Zephyrus of the Anemoi

I am really excited about Apple’s announcement from yesterday (I started writing this yesterday when the excitements was significantly higher, but got pulled away and finished tonight). iBooks Author and the new textbooks available through iBooks are an amazing thing for educators, students, and publishers. As an employee of an educational institution, I’m looking forward to seeing how excited students are to use iBooks for education. Even more exciting is the possibility of teachers using iBooks Author to create their own texts to expand upon the content of other textbooks or their own lesson plans.

To really see just what can be done with iBooks Author and how it compares to exporting an ebook from Pages, I took a short story I wrote back in 2005 and made both an iBook in iBooks Author and an ePub in Pages. The iBook only works on an iPad and is fixed in its format, so if you have trouble with small text, you better hope that the iBook you’re reading uses large enough letters for you. The ePub works on both iPhone and iPad (or any other ebook reader that supports ePub) and in many different ebook apps. However, only the iBooks app displays the ePub properly. Bluefire zoomed in on the embedded image, making it look strange and Stanza shifted it to the right for some strange reason.

Anyway, if you’d like to compare the two formats yourself, I’ve made them both available for download here:

Wanderings – iBooks format

Wanderings – ePub format

(The photo in both versions of the book is copyright Wayne Silver, distributed via Creative Commons Attribution 2.0)

Commander Joseph Lynch sat silently, waiting.

“You are clear for space walk, Commander. Good luck out there.”

The voice echoed inside Joe’s helmet. He had a very important task ahead, and he tried to focus on it. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts wandered.

Little Joey Lynch gripped the bat tightly. He watched the pitcher start the wind-up. Here came the throw. Joey brought the bat around as hard as he could. He missed entirely.

“Don’t worry, Joe!” shouted his dad, as Joey ran to get the ball. “Just keep your eye on the ball. Watch it all the way into the bat. You can do it. I believe in you!”

Joey was the smallest kid on his little league team. His birthday had been about a week before the cut-off date for Kindergarten and his parents had sent him, anyway. Being the youngest kid in class had always made sports a bit harder for Joey. He was smart, probably the smartest kid in school. Except for Joanna. She was able to pick things up even faster than Joey. He didn’t mind, though. He thought she was cute.

But, unfortunately, as the years had passed, being smart wasn’t enough to fit in. And so, Joey had decided to join the little league team that summer. Unfortunately, he had never hit a ball in his life.

“Okay, kiddo,” his dad started, “here it comes!”

The pitch sailed toward him and Joey swung with all his might. The bat connected with the ball, but just barely. It deflected the ball behind him, where it missed his mom’s car by a few inches.

“Whoops!” His dad cringed as the ball very nearly landed them both in hot water. “Maybe we should change our angle just a little bit.”

As Joey moved into position, his dad approached him for a little father-son coaching moment.

“Okay, now, Joe,” his dad began. “This is it. This is the one. I can feel it on this pitch. This is your pitch. Can you feel it?”

Joey nodded his head. His dad handed him the ball for a moment. Joey could feel the weight of it in his hand.

“Did I ever tell you what Grandpa used to say about a baseball, Joe?”

Joey shook his head. Dad didn’t talk about Grandpa as much as he thought he did.

“Grandpa said, ‘The act of throwing a baseball is a very important thing. A piece of the pitcher goes with that ball. A bit of his soul. If he loves the game enough, every player that touches that ball leaves a piece of himself behind. A baseball is so much more than a piece of equipment for a game: it’s dirt and earth and sweat and even tears. Every player that plays the game for love is left behind, long after the game is over.”

Joey didn’t quite understand what his dad meant, but he knew it was important. His dad wiped away a tear that had snuck down his face. Joey pretended not to see.

“When I throw this pitch, a piece of me is coming at you. And that piece of me is going to guide that ball right to your bat. And when you hit it this time, a piece of you is going to join me on a journey the likes of which neither of us has ever seen. Now, are you ready?”

Joey nodded, and choked up on the bat. His dad walked back up the alley to the makeshift “mound” he had kicked in the gravel. He pulled back his arm and threw the ball. Joey stepped forward, pulled on the bat as hard as he could and—CRACK! The ball sailed up and over his dad’s head, way down the alley. Joey jumped up and down as his dad rushed to him and held him up in the air.

“I knew you could do it!”

Joey ran to where the ball fell, picked it up, and–

“Sir?”

Commander Joseph Lynch snapped back to his current situation. The voice from inside the ship echoed through his helmet once more.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Joe responded. “I’m ready to do this.”

“Very good, sir. You are clear to proceed at any time.”

Joe relaxed, took a deep breath, and pulled a baseball out of one of the pockets on his EV suit. “Standing” as best he could in the vacuum of space, Joe hurled the baseball as hard as possible. It sailed out of sight into the black.

“So long, dad. Enjoy the journey. I know I will.”

The rifle stock pressed firmly against my shoulder. A bead of sweat slid lazily through my right eyebrow. I knew it would be a problem soon, but I shrugged it off. My head tilted awkwardly to one side, as I struggled to peer through the eyepiece of the scope on the rifle. I was no marksman. I wasn’t afraid to admit that.

I slowly exhaled and let the crosshairs fall across the target. Nice and easy, I thought to myself. One more breath.

The bead of sweat dripped from my brow and into my eye. It stung a little, but not as much as missing my mark would. I took a deep breath and held it for a 2-count. I exhaled. My finger shifted ever-so-slightly.

Fwip.

The pellet gun made barely a sound as the round was thrust mightily from the chamber, down the barrel and across the backyard toward the target: an aluminum can propped up on a cardboard box. I listened for the tell-tale metal-on-metal crunch that meant I’d scored a hit. I watched intently for that moment when the can, filled to the brim with water from the old caulk bucket the dog drinks from, exploded in a spray of sparkling light reflected skyward.

Nothing. Missed again.

The chuckle came from behind me, as I lowered the rifle and proceeded to offer it to my dad.

“You missed,” he prodded. “The point is to hit the can, you know.”

“You haven’t hit it yet either,” I retorted, a little more defensively than I expected. He took the rifle from my hands and loaded another pellet. His massive arms primed the rifle for another shot.

“No, but I’m going to hit it before you will.”

Big talk. From both of us. Only minutes earlier, my 7-year old son fired his very first shot and hit the target dead-on. I’d never been more proud in my life, and I abhorred violence.

“Your grandson hit it before you did. First try.”

Dad laughed. There was a mixture of pride and jealousy in his voice as he said, “Little shit.” We both laughed. My dad was funny when he cursed. It was one of his more endearing traits.

He took aim. He didn’t waste time trying to calm himself. He didn’t try any breathing techniques to steady his shot. He just pointed, sighted, and fired.

He missed.

I took the rifle from him and put my pellet into the chamber. I took my shot. I missed.

I shrugged and handed Dad the rifle. “Why don’t you just hit it already, so our pissing match can be over.”

He took the rifle, loaded it, and steadied it in his hands. I looked on in silence as a calm fell across the yard. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as his finger tightened.

The can erupted in a brilliant display of color. Sunlight fractured as it passed through hundreds of water droplets. A loud twang resounded across the cornfield, ripe and ready for harvest. The can spun in place, torn nearly in two by the force of the water begging to escape through the newly-formed rupture. It must have taken less than a second, but it felt like ten. The can fell off the back of the cardboard box. Water was already soaking into the corrugated paper, leaving a mark behind. Like bloodstains, reminding any unfortunate passer-by that something horrendous had happened in that very spot.

“Your shot,” he said, as he handed me the rifle. I took it without a word, and grinned.

Okay, I’ve been putting off posting this for a while, because I’m always afraid of non-constructive criticism. But, I am tired of looking at it sitting there, waiting for me to post it. So here you go. This is my nearly-complete, but eternally-unfinished screenplay. I’d love to hear any and all feedback you have on it. Tell me what works, what doesn’t, what’s funny, what’s not, what scenes you think are missing.

Untitled Love Story

Click to open. Option-click on a Mac to download. Right-click and choose “Save As…” in Windows to do the same.

I love the sound of the wind through the leaves
As a summer storm rolls in at the 11th hour
The windows are open and I can feel the breeze pass over my sore shoulders and tired face
I breathe deep, the cool Midwest breeze; Westerly is its name
I am reminded of storms gone by, as I so often am at the end of summer
As the great giant’s footsteps are heard rumbling across the plains
Th pitter-patter of thousands of thousands tumble across my ears
I repress the urgent need to feel the drops kiss my skin, instead turning toward my bed
I lay awake and listen
Listen
If all nights could be this sweet

Beware the wold, the gimble in the wabe. For midnight comes and nocturnal desires thrash in the pitch. Knowledge is deadly, but death is cheap. Cut its purse and flee, for the raven and the mockingbird seek refuge.

All is not yet lost… yet you are.

Your skin shines in the firelight
And I can feel your heart beat against my chest
Waiting
Ever so impatiently for my embrace
A simple caress
Soft lips on smooth skin
Trembling
Your eyes sparkle and dance as the light plays around the room
Shadows flicker
Watching hungrily
Waiting to devour you
As I devour you
Your lips part in ecstasy and your eyes roll back
A soft cry escapes your lips before it is stifled
Your lack of breath makes it so
As does my kiss
Warmth pulsing, throbbing, draining
Until you go cold
Ecstasy gone as if life itself
I move on
Searching and hungry for more

• chemical impulses course throughout
• bio-electricity races across the surface
• irises dilate, optic nerves fill with light
• respiration heightens, oxygenated blood fills the head
• skin tingles as nerves hit full alert
• hair stands up, reaching for tactile connection
• heart pounds behind calcium prison bars, threatening to break free
• endorphins explode in the brain, near-perfect bliss
…first kiss

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

It followed her to school one day.
Which was against the rule.
It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.

And so the teacher turned it out
But still it lingered near.
And waited patiently about
To kill the teacher here.

It waited for the bell to ring,
That half-demonic sheep.
And when the teacher stepped outside
Its vengeance she did reap.

It slit her throat from ear to ear.
It bit out her left eye.
Then Mary and the children came
To see dear teacher die.

The first few screamed and ran about.
A handful gasped and cried.
Mary’s wicked smile though
Was followed by a sigh.

And when the heathen sheep did roar
And spray red death around,
The children no more ran nor played
But wound up in the ground.

And Mary rode her demon sheep
Into the gates of Hell,
Where she did take the twisted crown
And forever wore it well.

The crazy man counts stripes in the suits in the department store window.
His wife, at home, waits patiently, wishing he were home.
A sketchy young man checks to see if he’s being watched before he pulls out his phone.
Checking in with his girlfriend in the middle of the day, he does not want to be seen by his friends.
A woman stands secretively behind a column, smoking her last cigarette before she quits.
It’s too late, her child already addicted to the nicotine sticks of death.
My walk back to work from lunch was unique.