While living off of my saving for six months was fun, I realized a couple of things that are propelling me back into freelancing.  1) Money doesn’t magically regenerate in my bank account.  2) I can’t stand not working.

#1 isn’t a big problem. Living in a small town, I really don’t have all that much overhead to worry about, so my bank account isn’t depleting itself very quickly.  Plus, I’m don’t have a big-spender lifestyle.

#2 is a bigger problem. As a younger lad, I had no problem watching movies and reading and playing games all day.  I still do all those things, but now I’m always spinning ideas out of them that I’m convinced will begin to strangle my brain in retaliation if I don’t put them to good use.

For instance, I watch a lot of movies.  A lot of movies.  I have the 6 DVD Netflix plan and still usually run out of things to watch after one day.  (Though now that Netflix has streaming video and I have a Roku, that is a thing of the past.)

I now have the complete inability to just watch movies anymore.  I start thinking about what I can do with all the knowledge that I’m gaining from the movie’s dialog, structure, lighting, the DVD special features and commentaries.  I think about my reviews on Netflix.  Then I get the idea–why not start a website about movie reviews.

In thinking more about the website, I narrow it to reviewing only movies that I watch on Netflix.  While I watch more movies, I start thinking about possible structure of the site, themes to use, widgets that will help viewers to navigate the site.

Eventually it all came to a head.  I reached a point where I couldn’t resist putting it together anymore.  Thus the site was born.  It’s not online yet–I’m still writing reviews for the bank, but it’ll be up by the end of the month.

I’m also writing an ebook, the first one I’ve ever written for myself.  That seems a strange kind of thing for a professional ebook write to have never written an ebook he hasn’t been paid to write, but that’s the way the cookie crumbled.

In writing this ebook, I’ve found something that I’ve been lacking for a while: passion.  That’s why I stopped writing ebooks, I just didn’t have the interest in it anymore.

For the first couple years of writing ebooks, each one was interesting and challenging.  How best to present the information?  What to include and what to leave out?  The perfect images, the perfect design, the perfect layout.  After a while, I just started writing on autopilot, slogging through the words, thinking “Great, yet another ebook on real estate marketing.”

So I quit.  I honestly didn’t think that I would ever go back to it.  Didn’t think that I would ever be able to look at another ebook project without screaming.  But only six months later, I’m taking on clients again.

Maintining communication with my long-term clients and politely declining new projects leaves my reputation intact, but six months away has definitely hurt my business.  That’s okay though, because not taking time off to recharge myself and find my passion for the work again would have destroyed my business and, more importantly, my reputation.

I’m back, baby, and better than ever.

The remaining Regulators jumped out of the truck. They didn’t bother with concealing their weapons. This was all business.

Eros tossed the keys to the Suburban to the unfazed valet. “Keep the truck here. Start the engine in twenty minutes.”

Nobody looked twice as the team marched through the entrance hall, weapons at the ready.

“Which way did she go, doc?” Thor asked the desk manager.

The clerk pointed at the restaurant. “Through the kitchen.” Thor led his men through the restaurant and into the kitchen. The cooks were cowered against the wall. A line of bullet-craters pocked the ceiling.

“Where?” asked Thor. One of the cooks shakily pointed toward a service elevator.

“She’s going for the heli-pad,” said God.

“All right. Eros, Smooth, go out the back and come around. Let me know when you’re in position. God, you’re with me.”

Eros and Smooth went back out into the restaurant. God and Thor rode the service elevator down a floor and headed out a back exit. Ahead of them, they could see Rosie almost to the heli-pad, dragging the mark along with her. An A-Star helicopter circled overhead, waiting to land.

“Stop,” Rosie told the mark. With the butt of the MP-9 between his shoulder blades, he didn’t put up much of a fight. With her free hand, she switched her lapel mic to the helicopter’s frequency. “Bring her on down,” she told the chopper pilot.

“Wheels down in three minutes,” said the pilot.

Rosie stepped in front of the mark, her gun pointed at his chest. “Here’s how it’s gonna work. You print the money and I provide security. Deal?” The mark nodded and Rosie lowered her gun. She took the mark’s pistol from the waist of her skirt and handed it back to him with her finger wedged behind the trigger. Before she let go of the gun, she stared into the mark’s soul. “Don’t make me regret this.”

The helicopter touched down on the pad.

Eros and Smooth ran out the back of the hotel. They crossed the crowded resort area, pushing through the crowds and stepping over the occasional unconscious body. Smooth grabbed an unattended drink from a side bar they passed and downed it on the run.

Around the edge of the hotel, they took cover behind an ugly statue of two people sitting on a bench. Rosie and the mark were at the heli-pad and an A-Star was just about to touch down.

“Can you get a shot from here?” Smooth asked Eros.

“I left my .45 in the car.” Smooth sighed and pulled a six-shooter from his thigh holster. He passed Eros the gun.

“Were you dropped on your head as a small child?”

Thor and God raced for the heli-pad, with Eros and Smooth coming from the flank. Rosie spotted them. “Get in. Now!” she screamed at the mark and pushed him toward the A-Star.

God stopped running and dropped into a crouch. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The right stiletto heel of Rosie’s fuck-me-boots exploded. She fell. God squeezed the trigger to fire again, but Thor ran into his line of sight before the trigger reached the break point.

“Don’t kill her,” yelled Thor over his shoulder without breaking stride. God shrugged.

Rosie scrambled up from the ground and into the helicopter. She grabbed the mark and yelled, “Where are the presses?”

“I’ll tell the pilot to go once we’re safe. Now get us out of here,” he yelled back.

“He only takes orders from me. Don’t make me push your ass out, partner.” The mark looked out the door of the A-Star. Thor was only thirty yards away from him and coming fast.

“Fifteen miles northeast of here. A farmhouse.”

“Take us up,” Rosie told the pilot. He pulled back on the joystick and the A-Star lifted off. “Thanks,” Rosie told the mark and kicked the mark in the side, pushing him out of the helicopter. The mark fell six feet to the pad. His shoulder popped and bulged as the joint dislocated.

The A-Star flew away over the Alexandria, quickly lost in the night sky.

Thor reached the pad a second after the mark landed. Eros and Smooth arrived a moment later. The mark was moaning on the ground, holding his shoulder.

“You two take this shithead back to the truck before the shock wears off and he starts screaming,” said Thor. “Leave the shoulder out of place.” Eros and Smooth pulled the mark off the ground, not paying attention to his injury. They marched him back toward the hotel, Thor following tiredly.

“Nice work,” God told Thor when Thor passed him.

“Shut up.”

The valet had followed Eros’ instructions. The Suburban was waiting in front of the hotel entrance, engine running.

“Eros, Smooth, take the truck. God, you go with them. I’ll clean up this mess. You know what to do with our new friend here.” They got into the truck and drove off.

Ten minutes after the Suburban drove out of sight, a blue convertible pulled up in front of Thor. The leggy blonde was driving, her Stinger RPG and Rosie in the back seat.

Thor walked around the car and stared down at Rosie. “Did you get the location?”

“A farmhouse northeast of here,” said Rosie.

“Nice.” Thor hopped into the passenger’s seat. “Let’s go meet the boys, Daphne. We’ve got money to make.”

That’s all of Regulators, folks.  Maybe for now, maybe for good.  I haven’t decided yet.

Rosie looked the guy over and nodded. Not wanting to spend more time than necessary with the sleazy mark, she tapped a heel of her stiletto boots against her stool to get Thor ready for action.

“As long as you aren’t married or a frat boy looking for an easy lay, you can buy me a drink. If you’re one or the other, you can fuck off.”

“I assure you, I’m neither married nor a frat boy.”

“Then I’d love another rum and coke.” The man called over the bartender and gave his order for two Cuba Libres. Thor was listening to every word of their conversation through his earpiece.

The drinks arrived and the man pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, making sure Rosie saw that there were more where that bill came from. As the man started to hand the bill to the bartender, Rosie grabbed his arm. Pulling the hundred from his fingers, Rosie looked him in the eye and said, “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

The mark blinked and a smile spread over his face. Rosie pulled her knife and laid it on the bar. “Honey, it ain’t that kind of trip.”

The mark’s eyes widened in surprise and he turned to run, but fell over a bar stool and went down. He scrambled up from the ground and sprinted for the back door of the hotel.

Thor was around the bar in seconds, all pretense of drunkenness gone. He saw Eros and Smooth coming at the mark from both sides. Right behind them were four security guards, drawn by the sudden movements.

“Smooth, Eros, I need you to do something about those guards. Cause a little commotion. I’ve got the mark,” Thor said.

He saw them both turn and run at the two pairs of guards. The guards had no idea what was coming for them. Thor kind of felt sorry for them.

Twenty yards from the hotel doors, Thor caught up with the mark. He threw himself at the guy and tackled him to the ground. They rolled around on the ground, each trying to get a grip on the other. Thor was stronger, but the mark was fueled by pure desperation. The mark threw Thor off of him and Thor found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol.

“Who the fuck sent you?” demanded the mark. Thor raised his hands.

“We sent ourselves.”

“Do not lie to me. I will blow your goddamn head off if you don’t tell me who sent you.” Thor’s eyes flicked over the mark’s left shoulder for a split second before again staring the mark down. An arm holding a knife wrapped around the mark’s neck from behind, the point digging into his neck enough to draw a bead of blood.

“Drop the gun or I’ll cut your throat and pull your tongue through the hole. Give you a nice little necktie.” The mark sagged and let the gun dangle from his index finger. Rosie reached around and grabbed the pistol.

“Thanks, Rosie. Let’s get this guy inside.” Rosie stood by the door for sentry duty. Thor grabbed the mark and pushed him through the door, making sure the mark knew he had a gun in his hand. “Guys, bring it in. Meet me around front. We’re going home.”

Thor marched the mark through the hotel, into the entrance hall, and out the front doors. No one blinked at Thor holding a pistol to the guy’s back. The valet was waiting outside by the black Suburban.

“The desk clerk told me to bring your car around and leave it running.” He looked at the pistol pointed at the mark. “Will you be requiring any more assistance?” Thor shook his head and took the mark’s wallet out of his pocket. He threw the valet a hundred dollar bill and opened the back door to the truck. God was already in the seat, waiting patiently. Thor threw the mark onto the seat and handed God the pistol.

Eros and Smooth burst out of the hotel doors. Smooth jumped into the truck on the other side of the mark, pulling his own pistol. Eros got behind the wheel and cranked up the Diana Ross song on the radio. Thor got into the passenger seat and looked around behind him.

“Guys, where’s Rosie?

“What’re you talking about?” said Eros. “She ran into the hotel right behind you.”

“Something’s wrong,” said Thor.

Smooth reached over Thor’s left shoulder and pointed out the windscreen. “You’re damn right something’s wrong.”

Rosie stood in front of the truck, next to a leggy blonde aiming a Stinger missile at Thor. The feral look on her face terrified (and excited) each of the men. Rosie slowly sauntered over to Thor’s side of the truck and rapped on the window with a knuckle. Thor lowered the window and stuck his head out. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of Grey Poupon,” he said.

Before he could react, Rosie smacked him behind the ear with a blackjack. Thor slumped, his head still hanging out of the truck. Eros slowly moved his hand to the edge of the seat. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the .45 concealed there. Rosie stuck a submachine gun through the window, resting it on Thor’s head.

“Now, Eros, that wouldn’t be very nice. This little thing here is an MP-9 with a top-loading magazine of depleted-uranium hollow-points. If you didn’t insist on that silly little Colt, you’d know that my gun could cut you in half in under a second. So why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the show.”

Rosie kept the MP-9 pointed at Eros while she reached for the handle on Smooth’s door. She opened it and, using it as cover, moved the gun to target Smooth. “I’ll be taking our new friend here.” Smooth didn’t budge. “Now. Or I’ll have our associate blow us all to hell.” Smooth grabbed the mark’s arm and nearly threw him out the door. Rosie caught him as he stumbled.

“Sit here like nice boys until I’m back inside. Try anything and I’ll kill you all.” Rosie frog-marched the mark back inside the hotel.

“What are you going to do to me?” whimpered the mark.

“We, my good man, are going to make lots of money together.”

“What kind of game?” The voice was interested, but wary.

“It’s a drinking game. I pick something and you shoot it. If you miss, you drink. If you hit it, but someone sees you, you drink. But, if you hit it and no one sees it, then I drink. You in?”

“I don’t think Thor would be too happy with that. What the hell am I saying? Let’s do it.”

God ejected the magazine of .50 caliber rounds from his rifle and inserted .22’s. He wasn’t trying to stop a truck, after all.

The sound of a rifle being cocked came over the com-net. “What am I going for?” Smooth looked around the room.

“At the bar. The mango on the top of the fruit pile in that hideous silver bowl.” Smooth waited for a response, but nothing came over the mic. “Well? Are you going for it?”

“Look at the fruit again.” Smooth sauntered over to the fruit basket and looked at the mango. Well, where the mango used to be anyway. All that was remaining was a piece of the rind the size of a quarter.

“Damn you’re good. Maybe we should start calling you Smooth instead of me.” Another mango exploded. “Or maybe we’ll just stick with God.” A low chuckle came over the com-net.

“Take your drink. What’s next?” Smooth turned to the bartender and ordered a shot of Knob Creek. He tossed it down, wincing only a little bit, and slammed the shot glass on the bar. “That shit sucks. All right, next target. The guy in the khaki shorts and red polo shirt with the collar popped. He’s right on the edge of the dance floor. Smoking is bad for his health, so put it out for him.” Again, no response from God.

Smooth looked at the guy. The end of the cigarette disappeared in a haze of tobacco and sparks. “You’re scarily good at this, you know. But, unfortunately for you, his girlfriend saw the cigarette explode and cigarettes don’t often explode for no reason, now do they?”

“I already took my drink, so shut the hell up.”

“No can do, good buddy. Girlfriend’s throwing a fit over there.” The bleach-blonde woman was indeed throwing a fit. She was screaming for help, clawing at everyone around her. One woman, apparently mistaking the girlfriend’s panicked actions as an attempt to steal her man, punched the poor girl in the eye, threw her to the ground, then kicked her in the face.

“Move out of the way, I’m a doctor,” said Smooth, trying to push through the crowd that had gathered in anticipation of the cat-fight. “Give us some room.” Smooth pushed the attacking girl out of the way and knelt at the hysterical girl’s side. “She’s clearly been rolling on X. Someone call an ambulance.”

Three security guards and one hotel employee pushed through the departing crowd and walked up to the boyfriend. “What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know, we were talking and then she just started screaming. The doctor said she was on ecstasy, but I didn’t even know she did drugs.”

“Whoa, son, calm down. Where’s the doctor?”

“He’s right over there.” The security guard turned and looked, but Smooth had slipped off into the crowd.

Eros was the only one paying attention. He had wandered around the resort, trying to blend in. Not easy when you’re a six-foot tall albino with butterfingers. A trail of broken glass and cigarette butts littered the path he had taken. Eros stopped at one of the smaller side bars to get a drink to replace the one he had just dropped.

Fresh drink in hand, Eros wandered off again. He leaned against a lamppost, one ankle crossed over the other, scanning the resort over a newspaper he borrowed from the bartender. Inconspicuous. Through a gap in the crowd on the dance floor, Eros’s attention was caught by a bright red Hawaiian shirt and turquoise flight pants about twenty yards away.

“Guys, the mark is at the bar,” said Eros into his mic. “Looks like he’s been drinking for a while. Drink of choice is rum and coke. Too bad there’s only about two hundred guys trying to get a piece between him and Rosie.”

“Anyone with him?” asked Thor over the com-net.

“None that I see. Looks like Mr. Man is Han Solo tonight. Looking for some action, too, judging by the fact that he’s been hitting on anything that stops long enough. All we have to do is get him alone with Rosie. She can take it from there. That is, if she doesn’t knife him.”

Thor looked over at the bar. “We need a hole.”

Rosie had spent the evening sitting at the bar, looking bored. However, she was anything but bored. Hyper-vigilant would be a better way to describe her mood. Not out of nervousness or because of the mission, but in case someone tried to drug her drink. She had already caught two guys and nearly broke their fingers for it. One of them seemed to like the threat enough to try it again. She got his attention that time with a blade pressing his crotch and his fingers bent against the back of his hand.

“Don’t break anyone unless necessary. What kind of girl does Thor think I am?” she asked herself.

Rosie spent the time between each violation of her person sitting, demurely sipping her drink, and chatting with the bartender. She heard Eros say the mark was at the bar, but she couldn’t see him through all of her worshippers. “Need a hole?” she thought. A wicked glint came into her eyes. Rosie stood up and stretched over the bar to wave down the bartender. An oblivious guy slapped her ass and lingered for a pinch. The guy turned for his congratulations from his friends. Rosie turned around.

She tapped the offender on the shoulder. He turned around. “You want another one, sweetcheeks?”

“I want an apology, but since I can see I won’t be getting that, this’ll have to do.” She grabbed the guy by the shoulders and brought her knee sharply up into his groin. The guy screamed like a dying rabbit and fell over, bent in half. Rosie looked around at the other guys, her eyes daring them to do something. They ran.

“You wanted a hole, Thor. Well, a hole you got.”

“Shit, that makes me hurt.”

“What are you talking about, God” asked Thor.

“Rosie just took some guy out. Not many guys left between her and the mark.”

“Okay, I want everyone focused on the bar and ready to go in if Rosie needs help. I’m going over there.” Thor took off his shirt. With his looks and his pure-sex moves, Thor had no shortage of dance partners to flit through as he danced his way to the bar. Rosie didn’t have a corner on the hotness market after all.

Moving from shirtless, sweating stud to barely-dressed slut, Thor edged closer to the main bar. He stepped off the dance floor and assumed a stumbling, wavering walk to the bar.

“Another of these pink, umbrella-ey drinks,” he told the bartender, slurring a little. “And no coconut in this one.” He shot Rosie a look that said, “Are you all right? What the hell is going on?”

She looked back at him. Her eyes said, “Nothing I can’t handle.” Satisfied that she was all right for the moment, Thor took a seat at the end of the bar to wait.

“Damn, girl,” said Thor. “You’re gonna have to beat them off with a stick tonight.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Rosie lifted the edge of her skirt to reveal a knife strapped to her leg. “And I won’t need a stick,” she added with a pointed look at Smooth and God. Their jaws snapped shut and both visibly swallowed.

“Everyone set?” Each member of the Regulators nodded at Thor, faces set and sober. “Then let’s get going.”

The group hefted their black duffels and walked out to the Suburban waiting by the door. Eros was sitting in the driver’s seat, tapping his fingers to the beat of a Jackson 5 song. The team threw their bags in the back of the truck and crawled in.

“It’s about damn time,” Eros told Thor as soon as he opened the passenger-side door. “Starting to wonder whether this mission was going to happen.” Thor grunted, got in the vehicle, and slammed his door.

“Thirty minutes to the hotel from here. Try not to make it in fifteen this time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Eros. He lit a fresh cigarette, cracked his window, and turned up the radio before setting off for the hotel.

The streets had little traffic at this time of the day, so the drive took only twenty minutes. Eros was a little disappointed. “But the man said not fifteen,” he told himself.

“Welcome to the Alexandria,” said the valet. He started to get into the truck, but Eros grabbed his arm. “Park it out of the sun so the paint doesn’t fade. And if you get a scratch on it, I’ll rip your heart out.” The valet, looking indifferent, got in the truck. He squealed the tires a bit just to annoy Eros, who was about to go after the valet. Thor stepped in front of him.

“We don’t have the time for this.”

The lobby of the resort hotel was expensive-looking, almost to the point of gaudy. Marble floors shone with a mirror finish. Potted plants on small tables dotted the room. Plushy leather couches and chairs created a small social area. Thor ended up behind a group of frat boys looking for a good time and a family looking for a vacation as he waited in line at the front desk. The team took over the couches, sending out misanthropic vibes to those who looked as if they might approach.

Smooth grabbed a newspaper from a side-table. A bold-print headline read “SPRING BREAK VIOLENCE EXPECTED.” He chuckled and scanned the article about violent events in the past and safety tips on how to avoid getting hurt. The Alexandria was mentioned several times.

“‘We do not endorse violence,’” Smooth read aloud, “‘but neither do we search our guests belongings,’ stated the hotel’s Vice-President. Perhaps this is why, year after year, the Alexandria has more than its share of beatings, stabbings, and shootings—events none take notice of.

“The Alexandria is case-in-point of what tourist money does to a city. Not to sound like a socialist, but this reporter thinks….”

Ten minutes, a wishy-washy clerk, and a screaming child later, their reservations were confirmed, and the team rode the elevator up to the eighth floor. They were placed two to a room, leaving Thor the odd-man-out, but as soon as they had dropped off their duffels, everyone gathered in Thor’s room.

Thor stood for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window. The resort area behind the hotel was already full of partiers. Most had probably been at the bars all day, engaging in a stereotypical Spring Break vacation. Along the California beach, bonfires flared up to ward off the chill of the Pacific Ocean water. Thor brought his attention back to his room.

“All right, Regulators, here’s how it works. God, you have room 1017. Rosie, set up at the bar. Play it cool until you get our guy on the hook. And try not to break anyone unless it is absolutely necessary. I’ll be on the dance floor. Eros and Smooth, you’re our scouts. Questions? No? Then let’s go party.”

God grabbed the suitcase containing his rifle and walked to the stairwell. An older couple came down the hallway. The woman smiled at God. He bowed to her and tipped an imaginary hat. The couple chuckled and moved on.

God took the stairs up two floors. He found room 1017 without any trouble, but could not get the key card to work.

“Whatever happened to keys?” he muttered while jiggling both the card and the doorknob. Finally, he hit upon the right combination of jiggles and the door opened.

God tossed his suitcase on the bed and opened it, pausing for a moment to adore his baby. He took the parts of the Heckler & Koch MSG90 A1 precision rifle out of the molded foam interior and started to assemble them. Reticular scope locked onto stock, stock attached to barrel, firing pin inserted into stock, silencer screwed onto barrel. God slid a magazine of .50 caliber hollow-points into the rifle and chambered a round.

Out on the balcony, God took up position beside a knockoff of Michelangelo’s David. He rested the rifle against the crenellations of the balcony and used a pair of binoculars to survey the resort.

“God’s in place.”

The rest of the Regulators rode the elevators down to the first floor of the hotel. Thor waved at the wishy-washy desk clerk as they walked by. The clerk winked back at him. As soon as they were outside, the team separated and went to their appointed posts.

Thor snagged a drink and bee-lined for the dance floor. The music took over and for the duration of the song, he forgot where he was.

The last notes of the Vengaboys’ “Boom, Boom, Boom” faded out, only to have Ace of Base’s “I Saw the Sign” take its place. Thor looked around. Plenty of hotness, but no sign of the guy he was there for. The sun was just touching the horizon, bathing everyone in a golden glow. A white-uniformed hotel employee moved around lighting the tiki-torches scattered around the dance floor. Thor used one of the torches to light a cigarette, then drained his drink.

Instead of going to the main bar, Thor used one of the side bars to get another drink. “Damn, I hate these frou-frou drinks,” he thought. He sipped the pink shaved-ice concoction as he surveyed the dance floor and other bars.

“Where is that little bastard?” he muttered, but not quiet enough apparently.

“Honey, you must be new here,” said a man at the bar. “Rule one at the Alexandria: if you come with a man, you better leash him or you won’t be leaving with him.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t come here with anyone.” The man moved a little closer. Thor didn’t like the gleam in his eyes. “That is, I was supposed to meet him here.” The man didn’t back away. “Oh, there he is, on the dance floor. Well, I’ll just go meet him, shall I. See you around.” Thor nearly sprinted to the middle of the dance floor, twisting his way through the crowd of bodies.

It boils down to a division between skill and talent.  Bad writers can learn the skills, but not the talent.  Good writers have the talent, but rudimentary skills.  Show a good writer how to have exceptional skills and she will become a great writer.

I won’t venture a guess as to whether writing talent is innate or something learned as children.  I do know that nearly all of the good/great writers I’ve known wrote as children.  Some of them gave it up in their teens and young adulthood, before going back to it later in life.  But they started writing as children.

Does this make me a hypocrite?  Possible.

Does this make me controversial?  Definitely.

Does it make me wrong?

The absence of creaking floorboards upstairs and the noiseless radio tells me I’m here alone. Just me and my mother. She making noise, me sitting in silence. A silence as tight and heavy with the potential for sudden momentum as a piano wire in the moment right before the hammer falls.

Later, at debate tournaments, I’ll hear that “silence is compliance.” But in this room, silence is also impotence. My mother doesn’t want me to know she is crying, so I have to sit here and do nothing. The silence is also comforting. So, in the paradox of mathematical human life, impotence is comforting.

* * *

My mother is crying in her bedroom. I can feel each sob altering my heartbeat like a galloping bass riff. The air is chilly, raising slight goosebumps along my forearms. Curling up on the couch, I pull a blanket around my shoulders, a soft caress of slightly rough cloth. It’s the same feel as my mother’s hands, not the silky smooth touch of an easy life, but slightly rough and worn from years of use.

The silence is a weight on my chest, a vibration on my skin. I feel it moving, swirling around me, sometimes bumping me, leaving a hot spot on my otherwise icy body.

* * *

My mother is crying in her bedroom. A bitter taste coats the back of my tongue. The taste of adrenaline and fear. A new taste. A primal precursor to fight or flight. I try to wash it out with water, but the chlorine taste only adds to the bitter and spreads it around my mouth. It fades after a while, but the phantom of it remains buried somewhere in my brain, haunting my tongue, teasing my tastebuds with its memory.

Silence has a taste all its own. The taste of burnt air after a lightning strike combined with oxidized copper shavings and heavy fog. Chemical and salty. A taste that sits heavy on the tongue, pulling it to the bottom of the mouth—a weighted, treacherous sailor plunging to the depths, struggling to rise, but inevitably resting on the soft, sandy bed below.

* * *

My mother is crying in her bedroom. On a normal Saturday morning, the house would be filled with the smells of breakfast—bacon and eggs, or pancakes, perhaps oatmeal. My mother knows the importance of smell to pleasure. But this is not a normal Saturday. Today, there is only the smell of burning coffee drifting through the house, mixing with the honeysuckle scent blowing through the open windows.

From my blanket, the slight stench of stale cigarette smoke and bleach—remnants of recent visitors—an aunt and uncle, my mother’s brother and sister—reaches my nose, tickling the back of my throat. I pull the blanket tighter around me, disregarding the increased odor of cigarettes and burrow into the home-smell of the couch.

* * *

My mother is crying in her bedroom. Everything is shades of grey. I’m a small grey-skinned, white-haired boy curled up on a dark grey couch. The white curtains darken as they flap and flutter with the wind. The floors are stained as black as dried blood.

Silence here is an eclipse, a corona. It will burn my retinas if I look directly at its white hot glare, blinding me to the world around me, while opening up new avenues of perception. The glare blazes through my life, cleaning, sterilizing, leaving only pristine, ashy colors.