Yes, I know.  "Daily" writing.  Bite me.  Today's assignment:

Write something using the following words: Crystal, Lemon, Mob, Mosaic, Pension, Plastic, Revolving, Skeleton, Striped, and Water.

Well, the first thing to come to mind is...

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"This was not at all like the brochure." Wil thought.

It was getting towards the end of the year and Wil had to either use his vacation days or lose them.  Never an outdoorsman, he tended towards more urban vacation spots.  But that had begun to lose its charm and after visiting Washington D.C. for the third time in a row, he had decided to get something abut more rustic this time.  So he had contacted a vacation rental service nearby and arranged to stay in a quiet, wooded cabin.

Even for someone who avoided nature whenever possible, the pictures he had found online were compelling.  They showed a small, but charming, cabin set on the edge of a clearing with the rear almost to the tree line.  A good-sized creek ran past the side of the house less than twenty yards from the building.  The photos had obviously been taken in the autumn because the ground was a mosaic of colors -- red, orange, brown, yellow, and everything in between.  There was even a front porch in clearly good repair that ran the entire width of the house and hooked around to one side.  It featured several ceiling fans, rocking chairs, and some scattered tables.  Wil pictured himself rocking lazily on the porch under the slowly revolving fans, maybe with a cold glass of iced tea with lemon by his elbow while he looked out over the crystal-clear water of the creek.

Though he had never fished before in his life, Wil has stocked up on fishing equipment on his drive to the cabin.  He had left the store with six plastic bags stuffed with gear.  The brochure had indicated that the creek was home to a great number of striped bass and he has picked up some lures in the store specially made for them.

The infestation of hornets was the first hint that all was not as advertised.  Wil wasn't prepared for them but he made do with shaving cream and a needle to at least incapacitate them while he was there.  Then he found out that the kitchen sink was broken.  Apparently the water supply to it had just been shut off without any attempts at repairing it.  And while the ground might have been nicely littered with colored leaves a few months ago, in early December the ground was a brown mush of dirt and decaying leaves.

But none of that compared to what Wil found when he decided to try out his new fishing equipment.  After unpacking all of his new gear and leaving blister packs all over the front porch, he pulled the most stable-looking rocking chair (most looked near collapse) by the lake and cast his line in.  And then he waited.  And waited.

The creek was narrow but still quite deep and he kept snagging branches and litter.  But no fish.  So when he tried to reel in his line and felt a strong resistance, he just sighed resignedly and stood up to peer into the murky water.

The sight of a human skeleton leering up at him caused his heart to begin pounding wildly and he felt weak.  When he saw that the skeleton was being held under water with a bundle of chains, he remembered the stories of that mob lawyer that had been involved in a pension scam and then suddenly disappeared.

Wil quietly cut his line and resolved to spend the rest of his "restful" vacation inside.

Today's writing assignment:

What’s your favorite picture? Is it a photo, piece of artwork in a gallery, or even something you or your child did at school. Choose your favourite image and describe what it is, and why it’s important to you.

That's a tricky one.  Not because I have so many things to choose from but just the opposite.  I don't have a lot of artwork that's mine, and I haven't spent a lot of time in museums or familiarized myself with art.  And while I've taken a lot of photos, none really jump out as being exceptional.  Maybe if I printed one now and then.

While I was in college, decorating the basement room in my parents' house, I discovered Barewalls.  They (and I'm sure dozens of other sites) sell cheap reproductions of artwork.  So what I would do is purchase some prints from them and then frame them myself and hang them on the wall.

Somehow getting a $10 print and putting it into a $15 frame from Target, without a mat, then randomly hanging them evenly spaced on every wall didn't have quite the classing-up effect I had expected.

Anyway, here are some of the prints I ordered:

First we start with my favorite M.C.: Escher.

The Waterfall - this one is a twist on his more familiar drawing of an unending staircase.  Here, at least, it doesn't look like there's anything particularly non-Euclidian about it.  Not to me, anyway.  It's just obviously not possible.

I had this one in the bathroom which was really funny for reasons that I've forgotten.



Spheres - M. C. Escher did a lot of drawings like this where he played with reflection and different refractions on various objects.  I think this is the only one, though, that includes a reflection of him drawing the picture.  Thought it was pretty neat.



Cycle - this one always creeped out my sister.  It basically shows some imp-like creatures running down stairs to become the structure of the building itself.  Just another in his tesselation drawings.


And, of course, what college-age right-wing nutjob's bedroom/office/living room would be complete without some patriotic art?


The Spirit of '76 - I'm not entirely sure why.  I assumed at the time that since it was popular that it would look good in my room.  Same with...

The Declaration of Independence.

I can at least console myself with the knowledge that I didn't have some huge eagle painting with red, white, and blue talons, crying a tear made of children's prayers, etc.

I wanted some Salvador Dali paintings but, frankly, a lot of his stuff is just too spooky to keep in the bedroom.  I'd be afraid the walls would start melting or something...

There is one painting I have kept and keep hanging in my office as we've moved around since then:



The Prayer at Valley Forge.  I splurged on this one and wasn't disappointed.  It's beautiful and looks great on the wall.  So this would probably have to be my favorite of them (gradually getting back to the original point of what was supposed to be a writing exercise).

Yes, I know.  He was a deist.  Or theist.  Or whatever.  And, yes, while it is documented that he regularly prayed throughout the war and especially at Valley Forge, he never mentions Jesus once but it's all about some unnamed God or Providence.

But still.  That the future first President and the man that shaped the destiny of the world, really, would kneel down to God and ask for help is still a powerful picture.  Nice details all through it too, especially on his uniform and on the horse.

The plate at the bottom contains a quote from his military retirement announcement in 1783:

"I consider it an indispensable duty to close this last solemn act of my official life by commending the interests of our dearest country to the protection of the Almighty God and those who have the superintendence of them into His Holy keeping."

So there.

Moving along from yesterday...  I promise this one doesn't end with anyone drunk, dead, or hopeless.

The ink hadn’t quite dried on the certificate when...

---

The ink hadn't quite dried on the certificate when Peter was in his neighborhood Christian bookstore looking for some generic clerical vestments.  His sister's wedding was in three days and he had finally prevailed upon her to let him become ordained over the Internet so he could perform her wedding.

A friendly-looking clerk approached him as he entered  the store.  He was tall and thin, dressed in a suit that was open at the neck.  "Anything I can help you find, sir?"

Peter smiled, "Actually, yes.  I'm looking for some minister-like clothes.  See, I'm marrying my sister in a few days and I want to look the part."

"Sorry, you're..." the man looked to his left and right and then back to Peter, a slight smile on his lips.  "You're marrying your sister?  So, why..."

Understanding his confusion, Peter laughed.  "No, no."  He held his hands up.  "I'm officiating.  I'm doing the wedding.  She's marrying someone else entirely.  Someone else.  Not me.  Named George."  The clerk pursed his lips but seemed to let it go.

"Right.  What, ah, denomination are you looking for?"

"Oh.  Well, actually, I have no idea.  She's Baptist, I guess, so whatever's that is.  I just got ordained on the Internet so I'm not all that choosy as to the dress.  Just something appropriate for that."

An hour and $180 later, Peter left the store with some generic Protestant robes and a service book with the right words to say...

---

Long day - continued tomorrow...

Today's exercise has three different prompts so I'm going to save the others for the weekend.  Here's today's:

Leoni looked around her - all those years of learning, of dreaming, and all she had to show for it was...

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Leoni looked around her - all those years of learning, of dreaming, and all she had to show for it was a half-empty bottle of oxycodone.  That and a half dozen diplomas that now weren't worth the paper they were printed on.

It had seemed such a safe specialty.  It wasn't like she was a surgeon or oncologist.  Most of her contact with patients took place in her office and everyone had very common, predictable problems.  Leoni was convinced she had it under control - she only binged on the weekends and was sure to never drink more than she could handle when she was on call.

She would console herself with the fact that she knew so many other doctors that had a "real" problem.  It started with parties in med school - just to blow off some steam after they'd been studying so hard.  Then, once they had all graduated they went on to internship... and the stress just increased from there.  Now they could write prescriptions for each other.  Combine that with the powerful and omnipotent state of mind that had been drilled into their heads for years and it wasn't surprising what happened.  She had an ethical qualm from time to time, but her friends would remind her that they were qualified to make those decisions.  I have a medical need for it, it is an appropriate medicine for the problem, and I am qualified to make the decision.  Problem solved.

There were times, too, where she had miscalculated her tolerances and been a little buzzed when meeting with patients.  Nothing serious, and they hardly noticed.  So much of it she could do in her sleep anyway, and the techs and nurses took care of a lot of the work too.  They'd come in and stick an ultrasound film under her nose.  All she had to do was count the limbs and make sure it looked right.  Sometimes she'd have to identify the sex or check the nuchal translucency to test for Down's.

She had it all under control, at least until a couple months ago.  It had been a long week at work and she was celebrating the end of it at home.  Some friends had come over earlier but had gone home two hours ago so she was left alone with her wide variety of alcohol.  Another hour after that and she was passed out, asleep, on a couch.

Surprisingly, even in her deep sleep, her phone managed to cut through and wake her up.  She never had any problem with that either and it was a point of pride.  If I was really out of control then I wouldn't be able to hear the phone.  Leoni stumbled over to it and checked the display - it was a voicemail from that Jenkins lady.  Again.  She'd had three cases of false labor so far and no doubt this was another.  This is going to go on for another month still, she's nowhere near ready to pop yet.

Leoni found her purse and walked outside to hail a cab in order to meet Mrs. Jenkins at the hospital.  And on my day off, too.  This better not take long.

After paying the driver she went straight to the coffee shop in the waiting area of the hospital.  She then made her way to the maternity ward and sipped at her steaming coffee while waiting for her patient and trying to clear her head out some.  Should just take 20 minutes or so.  We'll wait, nothing will happen, and we can both go back home.

But her patient was very much in real labor, though it progressed quite slowly.  After a while Leoni's bitterness and irritation at being interrupted on her day off began to eat into her patience and she ordered pitocin.  Unfortunately, as early on as the labor was, this only made the problem worse and her labor dragged on for hours.

When the time finally came she discovered the vacuum hookup in the room wasn't operational.  The nurse began getting Mrs. Jenkins ready for transfer to another room but Leoni decided to do it "the old fashioned way" and got out the forceps.

It was that decision that was the main one leveled against her in the ensuing malpractice trials.  Will Jenkins had suffered permanent nerve damage due to misuse of the forceps and was paralyzed from the neck down.

She had plenty of malpractice insurance, of course.  And she did eventually win the trial as it was impossible to prove that she was intoxicated at the time.  But the hospital knew.  It wasn't the first time it had happened and several staff members from the hospital testified at her hearing before the State Licensing Board.  In the end, her license was revoked and with it she was now opened up to a number of criminal and civil trials as the Board had found her to have practiced medicine while under the influence.

The hospital did recommend a number of treatment programs that she could go into and she promised to look at them very closely.  But inside she couldn't see any reason to.  Regardless of what that Board says, I still know what I know.  I'm still a doctor at heart and I know what I can take and what I can't.  I'll be fine.

---

Yeah, so, just a footnote to that.  I've noticed that they've been kind of grim to start out with.  It comes easier than cutesy, so sue me.  But I've got some nicer ones lined up - at least one this weekend.  So hang in there with me.

Turns out yesterday's exercise was actually for today.  So I'm doing yesterday's today.  Got that?

Write a scene where a character faces some kind of moral dilemma, what do they do about it?

---

"It shouldn't be snowing.  It's only October."

It was odd that that would be the first thing that would occur to Rick when he stepped out of the armored SUV, but he couldn't help but notice it.  He looked up at the sky, trying in vain to see the sun.  He would occasionally catch glimpses of it as a thinner patch of soot and smog passed by but it was shortly hidden again.  The winds were blowing strongly.  Something they weren't entirely prepared for.

He had come to see the situation for himself.  The decision facing him was too great to do any less.

The caravan he was in was almost completely stopped now.  He heard car doors slam behind him and people approaching - advisors and assistants mostly.  Behind them was the press bus.  And behind them...

If only the National Guard would arrive, but they were still 12 hours out.  The attack had hit them hard too and they were having trouble getting mobilized.  They had, at least, been prepared for this danger.  The crew he had brought were volunteers and bureaucrats.  Not that the Guard was any more prepared for the fallout than his crew, but at least they had signed on expecting their life could some day be in danger.  Since he had taken over as FEMA Administrator, Rick always kept the security of his agents as a top priority.  Now he had scores of doctors and trucks full of medical equipment behind him ready to go, but it would be weeks before the radiation levels were low enough to safely send them in.

For that matter, how much was there to gain?  Anyone in the downtown area would have been vaporized instantly.  Anyone else who had been exposed to a lethal amount of radiation would be dead soon anyway, regardless of what they did.  There was no way to help but to make them comfortable before they died.  Was it worth exposing his team to the very real chances of sterility, cancer, even death, just to make some peoples' passing a little easier?

The President had left the decision up to him.  A brave decision there - she at least had the cover of the office in making decisions like that.  Regardless of which decision he made there was sure to be enough outcry to ensure he wasn't Administrator for much longer.  Of course as soon as that bomb had gone off all bets were off anyway.

His deputy came up behind him without saying a word.  They were both staring at the wreckage in front of them.  The road they were on had once been a complex interstate interchange.  Most of the elevated ramps had collapsed and fallen, fracturing into several pieces upon impact.  Fortunately their road was still unblocked so they had a clear path into the Yellow Zone.

"What are the radiation levels like?" he asked his deputy.

"Falling but still very dangerous.  Once we pass 5 miles within I-285 it'll start getting life-threatening."

Rick nodded, same as the last reading.  There were radiation suits, but certainly not enough to go around.  They would have to setup a base camp in the Green Zone somewhere and ferry people back and forth in shifts to make sure no one stayed there too long.  Still, no help for it.  People would get sick.  Best he could do is try to minimize it until new supplies came in.

"Tell them to begin setting up a camp and start sending people in as soon as possible."

"Will do.  Are you going to stay here and supervise the setup?"

Rick thought of his wife and daughter back in Washington, safe.  He looked up at the sky again and slowly shook his head.  "No, you can take it from here.  I'll be needed in DC anyway."  Then, to his driver, "Back to the helipad."

Today's comes from Wake Up Writing!

Use all of the 10 words listed below in a piece of fiction or non-fiction.   The order doesn’t matter, all that matters is that you use them all.

Accelerate, Copious, Fluid, Jaded, Mundane, Plastic, Rustic, Savannah, Traumatized, Windchimes

---

The lights were dimming again.

That was never a good sign.  Usually the tests' effects were well-confined by the tons of soil surrounding the particle accelerator.  That it could affect systems so far out meant that they were testing it at the higher energy levels again.

Of course the bar's rustic lighting and antique power generator were perfectly capable of having brownouts on their own, but Craig could see the filaments flickering in a regular, staccato pattern.  It was them all right.  They were the reason he was topside in the first place, trying to forget those damned cylinders with copious amounts of local-made vodka.  It didn't look like vodka.  For one thing it was far more viscous than it should be and it left a slight discoloration on the glass as the sloshed the fluid around.  The first time he'd tried it he was too traumatized to look at a drink for a month.  But you got used to it after a while.  Anyway, it was the only thing to be had.

It was weird; everything up here seemed so mundane.  He looked out from his vantage point across the wide African savannah.  He'd long become jaded to the view; choosing to spend what free time he had at the nearby village rather than in the center's recreation facility.  Still, he couldn't ignore the vastness of it all.  Nothing but untouched wilderness as far as he could see.  So much freedom... but where could he go?  They controlled all transportation out, and it would be foolish to try to escape on foot.  There hadn't been lions in the area for years, due to all of the hunting in the area, but there were plenty of other creatures just waiting for someone foolish and clumsy to just wander by.  Being drunk didn't help much either, but that was becoming his constant state.

A sound like windchimes brought him out of his reverie.  His phone was reminding him that his shift was due to start in 20 minutes.

A short walk brought him back to the complex.  The only evidence of its existence was a gentle curve of earth rising to a height of just 8 feet over the ground.  The ground sloped down sharply as he approached it and the earthen walls eventually gave way to steel and reinforced concrete.  He detached the plastic card from his belt and touched it to a sensor inset into the wall.  An LED glowed green and the hand geometry sensor lit up, indicating the next step in the authentication process.  After passing that, and entering a password, the door unlocked with a loud clank.

Now that the door was open he could hear the machinery running in the distance.  He didn't have to see it to imagine the particles flying around in the gigantic underground supercollider - constantly accelerating with each pass.  It was only a matter of time, really.  They'd succeeded in creating an infinitesimally-small singularity and were trying to get the mass up enough to see some real, measurable data.

His work, though, was on the cylinders.  Always with those damned cylinders.  Sometimes in his sleep he could see them: tumbling end over end, their edges blurred until he could no longer tell if they were five inches long or five million.  In reality, they were much longer than that.  It was a curious effect, being able to have infinitely-long cylinders constrained within a finite space.  A byproduct of some of the stuff the guys in Area 17 were working on, he imagined.

Someday he'd escape, he knew.  They would find him eventually.  There was no doubt about that.  But hopefully he'd be able to get out the word first about what was going on down there.

Wordlessly he activated his local terminal and began his work on the tumbling calibrations for the day.

Someday.