A Closer Encounter

Hi everyone! Welcome back. I thought this story was finished because I had intended it to make you feel like I was leaving you hanging. Now that I can see how popular it is, I just can’t deny you more. I thought of doing a ‘spin off’ story but opted for a series instead. I hope you’ll enjoy this one as much as the first. If you haven't seen it yet, it's here A Close Encounter.

A Closer Encounter

I tried to rub the soreness out of my shoulder and immediately decided that was a bad idea. It felt bruised. I rolled up the sleeve of my oversized nightshirt. There was a nasty bruise with a puncture mark in the center. It reminded me of a venomous spider bite only it wasn’t swollen. I wondered if I should show it to my dad then immediately dismissed the idea. He’ll make me go to a doctor for it. No. I’d wait a day or so and see if it would heal itself.

I was sure at this point that the night before was not a dream. The memory felt like a dream, as vague as it was, and the way it seemed to be fading from me by the minute. The creatures stayed in my thoughts, however. I never believed in aliens before that. If I hadn’t had such a clear picture of them in my mind, I might have thought up some excuse for the bruise on my shoulder and the marks across my arms and legs. Those marks were exactly where the straps had been tightly fastening me to their surgical table. I wondered what they’d done to me.

I heard the cuckoo clock ticking in the hallway, and the rustling of my dad’s newspaper. Everything seemed normal, so I’d try and have a normal day. I looked at the clock in my room. It was already seven. I rushed to get ready for school and ran down the stairs and into the sunlit kitchen for a quick breakfast.

“It lives!” my dad shouted over his paper in a horrible Dr Frankenstein impression. He always teased me like that, and I think his bad impressions made it funnier. “I thought you were meeting Lizzie before school today?”

“Yeah she’ll wait for me.” I assured him as I grabbed a slice of toast. Lizzie was my best friend and she was used to me running behind. “We walk together every day you know.” I was tired and feeling a little irritated.

I finished my toast and ran back to my room and was picking up my backpack when I heard the doorbell. There she is. I smiled to myself as I headed back toward the stairs.

“Janie!” my dad was the only person who called me that. I rolled my eyes at him as I went out the door with Lizzie.

We walked together to school like always. I needed to tell somebody about what had happened the night before, but I was scared. I was scared nobody would take me seriously, and that they’d make fun of me, or try to make me get psychiatric help. I told her about the whole ordeal as though I was recounting a dream. It was easy to tell it that way since most of it was pretty fuzzy by then. Lizzie listened to me intently. She was fascinated with dreams. She tried to decipher the possible meanings of a dream like that and decided that I was just worried about some test coming up or something. I didn’t show her any of the marks left on my body.

Lizzie and I didn’t have very many of the same classes so when we got to the school, we went our separate ways. By the end of my second class, the marks from the straps had faded, but my shoulder was still aching. I couldn’t concentrate all day. I kept thinking about the night before and trying to convince myself it was just a dream.

That night, I didn’t want to sleep in my room. After my dad went to bed, I settled myself on the old green tartan couch in our cluttered yet cozy living room, to watch a movie. I picked out a long boring movie and fell asleep watching it. It was dazzlingly bright in the room when I started to wake up. It must be morning, I thought. I didn’t hear the movie playing anymore. I stretched and opened my eyes. I stared in horror as I recognized the light and the creature it illuminated. It was alone. Why was it alone? I thought about yelling for my dad, or just screaming.

“Please don’t scream.” It was that strange singing language, but somehow, I understood it that time.

It reached to its belt, I cringed with fear and let out a small squeak. It pushed one of the many buttons that adorned the belt and the light slowly dimmed so that it wasn’t blinding me anymore but still illuminated the living room. I let out a sigh of relief but remained frozen. What did it want with me?

It was a little different from the others I’d seen the night before. Its head was bald and smooth with no sign of any type of hair or crest. In the middle of its forehead was what looked like a scar but as I looked, I could see that there had once been a horn there. There was a tiny bit of it still visible as though it had been sawed off. It looked at me with its pale green eyes. It seemed concerned, as though it didn’t want to be there.

picture provided by Mesa Saunders

“I’m here on official business. Can you understand me?” I could, but I didn’t know how or why. I stared and nodded in reply. I was afraid that if I spoke, it would come out sounding like this weird musical language. “Good.” It went on. For what felt like hours it asked me questions about my family, childhood, education, health and other things that I would never discuss with strangers. The creature was steadily tapping on some type of wrist tablet as it questioned me. It told me a little about itself to make me more comfortable. It only slightly worked.

 This one was a male, from a dying species of Neptune. His name was Ga’reg. He told me that all males had horns, but there was another species whose name I couldn't pronounce or spell, that believed the horns contained some sort of magic. The male Neptunians had been hunted to near extinction. He cut his own horn off to avoid being hunted and because of that, the rest of his species held little to no respect for him. The removal of one’s horn was an abomination in their eyes. He saw it as a means of survival. He knew my name, and my dad’s. He even knew about my mom dying when I was a baby.

“You are a part of our experiment. You always have been. Your mother, she did not die.” He went on.

I was understanding the words, but what was he talking about? I wanted to tell him to leave, but I was afraid. Still, I couldn’t stand it.

“What would you know about my mother?” I asked in a raised voice that, to my horror, sounded like Ga’reg’s language.

His mouth slit raised at the ends into what looked like a smile. “I know more than you. Our time is over. We’ll be monitoring you for a while. Please don’t be worried.” He stood up, moved a tentacled hand to his waist and the light started to brighten so I could only see a silhouette.

He reached the other hand toward me as I made to protest. I couldn’t let him leave like that. I demanded that he stay and answer my questions. His tentacle moved closer, and I cringed again. One long tentacle protruded straight from his hand to my shoulder. He gently pressed the original injection site with an almost loving look in his eyes, like a parent tucking in his child. That injection must have been more than just a drug, because I don’t remember anything after that point.

I woke up feeling well rested this time. That was odd for sleeping on that shabby old couch. The movie I was watching was skipping over the same scene for what could have been all night. It didn’t sound like my dad was up yet. I sat up wondering what time it was and scanning the room for signs of strange visitors. I decided that if it happened again, I wouldn’t be scared anymore. The morning and the house seemed normal. I felt like everything was going to be just fine.

The End…

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story. I'm not going to try to predict when, but there will be more of this one. Tune back in to get more stories! Be sure to follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest so you won't miss a post! Until next time.

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How I Beat Writer's Block

Hello everyone! Welcome, and welcome back! Today I decided to do a how-to post for my fellow writers. I’m going to explain some things about how I overcome writer’s block. When I get writer’s block, it doesn’t usually last long. I have periods of laziness that last longer. Not all of my strategies will work for everyone because we’re all different, but hopefully you find something here that helps. Here are some things I like to do to overcome writer’s block:

     1. READ!

My favorite way to beat the blockage is to read. I usually go for a good old classic when I need inspiration. I’ve read most of my classics several times over (some of them never get old), while I have others that I still haven’t gotten around to reading. It’s hard to pick up that copy of Pride and Prejudice (that’s right, I still haven’t read that one) when The Magician’s Nephew sits on the next shelf, or I can read To Kill A Mockingbird again etc. IMO the Twilight series doesn’t make a very inspiring read so if you’re trying to get past a block, skip it. I only read the series out of curiosity since it was getting a lot of hype at the time. If you want a vampire book for inspirational purposes, I recommend Anne Rice’s novels. When I choose a book to read, I don’t really have a specific subject genre, or author in mind. I go to the bookshelf, take in the pleasing scent of all my books, and am usually drawn to one. It’s like magic. There are a lot of ways that reading a good book can inspire you to write. You might like the author’s writing style, or at least something about it that you decide to adopt consciously or otherwise. You could fall in love with a fantasy world and decide to create your own, making everything just the way you want it. Something else I just thought of that makes good inspirational reading, the letters that authors like Lewis Carroll, JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and others, sent to each other. Sometimes there’s even inspiration in the newspaper, anywhere in the newspaper if you turn on your imagination first. Try not to replicate the materials you read, rather let them cause you to feel something and base your writing on that feeling.

2. TALK TO KIDS

Small children have such wild imaginations. If there is a child in your life that you’re close with, ask questions and pay attention to what they say. I like to interview my four-year-olds on their imaginary friends, and the funny little imaginative games they play. Give them paper and crayons and ask them about what they drew. This is also helpful when you’re writing a child character, to give you insight on how they think. Watch them play and just listen to them. Kids are so creative with everything they do. I get a lot of inspiration from watching, talking, and playing with my kids. If you’re a parent, aunt, uncle, older sibling, or babysitter, really hang out with the kid and let your inner child free. Even if it doesn’t cure your writer’s block, it isn’t a waste of time and I doubt you’ll regret it.

3. MUSIC

I prefer instrumental music without lyrics for inspiration. I don’t like to write based on a song, but how it made me feel, and what I saw in my mind as I heard the music. Choose whatever music makes you feel good. Relax and let the music carry you away. Pay attention to how you feel, and what it makes you think about, and write it down.

4. DREAMS

I don’t know about you, but I have some crazy dreams sometimes. A lot of the time they’re really boring, like the other night when I had a dream nightmare I was doing endless laundry, but even that’s something that could make an entertaining story. Keep a journal by your bed and write everything you can remember from your dreams each day, even if you don’t have writer’s block at the time. You can read it when you do. I’ve done this for years. Sometimes it’s the only writing I get done, and I haven’t really done anything with it yet, but I know I will and I have a lot of dreams to choose. Keep in mind, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote ‘The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde’ after a dream that he had.

5. NOTEBOOK

Carry a notebook and pen all the time. You’ll find inspiration everywhere if you look for it. Anytime you have an idea, even if it’s not a complete idea, write it down. This is another practice that can be done whether or not you’re experiencing a writer’s block because you can go back to it for ideas later. I keep notes in my phone these days. Most smart phones come with some sort of memo or notepad factory app, or you can probably find a free one to download. I use the factory app because I can’t justify using up space on my phone for apps that I don’t think are necessary. Sometimes I transfer the notes into a physical notebook after I get home. No matter what you decide you like to do to beat writer’s block, keep a notepad and pen handy!

Thanks for reading! Be sure to follow me on Pinterest, Facebook, and Twitter so you don't miss new posts! Bye for now.

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I Called Him Specks Part 2

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Hello everyone! Welcome back! This is a continuation of my previous post, so if you haven't read that yet I recommend doing so before reading this part. I guess there's not much need for an introduction so, enjoy the story!

I Called Him Specks Part 2

Specks was a decent little travel companion, though he shied away whenever I tried to pat him. Over time, I grew fond of his company. I never stopped wondering where he came from, or where he belonged. Still, he became a part of my routine walks each day, and I became happy with it.

In the mornings after I’d greet old Mrs. Patterson and round the hedge, Specks would be faithfully waiting to escort me to the office. I felt like I was participating in some sort of dog sharing program and I had the best part of it. I would confide in my fluffy little friend, venting my frustrations and telling him my thoughts, hopes and concerns for the day. Customarily, he would walk me home each night when I would then tell him the outcome. I talked to him about things I didn’t share with anyone else. I mean, he wasn’t going to tell anyone was he? For nearly a year, Specks trotted dutifully at my side as I went. He was my best friend.

All of my coworkers knew about the dog. It was strange at first, so I talked about him and pondered with them. Bridgette thought it was adorable and she teased me playfully about my only friend being a dog that didn’t even belong to me. She was a happily plump woman who was much younger than myself. Her mousy brown bob framed her kind round face and her green eyes twinkled in reflection of that kindness. She was like a friend too however, I rarely would socialize outside the office. Bridgette was right though. I didn’t even speak to my roommate unless I had to for some reason.

On the first Monday that Specks wasn’t there to greet me after work, I was worried about him. I was lonely on my walk home, and I missed my little friend. It was strange walking alone. For a year, Specks had been at my side every commute. I walked home alone, stepping on the thick mat of cherry blossoms that had fallen from the trees on the path. I kept wondering what might be keeping my little buddy. I had left the office earlier than usual that day, perhaps he was on a schedule. I kept looking around for him to come lagging behind. In spite of my hopes, Specks never showed up.

I commenced my solitary walk home, terribly missing my pal. I could smell the beautifully fragrant flowers in the trees, and that did little to console me. The afternoon reminded me of the first evening I met Specks. The sky was grey and foreboding, and I was without an umbrella. There was a gentle comforting breeze blowing down the street and caressing my skin as I approached my house. Chris had finally moved out, and I would be alone there too. Not that he was exactly desirable company.

I dragged my hand along the top of the boxwood hedge as I strolled up the deserted driveway. When I chanced to look up, I noticed Mrs. Patterson sitting at her patio table with a glass of dark red wine. She was in a seemingly comfortable place, yet she looked unhappy. I stopped, and watched her for a moment, feeling an unspoken connection with the old woman. I’d lived next door to her for over seven years, but not said much more than “Hello” to her. She never had any visitors that I noticed, unless you counted the delivery service that brought her groceries each week. She always minded her own business and tended her garden. I imagined she was feeling sad and lonely as I was, and the wine was meant to bring her something that could pass for peace.

I went into my house, thinking about Mrs. Patterson, and Specks. I made up my mind that I wouldn’t stand for this singular existence for myself, or Mrs. Patterson. She was a sweet old lady and she deserved a friend. Then, I went to the kitchen and looked out the window that faced her yard. She was still there, staring off into space, and not touching the wine. I pulled open the long-forgotten cabinet above the refrigerator. There were no more bottles of scotch left. Chris must have had them on one of his late nights. That didn’t matter. The bottle of sherry that my aunt had given me as a housewarming gift was still there, and that was what I was going after anyhow. I pulled it down, grabbed a couple glasses, and walked over to join her.

I didn’t say anything to her right away, I sat down in the iron chair across the table from her and popped open the bottle. She started as though just noticing my presence. I noticed a fleeting smile fade from her face as fast as it had appeared. I poured out the sherry and slid a glass toward her. She picked it up and took a sip. We sat there, drinking in silence for what felt like a very long time. Finally, Mrs. Patterson broke that silence.

“You don’t have to waste your time on me, Paul.” For all the age in her face, her eyes and smile were still young.

“I know.” I smiled at her. “It’s not a waste. I was all alone, and I thought you looked like you could use a friend.”

“Friend.” She said in a dreamy tone. “I haven’t had one of those since my sweet Charlie died.” She looked up at the clearing sky and sipped her sherry.

I assumed Charlie had been her husband and didn’t press the subject because I was trying to lighten the mood. I changed the subject several times in attempt to get to know her better. I told her about my job, and the little dog that had been following me before disappearing on me that day.

Mrs. Patterson chuckled softly “That sounds like something Charlie would have done.”

I dismissed the thoughts I was having about why she would compare her late husband to a dog. We talked through the rest of the bottle and said goodbye. The next afternoon, when I got home, Mrs. Patterson was sitting outside again. This time with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. How sweet the old lady was waiting for me. I went straight to her without going home first. We sat and talked through the evening. She served me little sandwiches and fresh cookies. I visited Mrs. Patterson every day after work from then on. She was always happy to see me, and always hospitable, offering me homemade goodies. It was like living next door to my own grandmother and visiting every day. I felt I’d made a good decision to befriend that sweet-hearted old woman.

One Saturday, as I was helping her arrange some furniture she’d just had delivered, I noticed the pictures on her walls. I was looking at a young picture of her with a tall, dark-haired man and their arms tightly bound around one another smiling blissfully when she came into the room.
“Is that Charlie, Mrs. Patterson?” I asked her.

The old woman cackled a little and said, “That’s me and my husband, John. This is Charlie.” She pointed at a picture on her corner desk.

I walked over to examine the picture. She wasn’t as young in this picture as she had been in the one with John, but she looked just as happy. She was sitting on a bench at the park holding a fluffy little white dog, with dark brown speckles, and the markings around his eyes looked like glasses. It was Specks! Mrs. Patterson noticed the look of recognition in my eyes, but she didn’t say anything about it. I’d never told her what Specks looked like, or what I had nicknamed him.

“He died about a month before you moved in.” she told me. “This is the first time I’ve been happy since then. Thanks to your friendship, Paul.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s my pleasure, really.” I assured her.

Her eyes misted over, and she went back into the kitchen, so I went back to work on the shelves she needed moved. Every time I glanced at that picture I got chills. That dog looked exactly the same. How likely was that? I thought more and more about it as I finished the project. I went home that night still thinking about it.

It had to be the same dog, but it couldn’t be. Charlie was dead years before I met Specks. Then again, it was always at the end of Mrs. Patterson’s yard that he would greet me in the mornings. I thought about that, and how he’d never let me touch him. Perhaps he shied away because he wasn’t solid, maybe he knew that my hand might pass right through him scaring me away. It was too creepy, I had goosebumps on my neck as I accepted the realization. I made up my mind to never tell Mrs. Patterson that I believed I’d encountered the ghost of her beloved dog.

I think Specks was on a mission. He came to me when I needed a friend and left me when Mrs. Patterson needed one. He was there to bring us together, and it worked. The lovely old woman quickly became my best friend. Once, as I was leaving her yard in the evening, I glimpsed that bushy spotted tail disappearing around the hedge. He was still with us, but his mission was done.

The next day at work, Bridgette said she had a surprise for me. She was a thoughtful person and I tried to prod the surprise out of her. “You’ll see when you leave later.” She flashed me a sly smile. No matter what I said or did, she wasn’t spoiling it for me.

Later that day, when I left the office, Bridgette walked out the front doors with me to see my reaction. Tethered to a post just outside the doors was a puppy! He barked when he saw me and wagged his fluffy tail in a playful way. His fur was an off yellow color with black speckles all over it. On his head, Bridgette had strapped a pair of reading glasses so that it looked like he was wearing them. I scooped him up and my eyes teared up. “Bridgette.” I said. “This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me!” I put the dog back down and hugged her.

Her eyes were tearing too. "I’m glad you like him. His name is Flecks, and he can stay here every day while you work if you want to bring him.” Her father was the office manager, so I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. If she said it was ok, she had already cleared it with him.

“That’s a great name, I love it.” I told her as I looked at the tags attached to the collar Flecks wore. It had his name on it, and my address.

He was tied to the post with a leash that I unfastened and used to lead my new pooch home. Not to my home right away. I had to introduce him to Mrs. Patterson.
She loved him as I knew she would, and he became a regular accompaniment on our evening visits. I walked Flecks back and forth to work, and eventually was able to stop using his leash. He wasn’t Specks, or Charlie, but he was just as perfect at escorting me and just as loyal. Like Mrs. Patterson and I, I knew that we would be good friends for a long time.

The End

Thanks for reading! I had fun writing this one. It transformed as I wrote, turning itself into something very different, but much better than I expected. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Come back to see what's next!