaper than what an airline is likely to have on offer. You buy your tickets, pack your bags, and head down to the Amtrak station. How, you might be asking, can you make the most of this scenic and sedentary travel?

1) Buy snacks and drinks to take along with you. The menu options are outrageous, and the average price of a candy bar is just above $2. They offer food on the train because they’d rather not see anybody starve, but if you want to make it off the train with your bank account intact, don’t indulge too heavily or frequently in the fully staffed mobile minibar.

2) Bring some form of entertainment. Books are great, as you can while away a journey lost in the adventures of another, but also moderately cumbersome, so I recommend a decent brand of e-reader. Make sure you load it up with books before you start your trip, as there isn’t any Wi-Fi except on designated lines.

3) You should have something to listen to, so as to avoid a conversation with a stranger, or possibly your family. Bring headphones along as well, as not everyone enjoys the early recordings of Metallica.

4) If you have a tablet for your kids, make sure to download whatever videos you want them to veg out to so that you can sleep. Don’t worry about variety: they’re kids, and can watch the same show over and over with out ever getting bored. If you can, bring headphones for them as well, unless you’re willing to risk opening yourself up to random introductions.

5) If the trip will last longer than twelve hours, seriously consider springing for a family cabin, or at least a single sleeper. I know we’re on a financial tightrope, but you can platoon the bed among you (think of it as an investment against your chiropractor’s yacht), and it can easily be afforded if you are willing to get rid of most of the electronic clutter strewn around your child’s bedroom.

6) If you are a smoker, I wish you the best of luck. There are not that many stops long enough to pop quickly out and light one up, so I’ve thought of some alternatives:

6a) Consider quitting smoking. Apparently it’s supposed to do wonders for your lungs and pocketbook. No? Yeah, I was laughing too.

6b) Nicotine patches can be effective, but I always feel a little too buzzed off the nicotine, yet still crave the flavor of a cigarette.

6c) The gum and lozenges seem like they would be a better choice, oral fixation and all, but the nicotine dripping down your throat is not the most pleasant of flavors.

6d) I guess that leaves e-cigarettes. Most people still get fairly upset if they see you simulating a good smoke, so just head down to the lavatory for a quick puff or twenty, before returning to your seat.

7) Didn’t have the money to afford sleeping accommodations? That’s okay, just pop the leg rest and ratchet back the seat, and you will find yourself in an almost, but not entirely, unbearable position. It won’t matter how you contort yourself to try and fit yourself into the seat: the body of a thirty-something is not meant to bend that way at all. Try to score some sleep aids or muscle relaxants.

Good luck on your journey, and have fun in [insert destination city]! I hope this little guide will help you survive until you get there. Until next time, this is Tex Batmart saying, “Can I borrow a dollar?”

-Tex

(Tex and his family are currently at the mercy of the Coast Starlight. They hope to arrive back home sometime tomorrow morning. Wish them luck!)

After over a fortnight spent just thirty minutes from Seattle, we finally decided to go and check it out. I lured my wife and son out with the promise of the Pacific Science Center, but my true intention was to have my first burger from Dick’s Drive-In in over a decade. Every time that I come back up here, I say I’m going to spend more time in Seattle, but every time I seem to be limited by the availability of transportation to the Bainbridge Island ferry terminal. I think it was for David’s fourth birthday, maybe, that we went over to Seattle Center to gaze upon the Space Needle, bum around the Pacific Science Center, and check out the Science Fiction display over at the E.M.P. I have entirely too many photos of our afternoon that summer, which is good, because David can’t remember even a single thing.

I really wanted to do something fun, and get the minkey out of the house, but I woke up late this morning, still groggy from less that five hours’ worth of sleep, and by the time my mom got back to the house, and my son convinced her to come with, there wasn’t really any chance at all of doing much more than just a couple things. But we walked out there anyway, eschewing public transportation for a brisk walk uphill in the bracing chill. I won’t lie: it’s been quite some time since I’ve walked around Seattle, and even longer still since I went looking for something that I couldn’t find at the base of the Space Needle. The directions on my phone seemed contradictory, at best, designed less for a pedestrian that a driver on the sidewalk. My wife again accused me of leading her around in circles (something she’s insisted that I’ve done both of the other times this trip that we’ve walked somewhere in Town), and this time, she was on surer footing. By the time we finally arrived at the restaurant I’d spent the past couple days tirelessly talking up, we were cold, and tired, and extremely hungry, and ready for amazing eats at the one and only (there are five other locations) Richard’s Fine Cuisine:

I only remembered the joint up in Lake City, where you’d walk up the the window, pay, and get your food, and leave. If you wanted to stick around and eat there at the restaurant, you had to stand off to the side, out of doors in every type of weather. So I was shocked to see what appeared to be a regular looking building with a giant neon Dick’s outside. We hurried in the doorway, David running for the bathroom (I swear this kid has no idea how to use his bladder: lets’s go past everywhere that might just have facilities… are we far enough… I NEED TO PEE!) and dragging my wife behind, while my mother and I took a couple minutes to inspect that glorious Menu Board that taunts my dreams of restaurant ownership like Pablo Neruda mocks my poetry.

Four burgers. Fries. Milkshakes. Soda. Ice Cream. Want something else? Too bad. No special orders, no nonsense. And if you desperately must customize your burger, they’ve got little cups of onions, ketchup, tartar sauce, and mustard for just a nickel each. In this day and age of every single restaurant trying to be everything to everybody, shedding quality and flavor with every menu option, and always is search of that final demographic which will push them past the tipping point into Scrooge McDuck’s bloody money vault, Dick’s has chosen a better route. With only a handful of items they are required to prepare, the opportunity for mastery is frequently attained, and free of the nonsense promotions that most restaurants endure, the focus is on fundamentals, not gimmicks and movie tie-ins.

If the menu prices changed since the last time I’d eaten there, it can’t have been by much. 2 Dick’s Deluxe, 1 Dick’s Special, 2 Cheeseburgers, 2 Fries, 3 Milkshakes and a Diet Coke ran us just under $25 (including the sales tax). I literally cannot remember the last time that I’ve taken my family out to eat and it’s cost me less than $30 (and usually for much less food, or at least, less generous portions). I brought the tray back to our table and sat it down between us. I tore apart the wrapper on my Dick’s Deluxe much like I’d done to gifts from Santa, years ago on Christmas Morning. By the time my son had gotten around to complaining how he would have rather eaten at McDonald’s, I’d already swallowed half my burger, and decided that I might enjoy it more if I took the time to chew. Between bites, I told David to knock off his thrumming whinge, and see how a fast-food burger was supposed to taste. He stared at it like someone might regard Soy Bacon, muttering that “McDonald’s cheeseburger is my favorite cheeseburger,” and bravely brought it to his lips. I must have blinked, because I never saw what happened, but that cheeseburger was never seen again. I asked my son what he had thought, and if he’d liked his burger. He said it was “just as good as what I get at McDonald’s.” I sighed and checked in on how my wife was doing.

Having heard for years about the Mythical Burgers at the Place up in Seattle that My Husband Won’t Shut Up About, I think she was expecting something… fancier. I can’t rightly say for sure, but she appeared to be mostly unimpressed, and had been hoping for something capable of living up to its hype. I took a bite of her Deluxe, to see if something had gone wrong, but it was just as delicious at that which had couchsurfed in my jowls. There was nothing wrong with what she’d eaten, I was sure, so the fault must lay within herself. As for my mother: it may have taken her a good half-hour, but she ate her entire hamburger and at least a couple fries, and said that it was, and I quote, “Pretty good.”

My son chirped in, “But not as good as McDonald’s, right Grandma?”

I sighed…

-Tex

Over the years of my carefree youth, I was treated by my grandparents to several road trips and other interstate adventures. They took me to Disneyland a couple of times before I’d reached the age of eight, and in my teen years, they treated me to travels down to Oregon, and back east through Idaho and the oppressive flatness of Montana, to come out on the other side and ooh and ahh in the glory of Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone, The Badlands, and Wall Drug. Any time my mother and I seemed ready to come to blows, I would be bundled into my grandparents’ car and off we’d go to explore adjacent states. Now that they are in their eighties, and I don’t have a license, the days of summer road trips have come to their conclusion. I would have loved to have bundled up my wife and son beside me, and take some time off work to go gallivanting across the country in search of adventure and excitement somewhere flat and filled with buffalo.

I’ve been trying to separate the tangled jumble of my memories, anecdotal snapshots mixed together, to try and tell a cohesive tale of the trips I’ve taken through the ages, but they all sort of blend together in a training montage set to early nineties Metallica. A snippet of sheer terror from my time served on the Peter Pan ride when I was four years old. Hitting puberty waiting in the line for Star Tours which I entered when I was seven, not reaching the actual ride until the springtime of last year. The gift shop down at Crater Lake, and the gift shop at the Oregon Caves. A fragment of a memory tinted by countless retellings of coming back up through California and only eating occasional mouthfuls off of my worried grandparents’ plates. They were relieved to get me home, as they’d been preoccupied the whole vacation with what appeared to be my imminent starvation.

But it was the story of our journey in the Summer of ’94 which has stayed with me all of these years,for the most part, still intact, and the purest motivation to brush up on my long-neglected driving skills and take my family out to see The States. If Fed can finally get his license, and Bad Leon Suave can keep a car for over six whole months, perhaps it’s time I reconsider my opposition to motor vehicle ownership. Of course, were I to drive, I would only care to be behind the wheel of an El Camino, and I’m not sure how reliable that vehicle is for family road trips crossing state lines. On the other hand, if David got to be too loud, or rude, or simply uncontrollable, I guess I could just shove a helmet on him, and let him ride out in the back, where only the howling wind which rushed alongside him could hear his protestations, leaving my wife and I to listen to the dulcet noises of Rock En Español.

It was just over two decades past that my grandparents and I took our final road trip. Things had been deteriorating here at home, and my mother and I desperately needed to put a handful of states between us. I don’t remember all I took, aside from piles of notebooks, pens and pencils, and my Walkman loaded up with tunes. In the morning chill of disharmonious domesticity, I loaded up the back seat of the Mitsubishi Galant, and waved good riddance to my mother, disappointed that I’d have to put off my regularly scheduled heartfelt sulking, but secretly excited that I stood a decent chance at being treated like a person. Everyone got settled as I blasted Soundgarden in my ears, and we were soon off on our adventure, heading East, and toward the Buffalo.

The defining characteristic of this vacation was an unending sea of Buffalo. From the front seat, my grandmother must have pointed out each and every Bison from Washington to Wyoming. Every couple minutes, she’d wave her arms again, pointing out towards the grasslands at the herds and stragglers, mighty bison streaks gone by. I really couldn’t fathom why she felt this odd compulsion to ensure I didn’t miss a single shaggy murdercow, but I suppose it might have helped her pass the time. Nothing about my memories stands out to indicate that I felt any different than I otherwise might have, but considering that I was fourteen, I can’t imagine that I projected anything beyond the most rudimentary sarcasm. I’m fairly certain that this must have been the case, as either the first or second night into the journey, I elected to stay in the motel room while my grandparents decided to seek solace in a glass or eight of wine.

It was at least a triple-digit evening, and I had the A.C. in the room cranked up to its highest setting while I perused the channels that our cable package back at home was woefully without. I got some writing done, finishing up a chapter in a novel I would soon abandon, and actually enjoyed myself for the better part of the sunset hour and following dusk. I’d just finished up a movie which no one would have ever allowed me permission to lay eyes on, when I heard the rattling and banging of the key against the door. I was too busy trying to change the channel to something still verboten, but with exponentially fewer boobs, when my grandparents stumbled in the door, dragging an alternative reality behind them.

The cot was out, and I was ordered onto it, by my grandmother, who seemed a bit uncertain as to the correct pronunciation of the words “Get,” ” bed,” “into,” and “now.” More bemused than terrified, I played along, assuming that, if I played opossum, the alcohol would help me out, and I could gain freedom once more. But my grandmother would have none of that, as she laid each single blanket down upon me, tucking them tightly in down below me, pausing only, I’m assuming, as she considered banging on the neighboring door and commandeering their comforters as well. “I’m fine!” I said, struggling to breathe, and I came to understand how pot roast felt.

“Oh, pooh!” she countered, tucking me in tighter still. “You’ll catch your death of cold!”

I looked over at my grandfather, turned away, but reflected in the wall-length mirror just above the sinks. His shoulders were shaking, and tears ran down his cheeks, as though he found something amusing.

-Tex

This is the year that I will make the time to write: a thousand words a day from here on out, until the notion of a thousand is automatic, and I can focus on trying to tie them into something larger. I want to give at least a thousand words to The Vaults, while working on a couple more regimented projects (which will hopefully result in payment), and try to hold down a day (or night) job, so that I can pay my bills until someone decides they’d like to pay me for my clickety-clacketing. I used to believe that if I wrote enough, and wrote well enough, eventually someone would take note of me, and I could bask in the adulation of my genius. I’ve since been convinced that I should probably develop some sort of plan, as the life of a starving, unappreciated artist is no kind of life for someone with a wife and child, and although I think I could be content living the life of a kept man, I do not believe my wife has any interest in that outcome whatsoever.

And I intend this to be the year when I finally go to Mexico and get to know my in-laws. For years I have been waiting for the universe to indicate that the moment had arrived for me to take my leave of The United States and take in what the rest of the world might have to offer. It will mean leaving behind everything I’ve ever known, and anyone who’s ever known me could tell you that I’m particularly bad at change. I’ve done it a handful of times, and it’s usually worked out for me, but the terror never really goes away. I’m still a little shaky from my resignation at the end of November, and from a financial standpoint, it’s been cause for concern. I have been writing, though, and getting myself back in line with where I want to be. And I doubt I’ll truly miss the San Francisco Bay Area, at least, not nearly as much as I still miss my native land of the Pacific Northwest.

I should probably also focus on trying to learn to be a better dad. I find it hard to understand the viewpoint of my son, and I can admit that I’m not as patient with him as I could strive to be. I need to find a way to interact with him from a less imperious position, and look for common language and ideological middle ground. Less time allowed in slack-jawed vegetation slumped down in front of the television, and more encouragement to actually pick up a book. I need to fight back my exhaustion and read to him on a regular basis, not just when I can muster the animus to attempt it. As he gets older and develops an arsenal of tactics to challenge my authority, I will lose the ability to influence his decisions (aside from his contradictory and punitive reactions out of spite), so if I cannot find some way to reach him now, I’ll probably have to join the Tea Party to keep his rebellious streak from leading him somewhere he may never be able to escape.

I have no idea how I will accomplish this, beyond getting into a rhythm with this blog. I’ve set myself a goal of 365,000 words this year, which means a new post every day in 2015. I’m not sure that I have that many observations about current events and personal trials and tribulations, but I’m going to do it, and I may even have some fun along the way. The move to Mexico will happen whether I am ready for it, or not, and I’m sure I’ll find my footing once I’m there. I’m looking forward to seeing the years of worry melt from my wife in the moment when she wraps her arms around her parents and hugs away the decade that has has kept her from them. And David William, well, I really can’t say how that situation will resolve. I’ve never known my own father, and despite having several role models when I was growing up, I don’t necessarily know how to do it in the off-camera moments. He’s similar enough to me, that I can recognize some things, but he’s also, frustratingly, developing his own personality, and no longer accepts my edicts as sacrosanct.

So where does all of this hedging leave me? Exactly where I was before, but with at least a nebulously defined purpose, which I hope will be enough to propel me forward until momentum takes hold, and it becomes harder not to do the things I must than to merely keep on going. I need to get this book that I’ve been mulling over out of the confines of my head, and onto paper (or its electronic equivalent) before I lose it altogether, and I promised my son I’d write him a children’s book which featured him prominently and heroically. At least, for the latter, I know a couple people who can help me out with illustrations. Since 2001, I’ve told myself again and again to tamp down my expectations, running down every conceivable way in which I might possibly fail. It’s been easier to play out fantasies of Id, than risk being hurt even one time more. No more. 2015 will be the year that I focus on the possibilities of making it, and look only toward success.

I’m good enough to run a restaurant, as over a decade in food service can attest, and my skills in management are easily transferable. But that isn’t what I dreamed of when I was just a boy, and I have a few more years left in me before I’d accept having to surrender. I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember, and it’s almost now within my grasp. I will use the embers of my inspiration to light my way toward my future, and spare not a backward glance into the shadows of the past.

I invite you all to share this journey with me: come and see where it will take me.

-Tex

It’s my wife’s birthday today, so I’ve been having a blast spending it with her. I’ll be back writing tomorrow (everybody is heading out…), so expect something in the afternoon and maybe something in the evening!

Happy New Year, everyone! See you in 2015!

-Tex

I almost made it through the holidays without a single lactose-related injury. I’ve managed to consume my volume in Egg and other Holiday-themed Nogs several times over this past month, to no deleterious effect, but today I pushed my luck just a bit too far, and have been paying the price for most of the evening. Considering that the Nog is on the shelves but a couple months out of the entire year, I regret not even a single drop of its dairy goodness. I just wish my stomach and adjacent facilities would get on the same page as me.

My son has been harassing me since arriving on The Island, insisting that I play Star Munch(i)kin with him. I can usually beat him in less than ten minutes, but he keeps coming back for more. I only really want to play once a day with him, as he’s less interested in the game, and more on reading every single card out loud to me several times consecutively, and generally just messing about. He bends the cards, and knocks them on the ground, and is obsessed with getting “The Cool Bounty Hunter” card. For the rest of the time that I cannot bring forth the will to play, he grabs the box down from wherever I have stashed it, and begins a “game” with his Auntie or his Grandmother, which consists primarily of him just pulling out all of the cards one by one, describing them out loud like the Special Audio Edition for the Sightless, until whomever he has cornered finally gets up and leaves him to chatter amongst himself.

Yesterday I took my family to the Grand Forest where we met up with (everybody look at) Ms. Squeak and her band of bouncing boys. I’d been looking forward to a pleasant walk along a forest trail to soak in extra oxygen to replace that which has been unavailable to me through life in the Bay Area, and cigarettes. Flor loves it as well, and for very similar reasons. But David had the best time out of everybody, running back and forth along the paths and trying to discover puddles in which he could go a’splashin’. And after being stuck with his soon-to-be-ancient parents, the chance to run around with a couple other troublemakers proved to be more than he could bear. As we were nearing the end of the trail’s loop, he managed to soak through his jeans and jacket in one epic and poorly placed foot-first dive into a pond. I don’t know that I’ve seen him happier.

We packed up the kids and headed back to where I’d once hung out beneath the gaze of A.B. Squeak’s father when we were all back in High School. Aside from a handful of electronics that sat scattered around their living room, the place looked like it had been perfectly preserved since the late 90’s. I hope one day to have the stability to maintain a museum level dedication to the preservation of chosen way of life. We’d brought a couple sandwiches, and Squeaky had baked bread, but the only thing the kids truly desired was a Family Size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that my wife shoved in pack as well. The grownups sat around the table and told stories of Tex Batmart, my own and Ms. Squeak’s, having been blown upon to clear the decade and a half of dust. I am forever grateful that the Middle School yearbooks never saw the light of day.

All too soon (for David), it was time to go. They bundled into the car and waited for it to warm up while I strolled to just past the property line and lit a cigarette as A’s dad look on in judgment like I was still some trenchcoated high school malcontent off to corrupt his daughter. I wasn’t then, and it wasn’t my intention now, so I puffed as fast as I could manage, and stowed the butt upon my person for disposal upon a later occasion. It had been a relaxing afternoon with a modicum of exercise, and I’d been afforded the opportunity to introduce my wife to one of my female friends of whom she did not immediately have anything negative to say. We drove back to my Grandparents’ place and thanked our hostess for a well-spent afternoon.

Tomorrow is my dear wife’s birthday, and I have decided that I will cook her some sort of delicious dinner. Of course, half the household is on some sort of taste-free diet, so in addition to being habanero-free for the benefit of David, it now will most likely not contain enough salt or proper butter. Or I could make a small batch (enough for five or six people), and just let the Weirdos eat their cardboard. I wish shopping for my wife was something that could be an entirely electronic experience. For most people now, I just buy e-books and queue them up for either right this second, or the moment that the year arrives upon the day of their birth. But Flor doesn’t really care to read (which is bizarre, since I have always been both a reader and a writer), and usually forbids me to get her anything (showing just the tiniest tic of disappointment should I have obeyed her. It’s too bad, because the Kindle versions of six Calvin and Hobbes collections were on sale today for $1.99 each, and I could have said that I purchased them for her.

So I will cook something fancy for her, choosing ingredients at random until a recipe begins to coalesce. That’s been my favorite part of cooking over the past several years: wandering into a grocery store and sizing up the produce, grabbing what looks good until I figure out what I can make from what I’ve shoved into my basket. Probably some sort of pasta or perhaps my rice dish… I think I’m really going to miss: having access to a Mexican Supermarket.

-Tex

UPDATE: The Calvin and Hobbes sale has ended.

She was just as I had forgotten her to be: a swirl of shadow, coalescing into perception, taking form from the gradual accretion of a spinning gravity of nothingness. The last time that I had been summoned by the Council to stand silently before Her, I’d been informed in such a way as to allow not even the merest hint of uncertainty of Her intentions, that were I to return again to Her demesne, it would mean sure forfeiture of self, my life being the very minimum that She would take. I never bowed before her when I came of age, nor declared my opposition; I never felt any inclination of obligation, nor desire to profess some binding fealty towards any of the countless Powers which claimed this otherwise nugatory estate comprised primarily of stone and grove and the longanimity of unrealized dreams. My growing strength of mystic will and natural capacity to casually manipulate the Shadowstuff which bound the Beasties and the Spiritwalkers to this world was cause enough for their disquietude, but the simple notion that I refused any and all affiliation whatsoever to whomever might have desired it was entirely beyond reason. The Greymage and his incalculable intent, they finally decided, would not be suffered any longer.

Ten years ago, The Council of the Powers summoned me to stand trial before The Quiet, wrapped in shadow and gagged with inchoate mammal panic at the foreknowledge of my inexorable disposition should their appraisal of my character and propensity for interference be determined unavoidable and unacceptable to their current and future whims. The Quiet, oldest and least tolerant of man, could see beyond even the most skillfully wrapped evocations of layered obfuscations a mage might summon about his heart, and gaze upon said man’s quintessence: the seed of sentience from which all further futures would spring forth.

The person which I’d always believed myself to be, and the face of the man I wished the world to know would be weighed in judgment against the being She perceived that I would always be. Any variance summarily judged dissemblance, indicative of the danger which I represented to their order with my every breath. She whispered slivers in my dreams, and shouted glamour to my fear, seeking the destruction of my conscious self to lay the writhing tremors of deception bare. There has never been, nor ever will there be a man who shall survive our introductions, little worm. Enjoy the final moments of your agony’s endurance, for they are all of which remain of you. My history began to burn before my eyes and in my head: joys and triumphs cherished, torments suffered and replayed over and over and over again throughout the freezing depths within the tiny hours of the night; everything which had ever contributed to who I had become, now a searing conflagration reducing and exalting me within the fires of Her Night. The crucible of Her perception cauterized my every hurt and loss, purifying that potential which, until now, I had begged be taken from me.

Serenity came suddenly upon me, a calm of purpose pumping ice and argent fury through what little of myself remained. Liberated from the shackles of any callow aspiration to survive her eradicative interrogatory, I summoned up the will within me which had so terrified the Council that they’d sought first to secure from me fidelity, and, failing that, procure a more permanent neutrality. I forced my eyes up to look into the deeper blackness where the Queen of Night’s own should have been, casting toward Her in that gaze, every shard of aggravation which threatened to consume me in a righteous and cathartic apotheosis. Silver rage burned fiercely behind my eyes, and a molten tone infused the words upon which I impaled The Quiet, “Remember in the moment when you fade away, that this could have been avoided. I never wanted anything to do with you or anyone on, or represented by your preposterous Council! The boy has burned away, and naught but the Greymage remains.”

I raised my index finger up and sliced away the aphotic interdiction these primordial numina had set upon me, cutting loose the Shadowstuff with blinding light, barely registering as it melted down and slunk away, driven down and out of sight by the silvery bells of pure phosphorescence which shimmered just beneath my skin. I traced my sigil in the air, every motion incandescent, blistering the space between us as my animosity ignited and renewed my sign of power, a clear, defiant denunciation of the supposed hegemony of the power of the night. With each heartbeat, my power grew, and I knew I could not long survive it. No hope remained to walk away, and leave them to their inconsequential mystical hostilities; in order to survive, I’d left myself nowhere to run, and the price to end this confrontation would inevitably be my final breath.

Little child, The Quiet boomed, I believe I’ve had more than I care of this. I could extinguish you, as you might do so to a wick. There is power in you, yes, but not near enough to challenge me. Take care that you don’t pester me, or I will snuff you out this night.

“You’re bargaining?” My fires dimmed, my tone a touch more cautious, “If you’re so bloody powerful, why bother with a warning? If you could end me here and now, why haven’t you already?”

Sweet, dearest child, I don’t tempt me into action. I looked into your very soul, and saw that I must, some day, destroy you. But you are stronger than I care to face, for though I could erase you from the very Tapestry of Life, the effort would surely drain me. My brethren, though cowardly and weak, have no special warmth within them toward me. They are many, and I have ever been just One. They would set upon me like a wave of pestilence, devouring me until I posed no further threat. And then a war the scale of which you could not possibly conceive would fill the entirety of reality until nothing but the victor’s will remained. It is my wish that this should not come to pass.

“Assuming that I were to believe you, what would you have me do?”

I looked out upon the falling rain, and knew that I was home. I’d been gone for nearly a dozen years, and had built up in my head an idyllic reconstruction of the place where I once lived, happy enough to take it at face value, but never believing that the honest reality could ever truly match it. I’d been wrong: the simple majesty of an encroaching treeline and fresh flavor of the air shone more vibrantly within my eyes than the fading idealizations which had been populating in my memory. Like a copy of a copy that had been copied countless times before, the things and places which I held most dear had yellowed and diminished, and I’d been none the wiser. Before me hung an angry sky in darkened hues of grey, and the only sunlight bleeding through was soft, diffuse and far away.

I was older now, and my bones could feel approaching storms, the ache inverse to barometric pressure. Judging by the pain now shooting through my legs, the clouds would soon be crowding in, driving the sheets of rain diagonally down upon us. My wife stood at my side, her arm resting gently on the shoulders of our son. The prospect of a storm, I’m sure, did not excite them, but they only saw the thickening brume, and couldn’t feel the speed at which it would approach. A flash of lightning somewhere behind us brought everything before us into sudden brief existence and then dragged it back into the shadows and out of conscious thought. I put one arm around my wife who was already beginning to shiver in the night, and the other around my son, whose trembling followed the thunder just a handful of beats distant from the lightning. I was home, and home knew it.

The downpour began to quicken as our taxi finally appeared, a beneficiary of the police department’s recent upgrade to their fleet. I funneled our luggage to the driver, who deftly arranged it into his open trunk as my wife and child bundled into the back of the decommissioned Crown Victoria and secured their safety belts. I stood a moment in the winter shower, and allowed the water to stream down my face, breathing in the essence of the Pacific Northwest and encouraging it to swell within me. I could feel the butterflies unfurl their jeweled wings and take to flight, leading me back down the paths of recollection and steeping me in the long-dormant and overwhelming love which I’d not savored in over a decade. My wife called out through the open window, informing me she’d like to go. The enchantment of the moment shattered, I shook off my reverie and took my seat in the back of our cab. My son snuggled close- it was past the hour to which he could normally arrive unimpaired (about ninety minutes after bedtime). I gave the address to our driver, and spared a glance toward the dwindling lights of downtown Winslow as we pulled away.

We drove along the back roads, lined with trees, and near pitch black, small glimpses of hidden lights far back from the roadside and filtered through arboreal obscuration reflecting every now and again off the glass and metal of the cab. The storm now stood before us, the rain slamming down into the windshield as we travelled through the chill and night toward the warmth and safety of my grandparents’ home. I asked the cabbie to take the route along the beach, and as we glided past the spraying surf below the purple twilight, I could almost make out through the misty gloom the outline of Seattle, reaching out across The Sound to welcome me back home. A glimpse of moon broke past the cloudy heavens, and cast its ultrasonic glow down on the choppy Puget Sound. I turned to tell my son to look, but he’d sunk down into dreams and could no longer share my own. My wife’s eyelids also had descended, and as we took a left at the final hill, leaving the shore to drown beneath the thrashing waves, their snores replaced the pounding breakers, the sounds of singing shores still ringing in my ears.

Through the gloom, a porchlight shone, drawing us in through the tightening grasp of Niorun toward the safety and security of places both warm and warmly remembered. A whispered word of invocation and my wife and son arose, their limbs swinging numbly at their sides, still more adept at navigating the realms of subconscious tangibility than the world viewed only by one’s waking eyes. They shambled toward the house, drawn like undead migrants on pilgrimage to Mensa. I stumbled through the shadows as I fumbled with the keys, the banality of e’erday tasks fracturing the nox incantatores by which I’d been enraptured. Clarity gradually emerged as the scraps of the dream’s fetters began to flutter down. The magic of the evening ebbed, the tide of commonality now washing in and carrying back out to somewhere hidden within the mist and fog the interpolated implications which had until this point, characterized the evening. Normality restored, I strode back to the driver and settled up our bill, retrieving bags and backpacks so that he might depart. He waved his thanks and bid us a good night, then pulled back out into the darkness, taillights steadily receding in the reasserted fog.

And then the night took hold once more, the lights cutting out without a sound. I whirled about to face the house, not five yards distant from where I now stood, but could discern only a sheet of ebon silk fitting itself about me. It’s just my nerves, I told myself, to calm the hamm’ring of my heart. It wasn’t real the last time, and it can’t possibly be now. Despite my struggles, my arms would still not move, and my breath, now ragged gasps fueled by adrenaline, blew back warmly ‘pon my face.

“Welcome back, my sweet, dear child. Your absence has been noted. There is much now that we must discuss. Come, little one: it’s time.”

I began to scream a desperate cry, a shout into the night, but not a sound escaped beyond a gurgling in my throat. Suddenly my balance shifted and my feet no longer touched the ground. I fell back through both time and space and discovered myself in neither. I was floating in an abstract nothingness, and I knew what would be coming…

Fed has taken off for the nearest town in search of cell reception and Tex is left back with the car. The sun has set, and a chill is setting in. How will our heroes survive? Find out now in the conclusion to our six-part adventure…

 

PART TWO:

 

Sunday Afternoon- Fool Of A Took

 

I picked up my pace as my imagination began populating the darkening shadows with the forest with the slinking movements of wolves out for an easy meal. My legs burned from the continuous pumping, but I breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching the restroom and locking myself within. The light was fading, but there was still enough for me to take care of business. I was a bit disappointed to have been unable to use the woods for this particular endeavor, but preferred disappointment to death at the jaws of wolves. I finished up, and after reassembling my outer protections, left the restroom five minutes later. The world had taken on that eerie glow that oft transpires when the soft and hazy fading light reflects back up and off the fallen snow, and the car looked twice as far away as it had before. I prayed I’d make it back before the wolves could get me, and kept running calculations of the chances of my survival should the pack break cover from behind the dusk and launch themselves toward me. I didn’t feel even remotely safe until I’d made it back inside the car, with doors now locked and heat on full.

 

Sunday Evening- Shadow and Flame

 

I finished drinking the water I’d melted, and filled the bottle up once more, ready to trade my body heat for something else to drink. I’d polished off the granola bars, and made a sizable dent in my supply of jerky, and was counting down the list inside my head of all the things that could have befallen Fed. 6:45, and I’d seen no sign of him for over eight hours. I had figured that he’d either have found a tow truck, or failing that, come back here to let me know he wasn’t dead. I stepped out of the Subaru and lit up another cigarette, turning my gaze briefly toward the treeline, and again toward the the direction of the Forest Road on which I hoped that Fed was returning. The night seemed to close around me, and I sucked deep on my smoke, trying to finish and get back to safety. And then I saw it. A light, still some distance away. I ground out the Marlboro in a nearby bank of snow, tossed it in my Monster ashcan, and hopped back in the car to wait.

Twenty Minutes Later…

The headlights finally turned around the bend, and began heading down toward me. I opened the door again, lighting one more smoke, and waiting to see what new development had befallen me. Another five minutes, and a dull red tow truck propelled upon a caterpillar track came to a stop just yards from the front of the car, and Fed popped out from the shadows and rushed past me into the car. The tow truck driver then stepped in between the two vehicles and began hooking the tow line up to the Subaru. I grunted a welcome, and popped back inside the car.

 

“It’s gonna be really hot in here for awhile.” Fed turned to me, crystals of ice beginning to melt in his beard.

“That’s fine, it’s fairly chilly out there. So what happened?”

“Give me just a few minutes to warm up, and I’ll tell you everything.”

 

The driver got us connected, and we began our inching crawl out of the wilderness. Fed was driving, focused on trying to keep the car in line with the tow truck, but finally looked over and said, “I am so glad to be somewhere warm.”

“So what happened?”

 

Sunday Morning- There And Back Again: Fed’s Tale

 

He told me that he’d walked for the better part of two hours before seeing another soul. Down along the Forest Road, and just across the bridge. Then another pack of roving snowmobilers had come upon him, and offered him a lift back into town. He’d burned through the battery on his iPad, and was happy enough to shorten the journey. A glance at my phone had told him he was still in a dead zone for service, so he jumped up onto the back of a snowmobile and was carried into the town of Ronald, and dropped off just outside of The Last Resort.

The power was out, there and at the convenience store next to it, and my phone was still unable to find a single bar of service. Fed tried over at the snowmobilers’ clubhouse, where at least it was warm, and waited for the power to come on.

 

The car began fishtailing in the wake of the tow truck, slipping off the tracks and into the snow on either side. The driver hopped out and asked Fed to pop it back in neutral. Fed made the adjustment, and we began moving forward once again. A thick fog of exhaust spewed out from the tow truck as we continued on our way.

 

The power finally came back on, and the ‘bilers were kind enough to loan Fed the use of their phone. He called up a local towing service and waited for them to come and pick him up. He tried my cell again, and saw just how much coverage I was getting for my monthly mobile payment. The tow truck soon arrived, and he hopped in and directed the driver back toward my location. They reached the turnoff where the pavement ended and began the Forest Road. The driver took a look ahead and called an audible. He turned around and drove them all the way to his shop back in Cle Elum. They were going to need a bigger boat.

The driver loaded a flatbed truck up with the caterpillar tow truck, and they began their return journey. The caterpillar ran about five miles per hour, and it didn’t have a cab; the entire hour and a half journey was spent riding in the freezing cold and breathing in the diesel fumes. No wonder he’d been so eager to get back inside a warm vehicle, enclosed, and safe from the elements.

 

The driver tried a couple times to let us loose, and we barely cleared any distance before stalling out again, and waiting for him to catch up. But it looked like the path was getting easier to manage, and on the third attempt, we pulled away, and kept moving forward until we reached pavement once more. It took about a half an hour for the driver to cover the distance and catch up to us. We took the chains off of the tires and remembered, with fifteen seconds left to play, that the Seahawks game might still be on. Fed found the game, and we capped the day’s adventure with the sweet relief of hearing that our boys in blue and green just clinched a spot in the post-season with a 35-6 win over the Cardinals. Fed looked over at me and said, “All I want to know is, how did they score 6?”

 

And so the Adventures of Tex and Fed in the Land of the Murdertrees (and their Escape from Murdertree Mountain) have come to their end. They drove safely back to Seattle, and reveled in the knowledge that not only did they survive the weekend, but their football team survived the regular season.

 

The Vaults of Uncle Walt will return to its regularly scheduled programming tomorrow. I hope everyone had a Merry Saturnalia, and I’ll see you back tomorrow and thereafter with new content until New Year’s Eve.

-Tex